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.