Poem-A-Day: Day 139

Stimulatedly Transmitted Disease

She’s looking at me cautiously
through a windowed pain,
like she wants to speak words
gone incredibly somehow silent.

I listen intently, as if I hear
every word in dissonant bastion
stepping twice, before retreating
back to cherished hallowed halls.

She motions with one finger
inciting distant shadow dances,
deep within her prison cell
of shackles trapped wistful wishing.

I oblige her, in godlike ways
every time I see the fateful call
brimming sexually, twisting fate
as if it knew own smoldered speech.

She bows courteously
from view in a sinner’s way,
begging for some sanctuary
in some undressed uniformity.

I follow completely, damning gods
to follow suit in the same
beguiling mystery, the woman
that has become infectious infatuation.

Poem-A-Day: Day 138

What Just Happened?

A taste of madness,
and someone stabs a steak
directly into my heart,
letting the grease
and bovine, mobile sloth
sluice its way through my bloodstream,
slowing down my breathing,
and weakening my normal putrescence
down to an almost tolerable level.
Some claim death begets me
in mere moments before eternal clarity,
but it’s inconsequential
compared to the wheezing shriek
that steams from the whole of my chest.
Calm, release of lunacy
and a blizzard of flavor flurry,
in the instants I am eating

I often forget what I am talking about.

Poem-A-Day: Day 137

Final Notice

I can’t help but notice
that I’ve lost my feet,
or maybe footing,
in a bizarre ritual of self-sacrifice.
I haven’t actually sacrificed anything
except my listlessness,
my profound ability
to be completely at rest
and restless
at times concurrently cohabitating
parallel plains of existence.
For this reason alone,
I can no longer figure
where my feet have gone.
I walk upright,
no better than Cro-Magnon man,
often dragging,
with deep-set, troubled eyes,
loincloth,
and spear in hand
stabbing sadly at the sun
as it is overwhelmed
by eclipsing egomaniacal shadows.
I’m so caught up
in my own skullduggery
that I can’t even tell
the shadow is my own,
being cast up
skyward lightning from the ground.
I can’t help but notice,
because my gaze is falsely skewed,
by the undermining lie
of my own greatness.

Poem-A-Day: Day 136

I Am

I am Apathetic
mostly, caring about what I want to,
and not about what I should.

I am Bored
with what usually happens,
though I do nothing to change that.

I am Charming,
bewildering mostly myself,
I am able to entice most everyone.

I am a Dreamer,
constantly looking forward,
but never knowing how to get there.

I am Endearing
to a point, leaving marks that all remember
before slipping into anonymity.

I am a Fucker
in every sense of the word,
though it takes a lot to cross me.

I am Generous
somehow, because I really have nothing,
but manage to give everything in return.

I am Hated
because I am confident in my abilities,
and I use that as a weapon against others.

I am Inferred,
like a forgotten memory,
or something that doesn’t quite make sense.

I am a Joke
with no punch-line,
not really funny, but people keep telling me.

I am a Killer
of time, watching it slip idly by,
as I sip coffee from dream stained mugs.

I am Laughable
because I choose to be,
life hasn’t been what it should, but when is it?

I am a Man,
there is no denying or hiding it,
I love to worship the female form.

I am Nothing
and that is sadly true,
not ironic, I am what hasn’t been.

I am Open
with my life, keeping no secrets,
and showing myself off with swagger.

I am Proud
of what I have and haven’t been.
Show me your dreams, and mine will be bigger.

I am Quiet
when I need to be,
a silent observer of operations.

I am Rowdy
and I will steal the show,
because I have the ability to move mountains.

I am Self-Destructive
and self critical, my own worst enemy
has been my ability to over-think the situation.

I am Trivial,
a puzzle that has yet to be fully assembled
or the last remaining pie piece of your pursuit.

I am Unhinged,
and can or will break at any moment
as tension is palpable in the air I breathe.

I am Voracious,
tenacious, persistent,
however it is phrased, I will follow.

I am Wild
and uncontrollable, a complete spazz
from the dance-floor to your concept of reality.

I am Xenomorphic,
or I am formless, a shape that seems to be,
simply because it has and always will.

I am Youthful
in thoughts and appearance,
despite what years would have you believe.

I am a Zealot,
and I will fight for what I want
and even more for what I cannot have.

I am an alphabetically defined nightmare
of statistically speaking amorphic parts
sewn together by sinewy threads of ignorance,
and all that I am has nothing left to do,
but chronicle time chronologically
in some bastardized way,
because as it stands,

I am.

Poem-A-Day: Day 135

Soul Pump

Shouting blister burns
through teeth,
green with envy
and stained black,
the bitter coffee blood
that pumps the soul.

Breathing silent gasps
through teeth,
smiling subtly,
and shrouded gates,
the hurdle to a heart
that pumps the soul.

Poem-A-Day: Day 134

Poison Face

Scowling down
at the poison not doing a thing.
It sweeps the dry façade
bumbling like a it has special needs,
when all it seems to need
is nothing more than work.
No, not work,
something other,
playing foolishly with balance,
the temporal order of things
shuffled in a way
that blissfully stops time
in nothing more catastrophic
than dropping a mug
into shattering molds
scolding bare feet madness.

Scowling down,
at the ants
nurturing their own poisonous means,
acting as people,
as people will.

Poem-A-Day: Day 133

Met Apocalypse

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse is standing
with feet turned slightly away  from each other,
clockwise
and counter-clockwise
respectively,
watching us from under a dark brown fedora,
lurched forward slightly
with arms crossed,
stoically exercising the demons
that tiptoe through crazy gardens
leaving thoughts for pennies;
cents for sense.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse watches
from the corner of a mine,
dwarfing everything else in a subtle way,
and dreaming
the floating white horse,
a pale horse,
beholding death,
who merely laughs
and high-fives apocalypse so thunderous,
that underwear everywhere is collectively soiled,
plowed,
and cultivated for crops.

Metaphorically speaking,
the apocalypse moves slowly,
the amorphous minutes ticking riddle
that kills life slowly
every magical day,
laughing monotone sounds
that barely penetrate contextual Cerberus
howling sunset majesty down rivers
gone yellow around the edges;
time methodically disappearing
drifting away into destruction,
because as it stands,
apocalypse doesn’t seem to know any better.