Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

in light of some thesis moving in the light of loss
pain and suffering as punitive damages
some people view the posting of comments
as the inability of reason to fair
the worth of words as the sublime

of course, in lesser times
when things were made of

like i need the offerings of your stated
'whatever'

...

so it goes
metaphor like fungus on dried wood
orange peels that look like fish sticks
in the anthology of black sparrow press

and dhilli peppers too hot
to recover from a tour
of troughing through the underworld

damian was right
he had enough of the tired complaining types
and the relentless charade

of self avowed importance
it was far better an endeavour

to insult oneself more successfully
and live in a kind of efficacy
that only the author understood

all these players here are phoney
they delight in free speech
ask for comments that give them
importance and enchant
the livelihood of idleness

they think in terms as if their
terms were the indeterminable
aspect of their meandering
through metaphor and rhyme
in the absence all the time

it is as if it were
suching in the touching
soft caress of kissing
your ear lobes
stroking your breasts
touching your longing
with the smell of words
on my lips

pressing my loins against
tree posts and pointing fingers
that taste like sardines

i love sardines
strange thing to say
indeed

it is not enough
more must be said
about the dead
why you have no wool hat
for your head
instead

commenting less
seems more appropriate

to be as to be
wonderfully surreal
in the stated

unrepsonsive

and the best way
to not solicit comments
in the challenge of choice
and free speech

is to go on and on and on
until nobody gives a shit anymore

good idea

lets begin
here's how it goes

i must confess
at the urinal of ideas
as i take a pee
for free

it is not poetry at all

it is the in determinants
of not wanting your opinion
in the first place

yes that must be it
as i take a shit

i learned how to write poetry from dead people
now poems come to me
on the toilet, in the shower, traffic jam on 80 west
while i'm peeling potatoes
i'm assailed by the poems
i do not write
they taunt me
like the words i cannot say.

poems are the spit of the subconscious
we understand them because
they use words to defy
the monkeyness of our face
have you ever hit a poet
with philosophy or common sense
they spit back the irrational grumble
of macro-indigestion

that is why poetry is such a messy art
expect to wipe expectorate from your mind
but spit is beautiful at times
catch a globe of it in the moonlight
don't touch it don't touch
poetry is a sacred illness
germinating so much


(I'm going to post this as a poem---why not?)