Music

As Music rounds the corner
She gives a soft and kind hello
Music invites you into the next room with her
She lays you down and makes love to you

Music touches your whole body
tingling even your blonde hairs
as they raise from your neck
in ecstasy

Music intoxicates you
You drink her passion in
until you are quite tipple and tuned

Music taps your chest in tempo
as she tells you fondly of her childhood
or vehemently of her first love

Music breathes loudly into your ear
Her volume increasing with each breath
She tightens the muscle in your leg
causing your foot to curl

Music bites your lobe
and kisses your eyelids sweetly
Music raps her legs around your body
and brings you in close

Music infatuates your heart
increasing its speed to her rhythm
while your eyes grow oddly tired
closing off everything that is not her

that is not rapture
that is not Music

as she envelopes you inside of her

I'm free until they cut me down

I'm free until they cut me down
I'm silent until I make a sound
Alive until I'm in the ground
But I'm always running from
that bastard hound

He comes knocking up my door
doesn't say what he's knocking for

In fifty years

In fifty years
when we have miniature horses and shit
that you can hold in the palm of your hand,
how cute that would be.
But also how fucking sad that would be.
They would break their legs so easily.
You would have to hold their
poor tiny suffering bodies
up to a giant gun barrel and blow them away.
or ....OR....
you would have to manufacture tiny little rifles
and take them out tenderly!

Drunk Poetry

I need to stop writing drunk poetry

sloppy is the writing
and the rhyme
dull is the plot
too long duration-time
weak is the subject
usually myself
the kind of shit
even I'd leave on the shelf

I often repeat one line,
as I really do every time I write,
when I struggle for inspiration
I find one I enjoy and continuously
try to work off of it

I often repeat one line,
too tired to think
to poor a writer to actually write
although I'm sure sometimes
in my drunken state
I've actually forgotten I used it already,
a spark of wonder opens my slit-ed eyes,
my eyebrows crack upwards
shattering the pane of my forehead
as I scribble maliciously
contently recording another
brilliant and original enlightened thought
oh what a silly sloshed Saddartha am I!

I often repeat one line,
under the assumption it gives
poem structure
under the impression it adds
pleasant rhythm
I should have read
less Whitman,
maybe more Yeats or Keats
or Byron
I should have started with
one great line
perhaps the only one you'll remember
and ended in a nice
perhaps thoughtful couplet
something-something sublet

I often repeat one line,
and instead of ending
like the Aristotle
I usually have my last stanza
be the same as the first stanza
so it seems a clever ending
or so at least I end
as strongly as I began
I should realize I am writing a poem
I should come to some sad yet beautiful conclusion
not revert to my best joke
like some sorry stand-up comedian

I suppose the conclusion here is:

I need to stop writing drunk poetry.

Halloween Shalloween

There was a boy
young and curious
he had no toys
his father was very serious

and on Halloween night
his giddiness exponential
He'd set to make it right
dressed in a costume rental
he'd prepare to go out

his dad would shout,
"You're not leaving this house tonight,
by God, this blasphemy simply isn't right
My son shall not be seen,
No sir, not on Halloween!"

He'd stay in
swearin'
loathing the busy street
with sweaty palms and shuffling feet
he'd sit on his cold window-ledge
staring out over a crippled willow-hedge
his eyes would water with wanton delight
and scrutinize the once scary
now weary night
ghosts and knights and ghouls
he watched them caravan by in large car pools
Encompassed in his Christian home
some spirit still some-what shown
on the door: a cross of bone

With his porch light off
and froth from his father's
open jaw he saw
little children sweetly passing
but his father, pacing,
barking raw and shrieking fast,
the old man cried, "Stay off my grass!"

Yes, the kids all hated his old man
and would fight back as best they can
A swear and glare
beneath their sweaty mask
anything above a mumble
was a grueling task

In turn they hated him
O it seems he could not win

Confusion

Blurry-white.

Everything is illuminated, light encompasses
all sides in a narrow tunnel-vision.
A few voices. Pick them up as if
wearing headphones that play their track
of conversation, converting mild to morbid with imagination.
Ignored, not even there,
your brow furrows to spell a scream.
They gesture and judge, arguing articulately.
Focus on their hands, reading only the last page.
It lifts and falls trying to
convince and convey.

It does neither

Death doth strike!

Death doth strike!
Knells do knoll!

Death, I thought,
take me then!
Death, I wonder,
how and when?