poetry of the Dark, Erotic, Violent, Religious & Macabre

Posts tagged “Poetry

if you ask me, Mother Goose was just another scapegoat

(Such a poem riffed in simplicity

but why does it bring so much contradictories?)

 

a red Rose is the least of a Child`s interest

only that it`s the main color

in a box of crayons next to black; and

the color of their favorite toy car; and

the color of a little girl`s dress

that isn`t quite a Sunday best

if it has laces and bows

and shows above the knees;

 

Violet is a flower

and has no memory of being blue

if it`s blue it`s due

to the children stepping and

stomping on their whimsical petals

as children can be so quite cruel;

no unusual punishment there …

 

children don’t know

that they are succulent sweet

they only know how to eat the Sugar

then they think you`re a perv

for using such a dirty word

to describe them;

 

to an Adult there is nothing

rosey about red that

it only brings dread on Valentine`s Day

if she doesn`t receive her dozen Roses

all vibrant, long stemmed, un`thorny

if you`re expected to be loved by her at all;

 

lovers do not think of Violets of blue

they are not botanists just civilians

trying to survive the headaches of

fashioning a garden to entertain the sane;

bring color to life in an obvious ashen world;

 

and what of the Sugar

as we are all obviously not as sweet

like the treats found in a drug store;

we are sour and sore and we want more

than what our cavities can endure …

 

 

poetic observation taken from “Roses Are Red“, a 1784 Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme; not exactly a fave of mine


A.M. Coffee

 

 

Satan in my coffee

on a Tuesday morning

riding shotgun

to work with Bob

and his cat-Black,

in a white Chevy truck

black coffee

I need cream

to make it brown

and sugar,

lot’s of sugar

to kill the strength

to calm the storm

brewing earlier in my

roach infested coffee pot

‘they lay eggs, you know’

Bob says to me

the cat hisses

it despises roaches like dogs

particularly the one

crawling out from my thermos

 

 


~^.^~Black Cat~^.^~

 

 

Cat.

Black Cat.

Crossing the street, Cat.

 

Cat.

Black Cat hisses!

Tires screech.

Rubber burns.

Smoke clears.

I didn’t miss him by an inch.

 

Cat.

Black Cat.

Not just another

Dead in the street, Cat.

 

Cat.

Black Cat.

You should have never broken my heart, Cat.

 

 


Black Dandelions

 

 

Dandelion 2Dandelions,

                                                                           though you thought me beautifully evasive,

 

Dandelions

smother and choke

their counterparts;

 

Dandelions

know no boundaries

they only know they exist as I exist;

 

You hand her Dandelions

tied in your mother’s favorite silk ribbon;

 

I wilt

at the sight of your black blasphemy

because you loved me once

 

Who would’ve thought your blackheart charm

would soil seeds after you bled them

then buried them, dry?

 

 


——REVOLVER—–

 

the Revolver spins

6x’s before

i’m elected,

gunpowder coke

chokes my grasp,

as the chamber

clicks, my brain spits

matter to dust

and thus

creates the sunburst

on the wall

behind the man

in the crisp white suit;

beyond his soul

is my soul smeared

in colors of bluebloods

surrounding petals

on a white Gardenia

pinned in her bedroom hair;

and there she sits naked

on her boudoir chair,

her snatch the color

of the sunburst on the wall

behind the man

in the crisp white suit;

he smiles and hands me

a gold plated vile,

it’s been awhile

since the last i gripped her hair

and sunk her slugs to oblivion;

the red of her pained lips

seep blood into my mouth,

and her skin is soft white

like a light bulb,

her body delicate

like the vase once housing

the Gardenia;

her eyes having read Hitler

she speaks in tongues confessing

our sins upon holy Mary and Joseph

as they close and shrivel

in silence

around the Revolver

in his hand

 

 


Psycho Sluts Live In Heaven

 

 

Psycho sluts live in Heaven

branded in apple tattoos

that kiss the mouth of those unSatan

like those wogs slithering like their counterpart semen

trudging upstream to mate with my berries;

Angelina Jolie ordered herself

a Double-Scotch-On-The-Rocks Mastectomy

and I think ‘what’s the point’

you’re getting old anyways!

So embrace shriveling up

and eventually dying.

 

 


Deflower

 

 

 

I am a flower

I am beautiful in your eyes

I smell of everything you lust

above me, 

beneath me, 

behind me, 

you break me

like the stem

once holding the flower

 

 


Vomica

 

 

I dream

of gold lighted Christmas trees,

and non-flesh eating

Zombies

beating down my naked windows,

my hands fumble clumsily

with the blinds

trying to blind those

from blinding me

 

There’s a single light bulb

hanging

from its intestine

it sways back and forth

creating shadows

of demons on walls

as I sit poker-faced

in front

of God,

De Vinci, Beelzebub

and Methuselah

 

all dressed

in post-iconic Gangster get-up,

the scene alone

fascinates me, exorcises me,

that I start having

an out of body experience

when my Full House

collapses

retaining them to beckon me

on all fours, first

across the floor

reeking of misconception

until I find myself

viewing the misinterpretation

of the world

from upside down

 

Though I realize

I need glasses

I see everything fine

and when

I got lost

inside of her

I found

my way out

and

when I awake,

the room is eerily empty and

full of life-

I vomit


Fist Fuck

 

 

he shoved his fist

up her pre-oiled pussonian

and rearranged

her organs

to accommodate

his needs;

she stirred

when her tubes

sucked vacuumed

her eggs, broken shells

fleshy yolks, evoke

then vacate

when he pulls his fist;

her womb settles

like patina fragments

in a Monet landscape

portrait; occasionally

they liked to

paint their

macabre

just before the break

of sunrise when

the rooster crowed

its best

 

 


Trainwreck

 

Black tie-dye canaries stall the
hands of time cradling infants
still umbilicalled in the
hanging garden’s euphemism
Cataclysms and Catholism
may be the answer to a self-imposed
self-apocalyptic junk-alcoholic veering
down the tracks @ a 125 miles per hour
but I can’t see the moon trying to eclipse
the sky for it is fucked as I am fucked
LA must be a logical place harboring
my body as an epileptic earthquake
the Richter scale reads: 10+10+10, and
I wished my superficial girlfriend would stop
reading me bedtime stories gauged with
animalstic fairy tales of skid row; I feel
barbaric and I want to conquer Germania
just to fuck with the demon dogs in her head
but she constricts and I have flash backs of
birth of contractions of gestation of copulation,
and I can see my mother poetically broken by what took
an eternity to create merely took seconds to destroy-
and the roses smell pretty, still

 


Under the Influence of Sonnets

 

  1.

 

I’m a defective typewriter,

skipping a lot of periods,

hitting H’s and O’s equaling HO’s

black dots peer into my soul

 

  2.

 

My mouth feels extra dirty tonight

my tongue feels extra horny tonight

tonight I will regret tomorrow of

what today brought on yesterday

 

  3.

 

I fear an overwhelming sensation

when my name escapes your breath

it is sadomasochist deep like deep-throating,

insulting like an intense golden shower upon you

 

  4.

 

My eyes are gauged, I read your cum in brail

my fingers prick raw, blood seeps under,

in the unholiest darkness our toxins unite then

erode then fade like wounds on groping hands

 


Domestupidy

 

I can’t take it anymore,

your fightin’ words

riddle like bullets

in my head

 

You stroll across the room,

your bare ass thighs sit

parted on the sofa,

your lips purse

 

I tell you all we’re good for is

orgies and social dinners, but

I’m ignored as usual, you’re

unusual, as usual

 

I tell you, if you love him,

then set me free!  Oh

for fucks sake, stop

fucking with me!

 

I need another drink, another

excuse for you to wallow in

self-pity; and this house of

domesticity has become a

house of domestupidy

 

I’d like to think we’re better

than this so I hand you my

cigarette and tell you to

do that thing with

your gifted clit

 

I hold my scotch breath; I envy

the way your pussy smokes

my cigarette, an obvious

connotation that my

dick is no match.


None

 

one

finger

two

fingers

three

fingers

four

and his hand slowly glides in

in soft rhythming strokes

opening her soul, a universe

his thumb

strokes

her bypass

thus accelerating her heart

from zero to sixty

her lips pucker and disperse

when he shifts his wrist

deep inside of her

she is a beautiful place

a magical place

a princess flushing blush

she is the core of her thrown

she writhes and convulses

her orgasm pulses

and pulses

and pulses

an impromptu dance

her orifice a ballroom

of roses and musk

flirting with his fist

kissing his fist

fucking his fist

and together she bonds them

as one not two

drenching those sheets

in spools of lustfilled tears raging through

four

fingers

three

fingers

two

fingers

one

 

none


Vaccinations of Sobriety

 

You’re goin’ to hell, this much I know

my conscience burps in a lengthy mp3 wave

I could feel the fiber optic cables pulling

within the bowels of my intestines resembling

the spaghetti straps falling off my waif shoulders;

 

ringworms, tapeworms, heartworms would be envious,

so would my dog if I had a dog and my cat despises dogs

but loves the Chinese fighting fish fighting with the

mating water toads whenever they get in the way so

my LED HD plasma TV resembles a human aquarium;

 

I can’t seem to trudge through the liquid pixels in search

of a higher equilibrium than my boyfriend who’s obsessed with

tossing back Vodka shots and listening to gospel rock music on JesusTV

while I’ve become obsessed to picking up the remote in my drunken stupors

to donate blasphemous portions of my spirit through PayPal for a good cause;

 

but Jesus keeps changing the channel on me, and we’re out of booze

and I don’t think the liquor store ‘round the corner accepts foodstamps,

I start to worry, the ringworms, tapeworms and heartworms gather around

my soul, pulverizing my senses with the empty booze bottles, as I try to 

hold onto what little dignity I had before facing the vaccinations of sobriety.

 


Beneath A Gangster’s Fedora

I listened to my heart beating in the depth of my mouth,

my erratic breathing revolving around in my eardrums

as if this were another place, another time, only with me

standing on the opposite end. . .and blood is a big expense

 

How long I’ve been living in my own pool of gangster lust, greed

and revenge never ceases to amaze me, never ceases to question me

each time I hand off my Fedora to the wake of her pleasure

nestled on a spindle without an ounce of regret or the threat of death?

 

I am breath. . .less as my bare feet touch down over

the scuffed floorboards harboring deftly secrets that have

ended in spools of blood from some post-tragic interlude

and I await mine each time we meet like this. . .this way

 

I glimpse over my shoulder, and my belly pulls from the

naked sight of her lithe body lying there on white sheets

soon to be red like the night I broke her ingrown cherry

she could never be a virgin twice, life would be too meaningful

 

There is a mirror standing across the room, my naked body

gravitates to it, my Fedora clutching tight in one hand gently

places it on my head while the glide of my finger across the brim

mirrors the glide of my dick over her pussy to expel those cir-cum-stances

 

She moans in her slumber and her ass emulates against her moan as those

chaotic hips sway one way, sway the other, humping those sheets she calls

his name and whispers my name and shame never becomes her despite

the babies crying downstairs, a couple fighting in the hall, I am fucked


Seven Sins (that don’t compare to deadly)

 

ENVY – How in the hell am I suppose to envy what others don’t have?

 

GLUTTONY – If I bit more than I could chew, I wouldn’t have any teeth

.

GREED – Everyone else has everything else, so why can’t I?

 

LUST – Just because I have a pussy doesn’t mean I have to satisfy it every second I have a sexual thought.

 

PRIDE – Who needs it in these times.  Beg for money.  Drink out of a used cup.  Pick up a penny.  Squat piss on a tree.

 

SLOTH – Isn’t everyone at six in the morning?

 

WRATH – If I spend all day plotting an economical revolution then I wouldn’t have time writing shit that doesn’t sell such as this shit!

 


Musings of a Writer, Blocked

 

I’m not as intelligent as I used to be

 

somewhere, somehow, my brain

fell off the grid of post-independence,

now I’m influenced by the vast roaches

inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,

though they call to me, whisper my name

their shame becomes all of what I used to be;

 

the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation

they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,

not for water, but for company, companionship,

someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their

whimsical little petals now weltering beneath

the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;

 

to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the

dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those

tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded

that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-

in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,

soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;

 

still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again


clinical depressant

 

 chainsaw. . .

the chainsaw tends to jam as

my wife’s head is stubborn at times,

but today I succeeded,

I tell the therapist behind an expression of regret,

and a cigarette I five fingered from the ashtray from the previous session.

and the coffee smells like day old coffee grinds

but taste freshly brewed though, lacking sugar, that caramel look.

the therapist asks why I would even dare put a chainsaw to my wife’s head?

I didn’t have bananas in my cornflakes, I admitted without being charged.

So it’s her fault?  The therapist assumes.

I tell him that the lady now sitting next to me,

who was sitting next to me earlier out in the lobby,

has been bumming a cigarette from me since day 37,

since it was my wife who suggested I see a therapist to help with my depression.

So it’s her fault, then?  The therapist redirects.

I shake my head, bite my lip, and toss the cigarette into my coffee cup;

the cigarette makes a fizzing sound

like the chainsaw now sitting beside my wife’s stubborn head.

I shiver, not because in the manner I killed her in,

but because of the bloody shit I got to go home and clean up!

the therapist scratches his shiny head before taking pity on me.

he refills my placebo pills in a new prescription.

Same time, next week?  He says.  I nod.

and nothing is resolved, as usual.