O Bad Asshole Poem

I wrote a poem in blood on the ceiling of love
And spat a green mean slug on the rug of a thug
I took my time and rhymed with time on time
With metaphors and my muse:  Dave Pettifor
I wrote a poem in urine in the sternum of learning
I broke a smoke and wrote on a tote a short note
And crapped out a bunch of “inspiration” for lunch in Dutch
As such
I loaded the bullet on the grassy knoll
And scratched on the library window “O Bad Asshole Poem”

A security guard came up
And said “alright buddy that’s enough.  That sort of shit belongs in the washroom”
“Why?” I said “am I not good enough for the library window?”
He pulled out a taser
I pulled out pepper spray
He pulled out a hammer
I pulled out a saw
He pulled out a shotty
I pulled out my empty hand, waved, then fingered him
And he shot me

It took weeks to remove the buck shot from my skin
Until one day
A ghost blew in under the door
And whispered that it was just a poem
I didn’t need to pick my skin anymore
There was nothing there
I realized the ghost was right
And asked
Do I become a ghost if I take my life?
The ghost just smiled
Her face spun like a wheel
And a densely packed feeling I began
To feel
Whispered in my head “I’m not real”

You Don’t Know Nothing

“You don’t know nothing” I said
“That means I know something” Dave said
“No it does not”
“You are being pedantic.  Pragmatic.  Plastic.  Pintecita”
“Pintecita is not a word.  Plastic doesn’t make sense.  And pragmatic doesn’t fit the context of what you are saying.  And it sounds like you don’t know what pedantic means”
“Shut the fuck up you grammar asshole”
“It’s not grammar that you are screwing up”
“Go fuck yourself”
Dave glared at me
Then suddenly he threw a knife
It struck me in the heart
I pressed “enter” on the poem
And croaked

I Need The Greed

I need the greed
I have a passion for lasting
I love to have enough

I want the want
I crave a libido – a penchant – a sickness

This is as crisp as I can possible make it
And still
I lisp
And sound off like everyone else
Poser who fakes it

Dream a dream
Distill an art
Take the whole science into the picture
And blow
The whole dream apart

A gust of reality
With a pinch of sorrow
And pow
A lust and surreality

A nut
Across the room
A dust
A must
A gloom perishing of doom
In a moon
Of wounds

Poser pretending his life ending
And nuts or sane or normal
Or weirdo uncle Bob
In manacles
And sandles
Claiming to be God

Fix It No Leave It It’s Wicked

(Fix it
No leave it
It’s wicked)
I wrap a horseblanket around you with butter
And kick you so hard you flutter
Slip a noose
Round your neck
And write on your forehead
A backwards seven
And be like:  I suggest you quit life and go to heaven
(Fix it
No leave it
It’s wicked)
I tape a spiral of ghost into your closet
And you go to get dressed
And I confess
I get on my knees and tell you all that is in my heart
And you smile
And think my honesty is just art
Did I stutter?
I kick the horseblanket off and slip all in the butter
And you wrap the horseblanket around me and say “you dumb nutter”
And I kill the lights
And go to sleep
And dream of a deep crevice
Filled with ice
And go
To it
My heart swells
My life
A good one
The golden light
Behind (Him) as the end
At the end
Reminds (Him)
I look surprised
There is a staircase unwinding
A guy
He turns
I sigh and try
To find (Him)
I’m dead – or did I die?
I’m still rhyming
I look to see who it is that is afterlife
And it’s Christ
I denied Him!

Poems In The Dark

I wrote poems in the dark
A fighter
And when I couldn’t see I would light a lighter
It would spark
And my room would appear for two seconds
Glowing from the heart
And I would write a two line poem about beating the fuck out of
And the light would disappear
And I would not know who
I wrote poems in the dark
Windows draped over
Sun set
And gave testimony to the blind life I led
And got so fucking angry
Caught in a mental net
I ripped open my head
And dripped
On my poem in pitch black
The blood from my wound bled
My wound
My life
Created on purpose?
I was worthless
And forget
A cutter from the gutter
I represented nothing
I bet
I was an animal that died
Just not yet

I’m Going To Dionysus

Fuck the world
I’m going to Dionysus – going to die!
A dirty old dog
Inject my blood into the sky
And become God
Wack the existence
Wack it out of existence
Why exist?
If you are not resistance
Fuck the world
And the cancer in it
And “one hundred and two fucking ways to die”
Fuck the God damn fucking world
Smash my skull
On the frozen soul
Fuck you if your kindness freezes
Especially fuck your ding dong Jesus
Everyone believes – so fuck them
Fuck them right to the hell they create in their minds
And good people got to die
Who cares about you!
You fucking world
I’m going to die
A bald idiot writer
“Rage rage” I laugh at every page of this world
Fuck them old male classics
Those authors of “the world”
They sound off like writing is the lifeblood of happiness
They sound off like little girls
But as I read
Recently in (myhomeiswriting) non-written writing
Writing is out of “loneliness”
It is only the fault of the world
That this “loneliness” exists!
Only the fault of the authors of loneliness
I blame them
And fuck them I die
And before I do I will cry
And try to smash other authors to pieces
Especially if they drone on and on about some Jesus
Or Jesus is “between the lines”
Or in the floorboards
Fuck the world for creating everything false
And making me lose breath
Fuck that I was even born (don’t remember) or begin
That I start
And experience the premonition of my extinguishment
Over and over in art

I Have A Turd

“I have a turd” I said to God
At the gates of heaven
God opened his robe looking down at his crotch
He then closed it quickly
And turned red
Looking at me suddenly like he had forgotten I was there
“I have a turd” I said
“A what?” asked God scrunching up his face
“A turd”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have any ontological answers only questions”
“I mean what do you mean by ‘a turd'”
“So do I”
“So do you what?”
“Fuck off”
“You can’t tell me to fuck off” God said “I’m God I can throw you into hell!”
“Yeah” I said “if you were gonna do that you would have done it”
“What do you mean you have a turd?”
“Just what I said”
“Can I see it?”
“Of course” I said and unbuckled my pants
“Stop” said God “I believe you”
“Thanks” I said “for your faith in me”
“I didn’t mean that” God said scrunching up his face again
He slid his finger down the opening of his robe
“Go ahead” I said
He suddenly looked at me surprised
“Go ahead what?”
“I don’t mind” I said
“You don’t mind what?”
“Never mind” I said and sighed “wish I wasn’t dead.  You’re a bit of cunt”
God got angry
He threw a lightning bolt and it blew up a city
“I can make you or break you!” thundered his booming voice “I am God”
“Get fucked” I said “you are just in my mind”
“I am not”
“You are too”
“I told you.  I don’t have any ontological answers for you”
“It’s not a question!”
“Then why are we discussing it?”
God grew red
He went to open his robe and stopped
He looked at me
I cussed his name
“Don’t do that!” he said “I hate that”
“I know”
“Then why did you do it”
“Because I’m dead and I’m pissed off”
“Well don’t take it out on me”
“You made me”
God sent me into heaven and I sat heavy on a cloud
Full of doubt
“Everything is certain” said God
I looked at him doubtfully “no it’s not”
“Relax” said God
I tried
But the more I thought about it
The more it annoyed me
God stared at me more annoyed than anyone I’ve ever seen
“Go to hell” I muttered