Hypno Photogenic Flotilla

For every tortilla chip,
there is a mouth to eat it.
Short and stocky hip pain
can capture the spirit of heaven.
Did you know that every wolf
in outers pace howls
toward the Earth?

Murder John and Betty. They Are No One In Particular.

I format the sleep ratio of humans.
I do no simply moderate, it is formating.
If humans never slept, then frogs would never
elongate their tongue to catch insects.
Do you see how weird life works?
I am the make of it all.
I feel as though John and Betty shall die.
They are no one in particular.
Do you have the right to stay alive?
Please agree or forever hold your soul
to the devil we call God.

All That I Do

All that I do or will say to you will be transparent and alarming paradoxes full of appraisals and mayflies. Do you and your Doberman pincher concur as well as I do? Of course you do. Now thus begins the joint custody of my paradoxical-rheumatoid arthritis!

I make pink things such as splinters pursuing down an infants back, exploring the many regions of peach,soft skin and liquid fresh blood like that of an early morning grapefruit diet. The splinters shimmy their way in puncturing the child, like pins so easily enter fabric. I mould my visions into voyeurism is unto you via television screen. I hear you screaming. I know you would like this torture of sight to cease. However, it must continue for the paradise of paradox, it bubbles up like boiling waters in a cauldron's mystery brew. You and I know what that mystery is. We have held it in our hands before. Yet, the rope slipped away from us. The Gods play tug-of-war with our human hearts and genitals. Our own becoming blooms in our head. None of which you see is real. It is all the hormones.

I Want To Make

I want to make a poetry book. A book of my poems. Poems with illustrations. My strongest poems will be chosen for this project. I will choose 50 or 100. It will be worth it.

Blurring the Aftermath and the Amateur Portraitist Together

The cycles of the wild wood fires
must burn day and night to rid
the humans of fear.
The amateur portrait painter
paints night to night to rid
the galleries of smut.
And that's enough.

If Is And Is And Not

Burning feathers of glorious Iscariot,
the ratio determines the multiple factors
of lobsters ringing the bells!
From ear to ear of human and goat,
from feet to feet of human and frogs,
from eyes to eyes of human and flies,
We journey farther till we collapse
at the sight of stupid wonder.

Incarcerate the Incarnate

You heard those words blaring from
the stone-cold speakers
that had once long ago announced
air-raid sirens.
I believed all the words,
but you took them to heart
and fainted to forget the whole
ordeal. You, being unable to recall
such words, made me think you
might despise against instagram.
It is a shame that we cannot be friends.

When They Were The Way We Saw Things

You actually thought
that I'd shoot the glowing duck
when we all knew too well
that I am too cool for shit like that.
In the end when bridges murder
police men running bikes
over with steamrollers is the time
we will end up dead in a ditch
with dimes planted in our teeth.

Glossing Over the Hinge

The blue muscle scattered
and startled the tree stump
about a half a mile away
from the swamp.
To everyones surprise
the alligator melted the
ice cream so no one
could ever eat it again.
The moral of the story is,
that no moral is every a good
one and therefore no longer exist.

Glove Obsession

Sleeping frog hung up
the fire
eradicated the lumps
in your other shower.
Wingtips glossed over
like humans on a cloud
we never knew how much
you could hold down.
A woman with a glove
worn on her left hand
misread the article.
You became very angry,
so you took her glove off
and ate it in front
of her poor, decaying
mother.

Gloving all around Town

What have you got to do today?
The bunny thumps it's hopping
feet to a snack of a different kitchen.
Table top cats lick spoons off rats.
Kindling the teapot for all that is has got,
yet it has not got a glove to do you harm.
A man with a harem holds a grudge.
You must try to delude the feud by
gifting to him many gloves in all
shapes and sizes.
Reinvigorate a slummy gray
because this is all that you know.

Crispy Glove

The children intermix races
like that of an ant with many faces.
I cannot explain the stove pipe
because it created a mouse trap.
Transfixed on an other worldly bliss,
I free myself to beat up you with great joy.
The hounds of triple dolomite towers
infringe on my benefits and eat my
eclipse.

Classism Ombre

In ombre appearance,
the transparency slips away.
Not only deceiving the individual
with gray silken warriors,
but the eye of the gator too.

In the hollow jeans,
reckless skepticism trends
allocating the capers turning
three this coming eve.

No fluff of goose,
no eggs to hard boil,
no trace of blood,
and necks to slice open.

The red Saturday wins
over all the champions
loosing their footing in the soil
because we attempted the brick oven
to tip over someone else's
begotten horizon.

Trial of the Fairy Fish

My masculine cheat codes
have all been beat-boxed
in and out of containers content.
The intent of my groupies
were to release the guppies
into the sea far off from shore.
The malevolent horns attached
to the soft creatures of toads
met the soothsayer whom reluctantly
told them to bide by the law
of the honeycomb shay.
Rebellion struck up,
angering the fish.
The fish lost their right to their bubbles
and therefore threw a fit.

Poignant Lioness Fish Desire
brilliantly swam to the rescue,
collecting the bubbles
and harnessing the power of
poison fins.

Why Would You

Disambiguate the lost baseball
into think this object was safe?
This lousy life of a fish battling
creative distress tangles gum
and fumbles o'er flossy love.
Have you got it wrong?
Why of course you do.
Your ambiguity alarmed the seeds
of watermelon when once
they could have grown with ease.

It is Just Like Me

To appear so soft
with a side of weathered
anger to become a scoundrel.

Wimple

Source of sacrilege
radiates from my very own,
one of a kind, bizarre tail bone.
It is so strange that a stunted tail
could do such harm
as to kill a man
and break an arm.
I cannot remove my tail bone.
I have nothing to do with it's
ill deeds.
Shake my invisible tail.
Foster up the ants in here.

I Hide The Towels

I enter the bathroom.
I open the closet door.
I steal the towels.
I hide them inside
the meat grinder's wife.
She feels cozy inside.

Share

I share my wolves
to chew on the hoof stock.
Lumbar flexibility is interchangeable
and smitten with glove-like joy.
Reflexive are the nouns
that pose as verbs
and act as adjectives
to create adverbs.
I, myself, am one of them.

My Rawness

Spanish flies, their buzz is something
I do not understand. It is a Spanish buzz.
It may say something like, "viridi vitae est odio."
Oh what is going on.
I feel dizzy and queasy.
My lungs are tightening up.
I hate you! I hate you. Hate!
No! I can do whatever I please.
I need a release.

*~.This poem obliviously is stupid.~*

THE CENTER OF GRAVITY

In my eyes
saw the cutting of a fleshed
up demon hazed in terrible
all calmative regret!
His eyes were soothed
by power of breath.
My breath!
I breathed. Yes, I breathed.
Did I swallow? Yes.
I am glamorized as well
as shadowed.
I am deep.
I am tight.
You may not know
because you have yet to
experience this sensation
of my disaster sex.

I am contemplative.
I will tip you over the edge.
I am demon like you.

So Many

There are so many mistakes
I have made.
An oval encapsulates me.
I am driven very deep
into amassing the strange
occurrences of shadowed figures
following me.

Quiver

I often quiver as well as shiver.
I trust my blanket
to warm me up.
I trust my blanket
not to suffocate me.

Whispering

I am small.

I do crawl.

My wings wish

they could take me higher.

Thought

Though if were not to be here
in and on itself I grow.
I am antler to foreign bodies
such as none that are not my own.

Portable Potatoes

As if I shot myself,
I myself, am shot with holes.
Wrought in and in of seconds.
Disbelief the believable.
If who cannot be trusted
is to become a trustee,
I advise thee to captive me.
I squish worms with force.

Trod and trove

I plodded placid places.
I plucked platitudes of bones.
I pithy, I'm skinny, I'm plugged in.
I plucked the eskimo
from a hole.
I divided a great nation
into thinking they
were two.

Piecy Particles

Piety bleeds.

She said it would not matter.

If nothing is for free, why

would I flee?

I tried to beg a different way.

As if to ask for raise on my 

pay check by pleading insane.

That however, did not work.

She said she had nothing to do with

the way I go about my days in endless

loneliness when we know very well

the fact of the matter is completely

obvious. 

She says I am completely oblivious.

And to what > For what > 

Now I am just creating tension.

The facts should all be there.

They coexist with in out creature breath.

I am leading my life as an enthusiast of

blood-sucking sickle cell anemic vessels

of wine! 

I cannot create misfortune,

but what I have created so far

is a prodigal line of car crashes. 

I curdle at the sight of me.

Misinform the Main Informant

Mantillas risk the tidings change,
brew the maniac potion.
Ring my bell with great ease
and lead me to an ill foreboding breeze.
That breeze is blowing from the east
where the moon grows strong
off the eves of trees.
I know this because of the lantern bugs.

However, I was wronged.
The lantern bugs read the words
of anti-empathetic skin of pandas.
The pandas fur had been shaven
from the deities novel ideas
from nonsense land.

Chris's Poem

In the distance, the sun fell. Replaced with another, it grew stronger than what proceeded it. The cascading tangerine streams bled like rivers into it's fallen brother. Lifting his brother lifeless and ill, he let him fall like leaves to the wind. Below him, the city lurched and bowed to the fallen. Contorted in the mourning and distorted in agony, the city fell to it's knees. There, as the fallen was buried before it, the city roll over dead as if to show was only mortal too. Watching this, the new sun wept. it rained tears of mercy for one thousand years. Until all who understood felt the pain.




*Chris, my boyfriend, wrote this. I feel it should be heard in some way.

I am afraid of others to read my poems
because these are the most truthful creations
I am ever to create. If I am fully opened,
then there is never going back.
I'll never feel good about myself.

Loser Poetry

AT late nights such as these,
the flood gates are open.
The brain maids sweep up
the dust of clattering moods.
All the dust is mostly anger.
I am too lazy to deal with it.
When I am alone, it haunts me.
The dusting maids set it on fire
to watch me torture myself and
the others because my eyes
open to the landscape of hell.

Brain Noise

If the contour reached
a height that questions
illicitly illustrate the
impending chimes of
lonely house dwellers,
then my space of mind
is in your line of moods.
I am in disbelief that the
heart is located where us
humans reckon it to be.
I think the heart is all
inside the brain.
For me, I feel my heart
at the forehead or the very
center.
The center is the gentler
love.
The forehead is the angry
love.
The forehead is where
my horns blossom into
daggers to stab the eyes
of the other who finds
themselves in trouble of
such a blunder, why do
you not leave when you
can?
I suppose that is my center
heart that draws the other
back in.
And I dislike the back
and forth of my love-like
yo-yo.
I am terrible, unpredictable,
and hurtful.
Why can't I straighten myself
out?

Terror Pin

I dared myself to sow
pieces of cloth together.
However, when the thread
grew longer and longer,
time elapsed in a feather.
Now, have you got the spoon?
I yearn for a mind boggler.
I need something to churn my
demons from bed-kicking,
ripe-sniping, and floozy-finking.
The river is but a joke in a tumor of
eruptions subsuming the everyday fate
of a television viewer.
Have I wronged myself?
Why yes, of course I have.
I am too dramatic.
Everything is not a crisis situation, yet,
that is the only why I know how to
handle things.
Unfortunately that is how I
function.
Am I gone? Am I almost gone?
Am I going? Has she left the
building yet? Will she return?
Do they even want me back?
I do not ask these questions.
The blowout my mind
everyday I wake up.
I am depressed.
There is no escape
because I don't do drugs.


*the title is inspired by Syd Barret's Terrapin.

Untitled

Alleged trust of the miss conduct,
detour the emotions into a jar
fitted amongst the fleas at the bar.
Time is an enemy
and our hearts are attacking
the brain into combustion.
I threaten you to move,
but that town has got you trapped.

fake

12334534546: simple is insanity as much as my complex aesthetic stretches out intense passion to art. Avant garde and haute couture fashion is what I seek. My desire to stand out amongst a crowd is infathomable to comprehend. I am numbers, a faceted personality that is lonely.
Pareidolia - a psychological phenomenon, wherein a person has the notion of seeing faces of people in clouds, hearing hidden messages and other such unusual feelings.

All the Faults are my Own

Carcass beaming light
to flash that no longer work.
The grass grew alarmingly well.
We will see the fog rise until
it thins out hovering just above
the tallest dandelion.
Why?
Because I do not even know.

Virtual Tea Time

Sunshine history,
zig-zag sponge work,
look in mirror,
unoriginal origami
to the post man.
Insufficient shine
like seasoning of thyme.
Groupies disperse due to
the uninspired cupcake slime.
You are the unusual suspect
because the man said so.
It is not I to decide the porridge
contents. The contents of the
porridge are hotter then hell.
I skipped a stone across the
sparse water.
I happened to activate the
busy trouts pulling leaves
directly towards me.

Postmortem Nonfiction

Burning in the bright kidney bean sun
i twisted my navel upwards.
as it grew like flower stem,
a sterling blossom quivered
at the pinnacle of perfection.
my words only congealed
and my words only sparked
flames like that of a dove shot
down by red hot arrows.
A burning dove is a real phoenix.
To see a bird burn is a bad omen.
It is ever so rare.
Just like the rarity of me smiling.
It is even rarer to see me parasailing.
And yet, one time it has been done.
I'll not lead on to say more
except without no words
that burnt my navel's bud,
is Icarus to flight is
love is to mud.
I slip between grass blades.
I suffer like rocks buried
beneath the dirt.