Chopped

I started
And stopped
I wrote a few words in the margin
Chopped
I started again – hit the beat pedal
Scratched it out
Found my groove
And pounded it out like piece of sheet metal
I continued – paused
Dialing my must call all the time -raw
Must rhyme
And finally I just wrote all the time – with dropped jaw
With no pauses or stops
Trying to hit the rhyme
Chopped
I fit the words and try and think of the rhyme while I’m slamming
More and more syllables until it’s so full of words I can’t even –
Get it to
Fucking go smooth
So it stops
Chopped
I’m a slow learner
And I begin again this time with a rhyme on the back burner
A real good one like the sheet metal one
All snappy and rich
To slap you silly like Rick James bitch!
No
Too old?
Refer to Lady Gaga’s new vid
Where she wears jean cut offs
And sings a bland tone
And gets 20 million views in 5 days
And I can’t even get 10 views on 5 poems

What Do (I Want To) Do With A Poem?

What do I want to do with a poem?
Stick one in my ear
And one tattooed
Put one on my grave
And one doodle away
With a couple words of good hope
And delicious life-affirming cake
What do I want to do with a poem?
Do I want
To eat one up with ice cream
Or do I want to shoot one full of holes
Do I want to be inspired
And smoke ten bowls
Or uninspired
And sit in my hovel getting old
What do I want to do with a poem?
Do I want to send it to the universe
Or trash it in an electronic garbage
I’m not the real person behind all this
Just the artist
What the hell should I do with this poem?
Shove it down my own throat
As if it’s a vegetable
And I’m vegan
Or should I just listen to Tegan and Sara
Or just Tegan?
What do I want to do with a poem
Drop it in my beer
And watch it float
Or stop
Never sad if you’ve never wrote!

The Skunk, The Porcupine And The Bear

Me and this guy were talking
All about all this stuff
Existence stuff
Real complicated
Like words like “ontological”
And other big words and also
Big concepts
And ideas of total geniuses –
When a skunk came up and listened to us
We kept talking
Even though skunks can spray you with urine
He seemed friendly enough
And was just listening
When he spoke we both turned to listen to what he had to say
“You guys really like talking bullshit” said the skunk “don’t you know?”
“Know what?” I asked
My friend nodded “yeah.  Know what?”
“Nothing matters and there is a God” said the skunk
My friend and I were silent
Both of us were atheists at the time
But nor did we want to piss off the skunk
“Does nothing matter?” I asked ignoring the God belief
“Yes” said the skunk
“How can nothing matter?” asked my friend “when certainly there are beings to which life matters”
“No” said the skunk “life cannot matter without God”
My friend and I sort of looked at each other
We didn’t know what to say
“Neither of us believe in God but things still have meaning” I blurted
And the skunk sprayed us
We ran
And when a safe distance we resumed our talk
“My favorite author is Plato” I said smelling my shirt
Which indeed stunk bad of the skunk urine
“Mine is Dostoevsky” said my friend “but Plato is a close second”
Just then a porcupine came up
And laughed
“Plato and Dostoevsky?” she said “you guys are talking pretentiously”
We looked at the porcupine
Her quills shining in the light
We did not want to get poked by one
So we were watching our tongue
“You stink” said the porcupine “and Plato and Dostoevsky were bad writers”
The porcupine pulled out the Quran and began to read
We listened
It sounded off like poetry but nothing in it was interesting
My friend shrugged
I sort of stared and said nothing
“Heathens” said the porcupine and shot quills at us
We ran
And when a safe distance away
We pulled out the quills and we resumed our talk
With an even bigger concept
And even bigger words
And smarter books
When suddenly we noticed
A bear listening
The bear came closer and sniffed our ideas
We grew silent
And waited to hear what the bear had to comment
“Rubbish” said the bear “I don’t know what you are talking about”
“Well we were talking about agency” I said
I was afraid
So was my friend
We perhaps didn’t mind being sprayed by a skunk
Or shot with quills
But being mauled by a bear was certainly more than discomfort
It could mean death
“I believe in Jesus” said the bear “do you?”
“Yes” I said
“Yes” said my friend
“Then what is this agency you speak of?” the bear said
Me and my friend were silent
The bear bared it’s fangs
And brandished it’s claws
“Agency” I said nervously “is when you think something is there but it is not”
“And how does this serve Jesus?” said the bear
“It doesn’t” said my friend
And the bear mauled him to death
I stood there shocked
“And you” said the bear “how does agency serve Jesus?”
“Well” I said shaking in my boots “Jesus makes us see things that aren’t there in order to test us for the new adaptations he is continuously creating”
The bear scrunched up his face
And walked on
I looked at my dead friend on the ground
Stinking like skunk
And stuck with quills –
And went to get someone

There Were St*rs In Her Eyes

 

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There were stars in her eyes
And death in the sky
There was so many people
And no one knew why
There was stars in her eyes
And death in the pool
There was a body bag
And on it a doodle
There were stars in her eyes
And with the dead body
They had snacks
The coffin was a beautiful
Shiny black
There were stars in her eyes
And we began to dig
And we made a campfire
And roasted a pig
There were stars in her eyes
And the corpse rolled in the hole
We hoped her to high heaven
And that she did have a soul
There were stars in her eyes
And death in skies
And all along the crowd they watched
As dirt fell on her nicely dressed corpse
And no sound
But the breath of her horse
Which stood at the funeral her best friend
To see her off
And have closure that her life did end

Sleeping While Psychotic

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Sleeping While Psychotic

It is rare to sleep when you are psychotic
Mostly being psychotic you don’t sleep
Or eat
Or do anything that makes sense
Although all the nonsense seems to make sense
One day
I was completely psychotic
And I was walking for a long time through the streets of Vancouver
I came to a neighborhood
I found a courtyard in a residential area
In between some buildings
And I thought the coiled hose was a vortex to another dimension
So I laid down on it to be transported
And I was so tired from walking around aimlessly and psychotic
That I fell asleep
And as I slept I had the most colorful and beautiful dreams
When I awoke
In the courtyard
On a coil of garden hose
I had a shawl on
Someone had covered me while I slept with their shawl
I wore the shawl
And walked on
Eventually I ended up in hospital
Taking antipsychotics to normalize…..

Worms Perpetual

Worms perpetual
In a sky of bad breath
Turns eventual
To a black viscous liquid
Of a dark abyss of death
Ants and spiders
Millions flourish
And a dungeon of sad themes
Correcting the core rich
Thrust into a jail
Of darkness
From a life of fluffy light Facebook
Down down into a hell
Of an imaginative artist
Worms perpetual
It’s worms all the way down
Word after word bitter
I am wearing a frown
As I jump
And pound
The desk
And go
Unwillingly – the actual!
Into my own death
And worms perpetual

The S-n

“The son” he said
“The sun?” I asked
“Yes” he said “the son of God”
“Of God?” I asked “are we talking about the same thing?”
“Yes” he said
“So when the sun rises on the third day – ”
“The son rises perpetually from death so that we have no fear”
“How does that make us not have fear?”
“The son takes it away”
“How does it do that?”
“It just does”
“That’s not an answer”
“You need to accept the son”
“I do?”
“Yes”
“I do accept the sun.  You mean that it exists?”
“Yes”
“Well I accept it exists.  In fact the rock solid evidence of the sun is so complete that I don’t even have a doubt that it exists”
“That’s really good” he said “I’m glad you are such a firm believer in the son”
“Why? Doesn’t everyone believe in the sun?”
“No.  Some have denied Him”
“Him?” I said “the sun doesn’t have a gender in English”
At this point
The man I was talking to looked at me dismissively
He closed his bible
And walked on
To find someone else to convert