New Poems

Scare Crow

I looked, I saw, I cracked.  I bit retreat,

Fell off the wagon of my sane, blind, recalcitrant bullhorn.

She made me.  Made me up of a thousand working parts

The table of metrics sonambulant, a blasphemic prophet

Died trying, tied to that tree (read Yellow Ribbon) in a pose

Akin to a falling pine, in the woods, without words, within the blind spot

Yes that one, the one made of air, of infinity, the saddest weeping you have ever heard

Mild Musings

When quiet, she bled.

   Up a storm

Inner heads, next to the sanctum of my gasping yet saint like flattery

The morbid indecency of a tweaked and swollen esophagus

The trailer trash nonsense, my pillared words they are

Bleeding down that path, on the trail, up her road

Well travelled, ya

To the BoatHouse

My lingerie; is tired, with trying, for twenty three long lonely years.

A page in history, a webbed screen, a series of i’s and o’s - those rhyming couplets

There! A young woman desparately scratching at the place

Within her soul, the one so many tried at, they said, try, keep on trying

You too will fall far, for the golden apple

  Of acceptance

While the middle east bloodbath ringing call to pray bells, in both of my ears

Up the Hill Backwards

Triumph to tribute to back down into the fallen tree trunk

The one that David Bowie carved his words out of pain

Terrorizing his spirit, my voice a gentle wisp of greenish hue

Spread them legs honey, spread them good and wide

And I’ll just insert this here tool into your cervix

The one we cannot fix.

Liza Tried.

I’ze the byes that build the fort

In conjunctin with every passer by

The sign of a stranger.

The ones dressed in honey bee red

Silk panties stroking inner thigh

Splendid aching upon that arch

Of orgasm, of spindled release

The beating thrum of a thousand

No, a million, sonic booms under the water

Thread like fissures, built of ancient bone

Fill up my need like

Salt in the wound of my

Strongest welt

Congenital Iconic Cognizance.

She looked, she walked

She bowed her head. 

A fit and a half

Equals

Wheels of sordid temperature, bending within

Without a wind of tortured sodomy

My electric bowels emptied again, for the fourth time this day.

quinacridone violet and phthalo blue

The rosy greenish purples

Pinkened whitely

blackened orangely

a greyed silver

peony yellow and satire Red

*NOTE – performance, hold up the colours, the different ones for each like Fanny and I discussed

A Woman/Man

…the place where my balls were once

(in another life)

sits unhappily on its pillow of skin

Mythological

There are several mythological creatures

Living in my zoo, and I don’t know what to name them all.

Should I name them after living monuments, like Tiger, Fur-Bearing Snake and

Tiddly Winkly the carbonated soda monkey?

Or, should I reach back, way back, in to that place of death meets pain meets revival

Of the fittest

And grab a hold of the one I am constantly mocking, the one I am constantly making, pseudo genuine feelings, a second nature for my twisted and battered next of kin, yes, she, the one in pink.

Good Creatures

How could this place, hold so many of the naked past whimsies

That flittered around the inside my locked hymen

Bosoms and never matured little skin flaps

Cross reference to the Stallion

Ripping her mane with his Teeth

In every effort to mount and do.