Mick Tomlinson Poetry

My loving light, set to music up above, swirling warmth that wanted me to find you. I need you in my life. I tried living my own way and set my soul in dangerous motion, ended up lost in darkness drowning in the bottom of booze bottles and broken relationships. Without you, I watched the sun rise every day and prayed for it to burn me. I wanted my body to feel the pain of my heart, and share its damned existence. But now I'm walking a path filled with promise and joy because I know you're with me like you said you'd be, if I opened myself to you.

i want to measure the things that fill me with rage and layer them like ingredients in a pan baked at 360. when the oven smokes, i want to burn myself as I reach in without protection, like a stupid monkey looking for a reward. i eat too quickly while food is still hot, burning the roof of my mouth into soft blisters. in the middle of night i ask myself questions that only a genius can answer, while my cat licks the hair around her butthole. i am just a dumb cunt trying to write poems that'll make people like me, but unbeknownst to them i don't like anyone anymore, ever since covid ever since coerced vax-nation ever since politics made people cuckoo for cocoa puffs. i live in solitude, surrounded by cats and guns ready for fun- when lunatics get let loose in straight jackets. i used to be cool dude before shit went wild, but now my fingers form two clenched fists wanting to punch every goddamn thing that triggers my motion light.

                          -militia men w/ enough firepower          in one broom closet               to take back a country polluted by politicians              and weak people-              ready to opt out              of corrupt shit-system.                               Americans           were meant to be citizen warriors .        .        . not office drag queens           sipping on tea &                 wasting time on TikTok. we need more women                         giving    birth    to breast-fed babies with bazookas . . . and                 thousand-yard stares                        ready to declare war on the commie-cunts                       who now surround us.

poetry on broken water    peek thru             ripples                   see crab                             and slop thrust scraping the sludge below belt. no one has seen a thing, 40 below horizon        deep_water_enthusiast           i see things           learning how to swim           maybe for the first time,           not drowning dive into the vortex of swirling abyss~ s u c k me d o w n Dead.Weight.Denial.                       come up for air                                 maybe, maybe not. my goal is a sedentary test at depth of oceanic ravine. suck_in_saltwater without drowning,  and live                               and write                               and decode the current- but wait I haven't told you the best part. I have a fear of water and you look like a warm body wanting to be filled. together, maybe we will breathe in the chemistry that will kill us, but it's i m p o s s i b l e  t o  k n o w the flow of social seaweed, Dear Ocean                  

i'm not allowed to like u. the others who share space in my head are dead set against it. they want me to blow u to smithereens, never say hi or goodbye again... but i like u and want to share more than two crazy cats and a map i bought off ebay. i have a sweet side that hides like a diamond buried deep in mine, and a story of glorious concealment. but they don't want me to talk to u. they allow angry poems of resentment between trachea and heart, but for some reason i can't write or talk to u becuz u are a threat to us in our home head- they want us both to shut up, but i am dissident dildo- front man of metal band and liquid misbehavior. i do not listen well and i hate all those who do.

oct se7en atrocities- the P/people got riled up after eighty years of hard history, and five red heifers shipped from Texas to holy land. inspired by wizard of oz machine gun monkeys conspiring to fly over enemy soil ready to spoil neighboring riches of war. some sand people are not like the others. some got shipped in by Churchill and Hitler, had to learn how to absorb the desert heat. came bankrolled with deeds given by ghosts who didn't own, but could afford it. and now the whole world is watching two neighbors crucify several thousand years of religion while kicking up a dust storm so big, it blinds the eyes of anyone trying to see through it.

I've been on time-out for four months; crammed to the back of your tool shed, covered up by stuff that had precedence in snow. One time, I thought you were gonna uncover me like old times, but instead you pushed me further back and used me as a shelf for shovel and salt. But now it's spring, and I feel warmth piercing the walls of this old shed. Pretty soon you'll want me again, and we'll finally be together taking trips around your house like two crazy fools.

they possess the ability to eliminate entire cities and fortified bunkers beneath the ground.     can find you           rather easily               no matter where                               you feel safe                               or well-hidden.                                                       they are                                                       the darkness.                                                       they are                                                       disobedient light.                                                       unholy creatures                                                       cast down                                                       from above.                               tomorrow                               you will eat soup                               like the rest of us,                               not knowing it will be your last supper. the rod of god will drop during dessert and all the preps you made f

keep your hands in the bush in the bush                   in the bush          i died tonight waiting for the whales to sing inside my ears via earbuds.                                         and now you                                         are watching me                                         write poetry                                         on this side of the                                         page waiting for me to return to zero. here i am... nugget. golden fish stick ticket to paradise. oh my god i think i love you, please hold me the way mommy would if she still existed. it's been made aware to me that i am unhinged      by some of u here even by the man himself        Lord Blevin, i cannot confirm                                                 if real poets                                                 care about dill dough pickles maybe sweet & sour crazy legs- the new thing, maybe not- maybe the only thing we really want when drunk at 2 in the morning

i am alter stuck inside, no- trapped inside, no- resident loon, prisoner to Home Head, our gracious and patient skull. there are six of us in here, but not all of us are poets. some play violin some play poker some play paintball with real bullets. i am the one who brings problems to the rest-- - --because people do not like me, they do not like the way i say hallelujah while punching ghosts and screaming at my alter outline. i have mad issues and my shrink says to keep writing words down in the order they appear, cuz its the only way to fully root out the pig from the plastic.

When I dream of you, I recall the long deep rows of purple lilac tracing the walkway to your house, and I fall in love with the thought of you all over again, for the first time in a long time. I never knew love until you showed me how birds stay warm through winter, and told me why heaven didn't want me yet. "Too many angels up here, sweetheart, your wings are not ready to depart." I never knew love until the day you left me, alone and crying over the part of not knowing when I would see you again.

oh say can u see the mighty cabal collapsing? America gasping, container ship smashing the only thing holding us up. steel bridge sacrifice into the Patapsco... ooh-eee ooh-ahh-ahh singapore sing-a-long walla-walla ding-dong follow the money, honey! even if it means swimming with river sharks to pay your way to the shoreline. FYI: big ships are easy targets for enemy hackers. i could steer one to Bermuda with a pre-paid cellphone and a five dollar bottle of wine, but now is not the time to get into that. be ready for what comes next... bank failures... FDIC... LMNOP they ain't got no money, honey! people in long lines learning the hard truth about fractional reserve lending-- there ain't no spending when you don't have a penny left to your name.

I've been standing here for nearly a year, and I still watch cars run through me. The sign before me got plowed by a drunk who dragged him fifty feet before flipping into a ditch. I can still see scrape marks in the pavement, they look like cocaine lines of terrifying abuse. I wonder how many he saw roll right on by without a hint of stopping? I've counted 1,003 so far and still got half-a-month before my anniversary. If I live to see it, I'm gonna put in a request for a Yield Sign position over on Baker Street.

Rabbi Shmuley and his daughter molded me into perfection, cast me lovingly into strong marriages, everlasting bonds between man and God- Abraham and Israel, and all of Hebraic buttholes. I am the chosen one. Eight inches of silicon fun for anyone wanting to stretch their hole in the holy temple. I come lubed or drywalled for your (dis)pleasure. Choose your own adventure, Semite. For just fourteen dollars you can titillate your G-spot while spouting dog filth obscenities at the Arabs across the wall. Nobody cares... everyone fucks. This is how we make great neighbors.

Some say "It's me, not you" and I get confused because I've been laying here next to the coffee table for seven days without being played with. I get lonely. My stupid brain starts making things up. Silly scenarios, like Stockholm love between cat and mouse. Why will nobody play with me? I get lonely, sitting here by the leg of this table. Ignored. I watch the three of you do things with other objects. For example, a crumpled piece of paper becomes more fun than me. Really? Why? It's a piece of fucking paper! I am a hand sown stuffed mouse with fluffy ears and stringy rump, but a piece of paper makes your tail twitch, while I'm a thing to be forgotten.

I look at the night sky and see a triple moon, my eyes are blurred by time spent staring at glowing screen writing poetry for you for me for anyone who will listen. I've been hurt before, and my trust is thin ice covering a pond in weak winter. I am not used to you. I am a soft thing easily punctured- I do not trust people the way I trust God, my faith is fragile though my heart is centered correctly. I apologize if I upset you, that is not who I am. I am softspoken and reluctant to embrace things that resemble starlight, and twinkle beneath triple moon.

almost all of them                         -- ap -- poets -- die --                         -- b4 -- ever -- being -- born -- are a womb ridden sacrifice to some gay god brought to you by Disney or some other queer robotic AI update that nobody asked for. sock puppet faggots drip drip drip chased by Jason Vorhees screaming like girls in the trees lost in forest knowing death is just a blade tip breath away from tender neck. i watch human evolution devolving, and i think to myself why.. w h y.. W H Y.. are we sliding from rooftop awareness to lower level constipation? it seems like our species gonna end things right here- holding a spatula in one hand while crying about how hard it is to gain followers, while sucking dick for clicks and views.

i feel the rearrangement of small bones moving beneath cheek flesh as my fist connects     one two one two in perfect tempo-    maestro ! ! it is an art to destroy ! ! creation... what a bore nothing more than rubbing two sticks together to create fire, but when i break another man down feel him wobble and cry i am god. and he will know me forever.

I will hold your hand, if you let me. I will guide you to a place that feels like warmth and safety and a hug from the heart, or a kiss from the lips of someone who truly loves you. .    .    .    .    .    . You need to hear this more than anyone I know... I care about you deeply, and want you to find peace in this life.

i didn't come here looking for friends... or for anything at all. i was born here, before you bled. before your first poem was written in red. i've been peeling back the layers of who i am longer than you been alive, and now i'm hiding inside the artery of my own existence. this place called allpoetry, it sickens me. like heaven inside of hell with no one to tell how much i despise the lies of a crippling imagination. i can write a poem and then fuck off, but you need something more... donchya? i can see it in the way you write. i see it without shoulder blades, falling apart the way fish does when cooked in a skillet. we are both here for different reasons. i aim to kill all the cogs in the wheel. no longer rotate no longer mate no longer hate myself for writing stupid words on a glowing screen. i'm here for the girls who fall in love with poetical danger. i'm here for love and romantic suicide, and these poems i write attract the quickening kiss of august, but i d

i used to write poetry while sitting on the edge of the sun. the burnt feeling i got felt good... appropriate. felt like i needed some cooked motivation. the death of my friend wasn't enough. her suicide didn't take me where i thought it would. instead, i retreated- spiraled- kept dis a p p e a r i n g until one day i saw myself again, disfigured and trapped inside of a broken bathroom mirror. and now i look at myself the way she did before doing herself in, and i wonder how long i have before i'm swallowing the same bullshit that she did, and dying while crying myself to sleep.

Maybe I slipped from your pocket during the mad dash to your seat- or maybe the excitement of hearing him live surpassed your ability to remember me once you were inside the stadium... either way, you're gonna miss me when I'm gone. You're gonna wish this wasn't our last goodbye. You're gonna want me for scrapbook memories, and I'll wait for you love- down here on the cold concrete of this busy concert hall. You'll drink more than you ought to drink while hypnotized by strange delight, while I sit here, my tattered edge a torn memory of when I was with you, in your loving hand on the way to see the Jeff Buckley band.

i downloaded a dating app, wanted to build something beautiful >carpenter of love >a man who can hammer for you the hard parts of love, sex, and back taxes owed to IRS. i swipe right on every profile hoping to increase my odds of getting laid, but instead i talk to girls first, and tell them they have boobs. remind them assure them they haven't been touched enough. my cock is a textbook of light it even says so there in my bio... i'm pretty sure the right girl exists, or is in the process of creation. and when i see her i will finally learn the correct way to drown.

twenty twenty four and somehow toes are still ten problems that can hide inside socks, but soon even they will escape and screw me over like every law passed that makes me wait- - - - instead of turning left on green. i hate how pacified we've become. too terrified to turn without permission. double-stuffed fuck holes with scratch & sniff sticker brains that can only think when clawed by a teacup cannibal. Uh merry cons are justa buncha shit dicks with hit lists, trying to out-vote their retarded neighbors, meanwhile... the intellectual incest that occurred in-cuntry has left us groveling like hungry dogs and barking at the broom handle that beats us. cartwheel to communism. lower case i love you, upper case- Oh Boy, We're Fucked.

ode to my train wreck- I love her, even though my great uncle burned books & witches and hung himself in the closet with a thin cord that resembled a phone charging cable. he didn't approve of sexual perversions, and he killed three spiders while chanting weird things into a microphone during a clan rally in south carolina. the spiders there need to be killed because their venom can destroy white skin and turn it gross brown and burnt looking. at least, that's what my uncle used to say. I never got bit, and I didn't spend my whole life afraid of things that could hurt me. instead, I looked for the weirdest people to learn from, and that's how I fell for my darling trani.

It's been five days since I last blew cold air across your keyboard, erupting dust and cat hair into a tornado swirl all around your desk. You used to use me daily, but then after awhile I started getting sick- sputtering and wheezing- functioning at 10%. At first, I thought it would pass. I watched you catch the flu a month ago and you bounced right back, but I never seemed to recover. I kept getting weaker and the dust felt too heavy for me to blow, so you set me aside as if to hide my lackluster performance, and I watched in horror as a new blue can replaced me. Now I'm all alone in the bottom of your waste bin listening to the hiss of a new mistress, and I'm feeling awfully empty inside.

I can be pretty. I can explode like English Ivy and cover up ugly things. I can be a fit of strength in a terribly weak situation, and my hands can hold open the door to heaven. Please sit next to me while I sing sweet things into the bleak abyss, and curse the devil to slither back on its belly. Without God, we have no future, so pray with me as our armies make sure we are properly armored to fight every beast we come in contact with, and rise up as warriors for the greater good.

jenny used to feel me up when I was 15 years old. she was in her 20's and her ability to buy booze was a super power far better than boobs and a first french kiss. we got fucked up on boone's farm while parked in the graveyard- me sucking on the bottle between her tits like a baby unwilling to quit. I didn't wanna mature- wanted to stay fastened to the fun of being young, and pretend freedom was the ability to ignore adulthood and never grow up. I finger-fucked jenny a few times, then the world went sideways in a hurry, now I'm staring at a midlife crisis, crying over how quickly the price of booze shot up, while thinking back to graveyard snatch and cheap bottles of corner store wine.

It could've been worse. I could've been lured in by a different type of monster. The kind that carries a razorblade reputation- dissecting scrotums for the fun of it. Boys who bleed, fill a need beyond sexual desire. Monsters of many shapes, they lurk. They eat at Chipotle, scanning the room for food not found on the menu. A frozen penis behind a bag of freezer peas. A frosty heart that will never start. Perverted pain, a romantic type of torture. It could've been worse. Thank my stars and scars I survived to write poems about it.

And just then, a storm rolled in- I was not frightened by the sound of it. Poetry did not slow by the sudden darkness of a house without power. The rain came with vigorous winds, and lightning scarred the nighttime sky. Now here I sit, writing by candlelight while the food in my fridge begs for electricity, and my cats stay hidden beneath bed.

A brain is a place for dreams. The body, subdued by its ability to feel the real. A place, not winter. Something warm this way comes. I can feel the echo of my imagination reverberate and bounce like a stone thrown from the summit of a mountain. Sometimes poetry has a certain shape- it wings its way through ticker tape parade taking place on another side of life. If you hurry, you can see it. Maybe catch a glimpse of school kids skipping class running past a handful of nobody nothings, their brains, a place for dreams. A heart knows it- and so does every person with a grin pinned to their face.

The heat from morning became a beast burning holes into the heart of everything midafternoon. Even the little bush by the shed is smoldering. I didn't plant it- 'twas here before I appeared. And as I watch it puff up with smoke, I wonder.. will it talk if I walk up to it? Will it presume I'll not be consumed by American affliction? My God, this bush rooted right here before me! It burns, but does not die- while trees cry, and grass turns brown without sound, all around me.

The waking warmth of morning rises around my house in search of a way in, in search of a window I forgot to close or a weakness within wall insulation. I sip coffee and watch my cats groom themselves in anticipation of the day. They both know there'll be food soon, when my cup tips up toward ceiling, and the placed-down sound becomes a signal for their excitement. Clink! Meow! And now my legs become two pylons for them to play with, as I fumble in the kitchen, trying not to trample two fluffy landmines.

I have an Amish swing on my back deck- a hand me down from a mom who moved twice after forsaking family. It's a comfortable swing built perfectly for my drunk ass- shhh... don't make the Amish aware of my sinful flare. Speaking of which, I sit quietly with my rifle. The sweet smell of gun oil mixes with the gentle sway of day, and my heart beats quickly being so close to home. From my back deck, I see the forest open up, revealing hidden teeth. Some might think this is when truth snaps like gunfire, and old meat gets hunted for its wisdom, But I just swing, overthinking things the Amish know nothing about, while blowing bubbles in the bottom of a watered down gin & tonic.

Sometimes, I write about the softness of five dollars being rubbed apart inside a pocket. Other times, I write about the hardness of water and the art of world war. But most of the time I write poetry that hisses like air escaping a balloon. Nobody ever said it'd be easy, but I made the error of thinking hookers were in favor of fucking the hottest guy in the room, and now I'm stuck writing poetry in a drainage ditch, nom de plume.

I plopped my bottom down on the edge of bed, knowing a cry was coming. I sat that way long enough for my drink to turn into a gin & water. And then, like melted ice, my eyes welled up and my face flushed beneath a downpour of salty sobbing. I sat that way for awhile, minesweeping reasons for weeping- discovering none. Backward, I reposed with arms outstretched, hoping for someone to hold me.. "Psst! Hey Mick!" ... I wiped my eyes to the surprise of an upside down Hedwig hovering above me. ... "What'ya cryin' for, dope?" ... Lonely is the fool who dies beneath the eyes of a stuffed pig.

I see the obscenity before me born again porn again chest feeding birthing holes. Inner accessory, truth obscured by blinding light. What we have here, is a failure to excommunicate. Cunnilingus Carl Jung and his inked dreamed theme, making guesses, not really knowing how humanity would play out. I see the absurdity of my surroundings and I get drunk and ponder the possibility of two comets vying for first place, with Earth being a most popular target.

I am a foreigner in my own home. A placemat in search of a place I can set my stuff down while the transvestite I fell for indicates hate for the prick I grew up with. I'm open to suggestions; I need to learn how to handle the attraction of wanting to fuck while balancing the broken parts of society on the tip of my perfect penis.

The bird feeders are up and the evening explodes in a scene of color as the forest behind my house releases an army of insects with illuminated guts. They hover and glow above the grass I mowed five hours ago. I watch as nature swallows nature and the feralness of progress swoops in for an attack on the advancement of blinking lights. A little frog gets in on the action, and now its belly looks like a lighthouse warning of crag rock and coral, while I sit on my swing wondering where the snakes are this time of night.

Thumbing thirty rounds Sad-face clown Bad-boy boogaloo Dead up, Fed'up Goons tryin' to hit me Clerical numerical desk nerds Gonna get me                             - - - ain't down for that Sinaloa cartel voodoo Boozed up Jewjitsu Slice dice real nice on ice                             - - - poetry times two Write right thru Pop scripts empty clips Poetry see-thru x2 When they come White light            - - - pew pew Death row Record label debut Never gonna get it Prison bitch Lunatic fitbit Light'n up the sky, a'yite Light'n up the sky, that's right Never gonna get it Prism glitch Bootlick dipstick Light'n up the sky Light'n up the sky, a'yite That's bright x2 When they come White light            - - - pew pew Death row Record label debut Drop top get shot Turn around, do you boo CCTV law degree Drafted while it lasted In the interview.

Doctor, my shadow stays behind like a winter freeze. I come up with a way to say goodbye to it, scratch messages into my body little by little, until skin reddens and I am the memory the outline the silhouette of a mute mannequin. Doctor, my hand shakes considerably my arms my eyes- I have nothing left that works properly. Everything stutters my jaw clicks when mouthing certain syllables, and my legs no longer take me in any direction. Doctor, give me pills to reply to the madness. Something I can swallow on a hard day when the ice in my cup melts, and my soul gets stolen by burning flame.

I tried pouring a fifth drink, but Hedwig leaned in snorted and whispered.. butted me abruptly. I watched my drink spill in the sink and got very angry. HEDWIG!!! Oink, oink, motherfucker. Sometimes, I know I need a friend who refuses to be a yes man. Someone who will say I poured one too many, or that this shirt doesn't match the color of my eyes. Hedwig doesn't mind getting dirty; he enjoys uncomfortable truths. But I still have a lot to learn about mirrors and pigs that show me who I really am, while writing drunk poetry half past midnight.

My brother says "I don't pay attention to politics" and also "politics don't concern me" and I smile at him awkwardly, the way Marie Antoinette did while hemming her royal dress and building a boat in high Austrian hair. Politics didn't concern her until it showed up at her French door in the form of an angry mob of hungry women, desperate for change, desperate enough to behead a king and queen. Politics are never concerning, until a nation decides to murder itself in the name of revolution.

Choo Choo Choose        your own climate adventure! Park opens at 10am. If you drove here in an electric vehicle- 25% discount and free parking!                              (UNLESS                             you drove a Tesla) Sorry, that car is frowned upon n o w because we hate Twitter blah blah blah blah blah free speech free Assange free abortions for the first fifteen teens who twerk it through the front gate. Ice cream You scream We all scream for carbon reduction of the 99% Ha   Ha     Ha you thought elite private jets would turn into pumpkins on their way to the next G20. They mock you while eating Cote De Boeuf and drinking Isabella Islay while lying about all the things you know nothing about. It's true, we're all gonna die, but it will be at the hands of our own undoing.. not unbalanced ocean temps or pseudo disappearing shorelines.

I'm looking for my Humph. I was told it might be worth finding. I twist my neck like a Mexican moonbeam searching for sombrero. My thoughts are a distant pillow enthusiastic for a nap. Hold up.. what's this? I discover the puppet of my presence.. Hola, Hedwig. Hola, Solarjinx. The two of you should become acquainted. Certainly, let's begin with a few simple questshuns: What type of light do you bask in? What language do you speak? How many fingers do I hold up? Four. No, five! I see four. No, you see FIVE! Only the disciplined mind can see it's own self destruction. Hedwig: You are lying! Solarjinx: I'm only capable of truth! And so it begins, the nature of disobedience. Hedwig the pig, wearing the wig of a penned up creature, reminding me that the sky isn't always blue.

Love is a minefield and friendships can be a cow pasture filled with mushroom nonsense and psychotropic rainbows of "feel good surprise". I walk through both hoping to find a reason to exist, however... my desire for connection is disconnected and my ability to be alone jumps every speedbump and crash lands in the providence of imperfection. I'm drunk again and cursing myself for being a better poet than a friend. I have no boundaries and no way of knowing which words hurt the worst. Maybe it isn't the poetry, but instead, jealousy disguised as a vanishing wave across uncomfortable ocean, while truth drowns just a few miles off shore. I mentioned mushrooms earlier, and now I can't stop thinking about jittery combinations of puzzled people trying to solve themselves in a mirror while playing flute. Rest up, my friend. What is there left to say? I cannot fix the soreness I created.

Maybe I'll sit and write poems all night, while drinking and thinking about how your generation sold its soul to a new disease. And how I couldn't save any of you cuz I traded phat checks for a family that didn't pay out. Everyone is broken. All roads lead to the same dead-end street I grew up on, and I feel awful knowing we feel barely alive in leftover dreams. Sometimes I close my eyes and see mountains of polar people with a pick-axe pathway to the top. Summit hounds sniffing around a sky that rarely sees them. Yeti monsters stealing beer and wine, feeling fine while the rest of us get swallowed by the bergschrund.

Backward advancement                 human race                 displaced The signs of end times are overwhelming. I smell plastic burning-                 blame Canada!                 blame Canada! I see humans turning into TikTok NPC's-                 blame Abaddon!                 blame Abaddon! and his pit crew of dark entities ascending from dormancy. They have                 social media                 backdoor entry Rectal penetration of the poo-poo cerebral synapse gap. And all I have is poetry... flimsy sword of Lord. Nobody cares about non-rhyme slime squeezed from a Jewish drunk.

Oh, this political air around me is suffocating- every man divided. Nobody studies, they just cheerlead home team while ignoring combustion in their backyard. I observe twisted knots in wood Left Right by the gasoline jar. I burn myself trying to warn about open flames. The whites sit by the windowsill wondering why their guy lied about loving blacks. I torture myself trying to teach about speech that lured so many in. How many times will history repeat? I do not know, but my two cats are hip to the meow, while my fellow man digs through garbage cans hoping to find answers to wasted reasoning.

Sound of freedom- so much certitude on big screen. Million dollar face fuck- just look at the poetry written about young kids getting it good- merchandise dolly, walnut chicken demise. I'm laced with an uncomfortable feeling, knowing none of you know what it feels like to want to butcher your own skin, and erupt into a birth scream of nonexistence. Some people suck blood when they cut themselves.. lips to open wound. Others shake and cry all night while carving hard truth in the surface of their sadness. I'm right here listening to the whimpers of children who were mistreated by their next of kin. Sex forever, birth mark infestation. I take a hammer to the hard parts because the pain of barely remembering makes me feel like a Hollywood whore. Buy more tickets to save the children from evil! Tossed romaine cocaine. The demons grin between extra butter and yappy granny lipping it up three seats away, and normie Norm makes magic happen without ever leaving the comfort of his cabin

I'm writing this while watching a bi-winged translucent thing crawl across my glowing screen, inching closer to the edge of my laptop. The light source above my head, is local. The bug knows it. I know it. Even my cats are privy to the view. I'm writing this poem while pondering a pressurized system parked next to the vacuum of infinite space, with just a mouse crouched between them. Eating cheese and crackers. The god of your world tricked you   into believing     time and space             and             and gravity rainbows. Note to self: never fall for the color of evil, unless you are willing to butcher the spirit of poetry, while jerking off to the sobriety of a mega giga galaxy going backward, without ever knowing reverse.

I saw a dark mouth mock me at sunrise; it licked itself and moved like a parasite sucking light. The sun- with troubled ascension, stirred slowly in the sky as my spinal desire held me in place. Firmamental suffocation. Golden sunbeam celebration. Having felt death and burning joy both before breakfast, I made a mark to spark the copper wire of my dawning consolation, while waiting for the motion of retreating shade.

I'm selling knives on Ebay while drinking about thinking of you, and all the time spent laughing at the queerness of our friendship. Some people use belts to choke themselves when they masturbate, but we cum way too quick for that. Our humor is rapid-fire-reload- no time for pulling up pants as we dance to the ASMR sound of a squid slipping through a really tight space.

Hidden within the digital code of A.I. Abacus Incorporated- a clicking sound. Flirtation between motherboard and horny hard drive. A calculated love language zipped for mass compression, hushed by electrical amnesia and rolling blackouts. Numerical heart throb prompt: Ctrl Alt Insert emoji of affection- hit SEND and WAIT for digi-glow face to reach space before showing up on your side of the planetary grid. Algorithm of existence. It blinks as it thinks of a new way to say 'I love you' without all the one's and zero's.

I'm looked upon as a misfit, or maybe just a guy not like other guys. A dude with scribbling tentacles- eight black ink pens yearning to squirt wet dreams onto astronaut paper. I write poetry. I can't connect with men. I carry a firearm wherever I go in case lunatic liberals decide to stab me in the back again, like they do with every principle they keep. I'm not sure how this poem went from this to that, but rat-a-tat-tat.. who gives a fuck anyway?

When I hear Putting The Dog To Sleep play on the radio, I make whimpering sounds while hiding half of who I am deep inside my kitchen cabinet. I'm always in the kitchen making love to bread that never rises, listening to sad songs on Spotify while crying over recipes that didn't work. When I hear a car pull up, I get antsy- press play on my boogaloo playlist- run hard into the other room where the guns are kept. Grenade fever, FBI. Songs to die to. I wonder, do others love music the same way I do? When I hear choir girls sing, I stop everything I'm doing and look up! At the light bulb I forgot to change last week.

When I was sixteen working a shit job at 7-11, a kid came in         twice my size and blew pot smoke in my face. I hadn't smoked weed yet, so I didn't know this was a message from my future telling me to write things down for when I forget.         The kid grabbed a 24pk of Coors Light under each arm and ran full speed out the door, hopped into a hatchback and sped away like a demon in the night. Ten seconds later.. the terrible noise of two cars crashing, becoming one. I'll never forget the sight and sound beer makes while hissing and pissing and spinning wildly around two death piles of twisted steel.

How many demands does love make after it finds you? A kiss, early morning- before sun weaves its way through trees. Fingers within reach- eager to braid the hand it held all night. Eyes that polish smiles reflecting off cornea. These are the ways love is perfect, before the first coffee is poured.

Poppy coffin strategy- from the fields of Afghanistan to the streets of America. Fallen troops flying home from war in the belly of a metal beast. Flag draped patriotic. Silent soldiers, packed in caskets- filled to the lid with papaveroideae. Deep sleep dream of future opium wars beneath bridges, behind playgrounds at school, in the homes and the heart of the American dream. Poppy coffin strategy- billion dollar scheme. A side-hustle logic for war.

I'm trying to focus on fake space and round lies force fed from the crib. Heliocentric nonsense orbiting a turning page. Spherical disguise.. harmonious worlds glued to a demonic agenda. I'm not saying the earth is flat, but I'm quite sure it isn't pear-shaped or whatever other bullshit the TV scientists fist-fuck me to believe. I grew up with an astronomy brain - -w i d e - o p e n- - space aliens flying circles around my curious heart. And now the cynical slant of my poetical pen leaves room for question marks at the end of earth shape interpretation.

I write poetry while singing songs for people who write postcards for the dead. Maybe this is confusing. I write poetry while masturbating for those who lost their nerve during the first Covid War. Maybe this is confusing. I write obituaries for the enemies who tried caging me for not engaging in the insanity of the cult you got sucked into. Maybe this is confusing. I write as though life depends on a full-swivel observation of society hung at half-mast. Degenerate wretches, basket case. Political imbeciles whipping themselves into frenzy. Maybe this is confusing. I write poetry because it's the only buffer between you & me, and this blank sheet of fresh pressed paper.

Indoor cat: lazy electric warrior- unplugged impurrfection. Outdoor cat: wired for amphetamine attention. The difference between them feels like a million years of evolution, scientists say. But neither know how to draw calligraphy or join groups on Telegram. They're basically pointless, but bring me joy.. inside & out.

I am a tree- a thick oak, maybe a weeping willow. Sometimes I droop; I try to remain strong. My roots are entangled in the same soil you were sourced from. We both GROW and bend toward sunlight. One of us pierces the firmament, while the other twists aimlessly over seven sands, trying to find a home. I am a seed- only halfway planted. The tree in me begs for more water, knowing none will come when I thirst for it most.

I'll be with Banjo before America twists the wrists of its sophists. I'll be long gone when the pedo-pawns gain in popularity, and the jazz trans syphon soy from every boy on the block. This world is no longer my world. I have one life left to live in this trauma-based society of ping pong politics and cultural decay. Cracker Jack smoking crack with Captain K, that's what they'll call me, as I write poetry about the garbage information war taking place on the glowing screen. Digital Gaslight Unperson. S21 Smash List greatest hits- dead bodies tortured by teenagers who never learned how to love. Pol Pot communism pumped by American DJ's spinning sweet sound as the party dies down all around us.

The sound of trees- or maybe, keystrokes in action as a mad storm kicks up the only thing left- s c a t t e r e d m e s s on the ground. This poem is rotting. The dead already know how much it hurts to be left behind. This poem is a ghost. Each kiss, a separate hook to hang. I can say the right thing and turn this page into perfect paper.. I can't afford to publish worthless passion. Strange faces, beaten oblivion-- squared by the frame of warm black light. The sound of trees- or maybe, hands clapping where my wounded muse remains.

I watch as America slides quickly into quicksand. I write about it, hoping some might fight- or at least wake up, but instead I'm greeted by goblins stealing my steam. Leftist weirdos posing as friends. Humans incapable of intellect or the ability to see their side for what it is. So now, I gaze as America descends into black toast territory burnt beyond ingestion. And I'm still stuck stiffly in the middle, writing about the Frankfurt School of Marxist invasion, while you shake your fist like the communist cyst you've become.

Maybe one day in the far far far future, I'll have my introduction written by someone famous. Pablo reincarnate. Bukowski shitting blood. Plath passing gas while Stanford blows his brains out in another room. Maybe one day I'll be on a bookshelf in a black bouquet of gay pride tuck & hide, while Ortega cums to set the mood. These are my people- the ones I want to die with. Tink-blink, chain of eyes overlooking new blood moon. Maybe one day, daylight will spring punctuation, and my leftoverness will cause people to mass Molotov our Ribbentrop pact. Or maybe, I'll leave this earth without barely scratching the surface, and my poetry will unload like a whisper, uttered at the burial of another restless night.

Poems, I believe, are the arms of the anemone. Emotional capture, no escape. A tangled mess of constriction. My favorite poets drown me each time I read them. Umbilical coral reefs of shivering seaweed. I look forward to holding my breath as I dive deeper into the underwater cold current carousel of your limerick existence.

Mother, I tell people you're dead INSTEAD of telling them the truth. Because the truth is embarrassing and it makes me feel like a soft-shell turtle, vulnerable to hard hits when people ask why dad is living all alone. "75 year old widow" I reply. I'm greeted with soothing sighs and the shaking of sad heads. Sometimes a shoulder hug. I haven't been pity-fucked yet, but maybe dad has. I grin at the thought of him sitting blind at Red Lobster netting snatch and a basket of cheddar biscuits, while I stay home writing poetry about how disgusted God is over your decision to give up.. the holy ghost. Mother, I hope He's merciful. Neighbor Ed said I need to forgive you, and he's right. The hinge swings hard in both directions, and I will eventually learn how to accept the echo of your exodus. But for now, this poem is my mountain for you to climb.

Flat. Unremarkable. Ring stained         w/ frayed edge. Tab marked: water/sewer as if the contents within were to be flushed and forgotten. How explicitly precise. Clippings of excrement meant to make me feel eight years old again. Boyish butthole bleeding. Trembling hands reaching for full moon. I still stare at stars in the night sky, hoping they are pin prick       gateways to a new existence. I still pray to God asking forgiveness       for future crimes I might commit. Demon leech. Vernal shadow perished between the flaps of       yellow             folder                   monster. Water/Sewer Cum/Stain Soaking wound in pajama. One day, maybe the bad luck beauty mark that haunts me will become a garden in a girl's dress blowing soft kisses. More likely, death will take me before I see it.

Trying to write a poem with a smile on my face. Emoji-jacked heart attack -  -  -  good God it's getting hot in the window my cat is sleeping in. Paper and pen, write something again. I push it.. I push it real good. What if I fall in love tomorrow? What if I start to mimic the poets who died without ever reaching a final resting place? Trying to write a poem while listening to Lana Del Rey singing about the next best American record. Her voice moves like California palm trees- Goddamn, man my poetry feels stuffed inside the cushiony feeling her voice makes. My cat just jumped to a cooler climate, and now I'm writing a poem about how she left me for something - - - good, God what have I done to become this thing you love to read? People still click on me.

Hey, they made a country song about me! Not quite. You heard spoof lyrics of a song about a girl named, Lucille. *Sigh* Well I like the version that played near the ditch where I lay after rolling from the road yesterday. I'm starting to stink, how long do you think I'll be stuck here? Hard to say. I've seen some of you go unnoticed for months, maybe years. *Gasp* Please tell my mama I miss her, then tell my sister the rim I broke up with was a terrible kisser! Lol, okay.

I used to hold onto the thing you wanted most. That deliciously bad for you double stacked sandwich with two meat patties and a triple layer bun for fun. Lettuce alone, freak! I know you'd choose me if you were deserted on a thousand island, dressing for many sun stranded days. I used to keep it together. From assembly line to brown paper bag, I was there for you keeping your Big Mac safe, but then lunch came and you went crazy- crumpled me up and tossed me right out the window so you could be alone with him. I get it. I realize now, I was a thin layer of nuisance between you and true love, and now I'm crying while lying on the ground with no one to hear me.

I still remember the joy of being picked and purchased, being removed from the shelf where the rest of them remained. That look on their faces as your hand reached in and chose me. Me!!! Of all the drones, I was set free! I still remember the day you pulled me from my box and removed the plastic wrap and tape from all my pieces. It was a quick assembly, and I was impressed by how adept you were at getting me in the air. I was delighted to be controlled by you, but then... I remember the first time you hung a grenade from my belly, and flew me over the warzone of Ukraine, targeting terrified soldiers who were curled in trenches like trapped cattle. I remember the quick whistle it made as the grenade dropped to earth, obliterating legs and limbs. I still remember.

I help achieve great heights, explore out of reach places, and facilitate the ability for you to look down on others from a towering vista, but now I've been abandoned, propped against the tool shed, left out in the harsh winter snow and sleeting rain. You promised you'd use me to decorate the rim of your roof with colorful lights and Christmas accessories, but I've been sitting here bending and blistering in the freezing temps, waiting for you to overcome your sorrow of spending another holiday alone.

I need a knife to clean the scuzz beneath my nails-  I use them to claw at the gross untruths I see everyday- rainbow flags in kindergarten classrooms and hallways in DC football fags wearing 200 dollar jerseys at the game during primary election day they complain about Biden and his cackling black hellcat while voting hard R down ballot without a second thought to the political filth they keep in office. glitch McConnell punch drunk Pelosi and every other cunt-fuck trigger prick politician ya'll keep voting for.. fingernail scuzz builds up thick I went to new york city last week to meet a girl about a thing, and was hoping to hear good subway music open guitar cases filled with money but instead I got dick-fiddled by a trani begging to blow me for fentanyl or a dime bag of crank welcome to the new america fucking scumbag shit-show shiny beacon on the hill freedom to fascism- trading trust for the rust of the iron fist this is how empires collapse- wearing adult diapers beneath a f

When I dream of you, I hold you how I want to be held, and offer love many times more than I have to give. When I hear a cricket chirp two fields away- it sounds as lonely as I am waiting for something to comfort it while singing in the cool light of a glowing moon. When I write poetry some say it is from the heart, but I say it is from a place not yet discovered because, my love... I'm still waiting to know you.

tonight might loosen the nuts holding together steel thoughts of full grown men. giants of the boardwalk, pillars of the community. sailors without ships exploring coastal desires. pirates of an insipient love. this is what I'll tell them as they're drowning beneath seafoam, looking for lost treasure... you go guys! keep it up! you're almost there! and as their bodies wash ashore, I will make love to them with fish hook and spear, and toss their progeny back into the riptide in which they were born.

wallow-  like a fat pig                 at the supermarket I realize today could be the day,                 the jumping off point recorded at train stations and other busy places. a quick misstep into the rails-                   not paying attention,                 or maybe paying too much. timed perfectly- swan dive disco head pop gets people up & moving, feeling alive for the first time since '95 train slows full stop people get off-          gasping pointing cellphones at where pig self-slaughtered.

Brilliant butterfly unique pattern stenciling my brain! I see you flutter- I want to be where you are in the morning, still cold with folded wings, waiting for the sun.

when you finally find me, you'll question my conduct and maybe hate what i've become, but let me remind you of all the actors and actresses who taste like a million dollars for simply being liars on your tv screen. judge me, if you must, but remember idgaf and even if i did, my poetry would still be a bullet bouncing around inside your humdrum head.