Poem-A-Day: Day 299

Sonnet #59 (Repeat To Yourself)

When I see her, she reminds me of days.
When I see her, she reminds me of praise.
When I see her, she reminds me of gaze.
When I see her, she reminds me to stop
and think of the one thing she told me: write,
and think of the one thing she told me: fright,
and think of the one thing she told me: fight,
and think of the one thing she told to stop.
When we’re together I can’t think of blame.
When we’re together I can’t think of shame.
When we’re together I can’t think of claim.
When we’re together I can’t think to stop,
     because the goal is to fight to the end,
     despite the bullshit to still comprehend.

Poem-A-Day: Day 298

\[]-[]/

I’ve spent years looking
but never really noticing much.
The world has been a blurry mess
with small dimples of clarity,
pooling fragile glass
that lets the light cut through the fog.
The light burns the retina,
but the scars are clairvoyant
they release the eye to believe,
understand what it wants
instead of what things look like.
The whole situation is a spectacle,
a goddamned spectacle
that I can’t seem to pick up or put on
in the effort to attain permanence.

Poem-A-Day: Day 297

Modern Bard

Some bard-like challenge
To come up with the poesy
That will change the world

Poem-A-Day: Day 296

God’s Curious Wandering

Curiously walking on the green grass
and shouting obscenities towards the sky;
damning the stars for not being visible,
damning the earth for spinning,
damning the collapse again.
There’s no devil, only god when he’s drunk,
and he loves to walk among the men
created in his image,
and the woman, an image of lust
and heaving bliss; rolling clouds.
Dripping sweat at the edge of the day
and looking down from the cliff into the darkness,
hoping that the world has ended,
hoping that things have been the mirror,
hoping that the mirror has been a dream.

Poem-A-Day: Day 295

I'll be camping again, you know the rhyme.

Something Missing

the water batters the back of my head
and I do nothing but stare down at the white,
the stark polished finish of the tub
glaring at me
I swear I can see my distorted reflection
so I avert my eyes and start to notice things
I look past the water slowly dripping
from the head of my dick
and I see some Lovecraftian beast
tentacles and claws moving in the flow
the remnants of her last stay
a balled up wad of hair at the end of the tub
and I think of what she’s doing without me

Poem-A-Day: Day 294

To Be Announced

The smell of bacon
Butter on toasted bread
And some hot coffee

Poem-A-Day: Day 293

Sonnet #58 (Fill in the Blanks)

Stop… …dead.
Drop… …letters
into… …red
slots… …better
construe… …things;
nots… …those
words… …brings
unsaid… …prose.
Herds… …crowds
ahead… …scorning
life… …shrouds,
hate… …mourning
strife… …and praise,
fate… …and days.