PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I guess it’s beer for breakfast again... Yes, as a generation obsessed with alcohol, cupid’s flute beckons me to consume booze, it’s true... Shoot, what would you do?

The dormitory reeks of stale cigarettes and wet sex from the previous night. Sweaty G-strings and used condoms etc strewn through the room. Stunned, I barrel-roll out of bed. My blanket wraps tightly around me, and I thump against the floor. It takes a minute to wriggle free from this mummy. God it smells like shit. I walk across the room in soft, luxurious little slippers and socks kicking empty scattered aluminum crushed cans and cum-stained clothes off my path, thinking it'll end up being my job to clean all this, and open the window. I treat myself to a few deep breaths of crisp Colorado morning air. I rub my eyes while they adjust to the stark sudden sunshine, and stretch. The clocktower in the courtyard chimes noontime, vibrating through me. I am finally alive. When I turn around, my friend says, ‘Blurblelurblelurble’ with that sorry shit-eating grin of his, like if a Picasso portrait could talk. I nod my head yes, whether he meant it or not, and commence to get ready for the long day ahead.

Once I rinse off and get dressed, donning my fringy winter coat monocle and top-hat, I skip into the kitchen quickly and throw some butter in a pan. Thought I’d whip up an omelet for us two dudes to split real quick. While the butter melted I went for a double shot of whiskey which leveled me out quite nicely and also put a coffee pot on. Then I thought how I should spike the coffee too. After that I’ll surely be fortified for all my boring classes; easier to tolerate that way. There wasn't much in the fridge to speak of, thus a simple little thing is this omelet, consisting merely of eggs and cheese, but I pride myself on the dish regardless, having mastered the craft so perfectly, like head chef at a french buffet.

I gently flip the delicate, delicious omelet like magic then sprinkle generously with yellow cheddar, cover with lid to sizzle a minute, then when the cheese is good and gooey, slice down the center using spatula to scoop each piece like plop onto porcelain plates, garnish with salt, pepper... As I said, I'm a professional.

‘BREAKFAST IS READY, BITCH!!’ I scream across the small studio space to Kash top of my lungs no cap. Startled on the cozy sofa, still in the process of waking up, he freaks out with what seems a mini seizure, looks up like a dumb fucking puppy bitch, and I tip my top hat off to him, bowing slightly, as one might do silent movie wise.

He approaches the island table, tail tucked under, hungover and hungry. ‘I have a headache’ he says bluntly. ‘Maybe migraine.’ Then starts just fucking whining like a wonky kindergarten firetruck siren toy, or something of the sort. ‘Owwwww, dude. Owww my heaaad oh my God it huuurtsss!!’

‘Hush up and eat, then. Here.’ I swung the plates round and spun one in front of him like a DJ there upon the island. He cut a bite using the flat edge of his fork and forked at it a bit with a somewhat disgusted grimace on his face grimacing. I held my plate up still standing and scarfed it down. He only took his first bite when I was completely finished. I put my plate in the sink, twinkling.

‘Damn, that's not bad actually’ Kash said and then started taking a steadier pace. I watched and waited to take the empty plate away and into the sink.

‘What service!’ he said with modest sarcasm, sucking fingers.

‘You're welcome. Anyhoo, got to get going. I’m already very late. Try to tidy the place up a little, why don't ya, seeing as you're probably gonna take the day off, lazy ass.’

‘Like fuck.’

I walked out and shut the door.

*

Stumbled upon a Ouija Board in one of the dumpsters downtown. I had to take a mad shit and even the gas-stations these days won’t let me in unless I buy something- due to my nasty-bad reputation, I guess. Figured since I was there, I might as well do a bit of digging. I fancy it must’ve summoned me, wrapped there in tattered cloth and tied with ropey twine packed also with a plastic bag full of deep crimson blood, still cool to the touch from someone’s refrigerator. Happy, I slap the bag, twist off the cap and suck it down in a fetish of tongue-flicks. Definitely needed this, been getting way to weak for these here streets of nocturne.

*

I sat staring... straight and steadfast fast

Washa of a special fishing district I could

but happen to sniff your strong floral surge

the tidings we share, just a softly rocking

splashing of silky quivers... We twine rope…

Seagulls spawn above… Insects... G’night...

It is impossible to say all the right things!

this foolish fucking act, fragment of small

chocolate, in any way shape or form, ah!

What do you worship? Mad Ahab Jack-O

Lantern, on this airy occasion and thusly

I, swan-like do calmly commit to study-

as if only the Fairy Faithfuls shall appear

and swooningly call upon the Cosmos...

ay that

I suppose it’s official… I am a ghost…

No longer to be glyphs in centuries…

Ever Chosen Once, to be stuck up in

spatial semesters of a few college

certificates, skipper upon stagefloor.

*

I wake up every morning basically punching my pillow… No big surprise either, as we the people all scream together, coupling the monstrous dissonance with negative privilege we rip ourselves from blood-soaked sheets to greet cracked mirrors eagerly with twists of judgement and ridicule, preying unconsciously upon our own frenzied fears and phantoms and things unseen whilst we flop forth with fin-flips and tired tricks, or like circus lions floundering in shark-infested waters, a blasphemous static of black noise and swirling chomps…

The foamy swath of saltwater tides tickles our fancy, pubic mustache scruff with licks of strange vapor, so that the poisonous foam and curdled mustard-colored clouds appear to be but a beckoning towards more ancient melancholy mermaids time forgot; so we hunker down and dose up our own belching teenage bellies to strip the stricken flesh of identity for aliens intrigued and investigating this flirtatious niche with keen curiosity for psychedelics, like a jumbled up, vague taste for the salamander state slash wavelength with which our brains are much better off in a passing trashcan wailing intoxicated singsong just a-wobbling along like a bunch of drunken juggernauts and finally reaching a peak and floating away, some might say, plucked or abducted or something inconceivably more spectacularly drifting away from this big barnacle-ridden bubble-burp earth planet (poof!) soaring starward at last…

*

Now there was a man, if ever there was one… Not some slobbering alcoholic, like we all seen and even took upon ourselves, reckon, in our own day… Mischievous pandering panhandling patterns of tan tricking hands wicked and watching constantly for nothing in the night… Tíco the one giving little gifts of pristine philosophical wisdom, which could generate decades of contentment, erect upon his serpentine silver staff; whole worlds destined towards darkly lit dripping sewer systems disgorged like eerie parasitic plaster of evil eyeballs in the span of but a few seconds, if you but bend yer ears to hear a bit… Yes, to listen to him was magic… Yes, brothers, now there was a man…

*

2030 Good fryday. The paranoia sets in. You text me too much, I’m going mad. No, I’m a topsyturnsylad! Come Saturday: Nothing but all up in yo Grill! And though I’m 100% trippin’ (Stupid Shoelaces) No N word still: dive deeper sea dark: I promise you’ll never leave my prayers, never forsake me. Anyway. 2045 I’m slightly sleepy: singing ‘Baby don't worry! About a thing!’ (Bob Marley) on the back of the bus... but you, My Madonna Star, groove through Wraith Stadium as the birds all shriek monstrously in the night, sqwuacking Cthullu! Cthullu! toss us your fishfood! upon flamingo sticks for boney knees or stilted circus flippers? Good night. Good night. Couch now. Court Orders Penance for the Persec: DO NOT RESPOND!!! OUR PLANET IS POISONOUS TURTLE THING!!! Godzilla on a cosmic scale: Ironic also: Who’s to blame? FUCK, I assure you, MY ass IS BLACK, OK? Popping out for a Puff (Poof!) Gone.

So it begins: tired cosmic giants blink star eyes at night: celestial orbs or black pearls for planets? Oh, you have no clue… Lava shots imbibed from volcanic geysers: the witness watches keen: she lets her fuzzy slippers fall down from feathered feet: the watchers are still watching: anxiety asylum: see God in a nutshell.

*

Queenie rocked in the rocking chair way too hard, as though it were a playground swing. No big surprise the thing finally broke one fateful day in turn breaking also a couple of her own bones. Apparantly a rotten old rocking chair, squatatop by elven elders equals eeek! my spleeen! No big surprise either, as this titwit deep devourer of neighborly Christians, candles in dim gloom darkness lit. My bones are not afraid. As long as you practice in peace, harmony: Jesus be with you.

tap the tap

slap that bag

sack a stripper

raise that flag

tackle quarterbacks

marble wallowstone

I wanna go home

Meek menstruation. Even weaker words. I eat cheddar cheese curds. Gallop away, Giddy up, freedom at last, finally free; shatter your fence into splinters. She flames the page, torched supernova triumph. Nothing but fake stars. Like blowing out a birthday cake, or squishing a cockroach, whose boots be deathcore drumbeat for hopscotch focus group. Girlscout Cookies. Magnum condoms. No rosy sherry for YOU tonight darling. Adam and Eve in their garden. Adam, Eve, Eden. O mylove mylovelylove: we wield wings of hummingbird: I lost the context: Damn, again seriously?

Next. ‘Ten times the usual amount, tender!’ the boy ordered from across the marble bar top. Uniformed cop, teensyweensy tights, you could see her thong. ‘Usually I don’t serve minors’ the tender said. ‘Well get me 10 times that anyway!’ the teen retorted eagerly, flit flirting with mirth: Joker grins beneath his brim. The bartender gave him the tenny beverages, one after another, dumbfounded, outplayed. The boy smiled and gave thanks.

A plethora of powers. It sucks to pick just one to pixie. So don’t fuck me but fuck me up: pupunch my gluttonous gut. Ja, ma babig bazooka, mwa! by a shamrock casting of your wizard widget, Piglet. Perfect, Janay. That dooby like some scooby snacks: dicpic? I’m such a silly slut! Honey I shrunk the kids! Talking nonstop tiktok; whose bulging behemoth bellies only volcanic geysers may sate, and sate: stop.

My cat and I shared a strange glance glinced a peculiar glimpse, grimacing into the future, far beyond the clouds: basic baby song: tsss the cymbals fizz. God’s got dadadiamonds. Why do you guys all insist on wasting your time with this ridiculously ambiguous drib? Better question, why do I? Hey Siri. Archetypes. Jester. Try laughing at broken glass; strappening soul, sheepskin…

*

Voice Recorder: Secret Signals. A house cat, in its natural habitat, scuttles away swiftly, and around a dark corner. The spleen? The spleen gently shudders, fluttering softly up its spine like a lost butterfly... It feels as though I just come out of a cocoon or something, or like I’m reinventing myself recently… Black Sapphire is in September! Oh, we’ve been so lost in this dream, Pursia Kundalini, haven’t we? I’m dying over here: college must be the #1 contagious, toxic compromises of our time: resentment breeds resentment; however I do find it kind of a funny flurry to mind and flex. Eddington, realer than real, bored out of my mind at same time, straitjacket on a grand political scale, enduring euthanasia, macrocosmic, metaphorical juxtaposition on the nature of the modern age, lots of dialogue, honestly convoluted. I’m in a bit of a trance right now, so please be sure to leave me be. I want you in my temple; I’m just too tight.

*

God is kind of cosmic ironic. The Lonely Train Conductor: ‘Everybody, abandon ship, NOW!!!’ Kings and Queens, tricked into timidity. Self-image is big think; invasion of the neuro-link. Alchemize. Alkalize?

The cuffs of my tuxedo suffice this elegant event or occasion of her current cultural celebration, in due significance, walking about with a silver platter of appetizers, your little butler bitch… ‘Oh, boy! What fun we choose to adorn our walls with, frivolous… Say, baby, shall we jump up dancing, then? Hey, baby, what do you say?’ Ego Show. I can see how all this black magic stuff could turn out potentially percussive catastrophic… So, pardon my pride, Father Time…

They view the world, vicariously, from their ornately draped station wagon, in blue neon vision. A feather descends, tricking their vision, tickling eachother’s noses with it for fun, testing a medley of drugs voluntarily, with whispered signatures, becoming the guinea pigs they always wanted to be, for themselves and the sake of maintaining their sacred marital space, meeting of souls. Hey Siri, definition of clone? Certainly not robotic. Nothing I want really, shot through the cosmos like an astronaut. Until the cops show up. Explosion of dust when she self-destructs.

Crazy bastard cat: trying to measure time is like trying to solve God; and some of you agnostics may say impossible, skipping the question and clamor it causes becoming so insanely layered one can’t help but submit one’s own soul to nihilistic disbelief or otherwise plain denial; whose next step ultimately is to become a stoic over it. All the same shit.

‘I just wanna eat corn and go to sleep’ the cowboy chants, in the echoes of his skull. ‘Tull done fixed this here carriage up nicely though, I do confess. A great honor indeed, to trailer-park in the proximity of this here hooded cove. Mighty seafaring tide. Arches over the horizon. Just another couple a pups, huh.’

Wolves howl into the moon. It feels like death is knocking at my doorstep. Sitting on the porch now. ‘Sorry, my hollow cowboys. Shall we go scorch a flame then? And indeed I have doubtless gone insane; what words tickle the tongue, for a fourteenth fountain folly flows? A timid mountain of cinders there, portrayed upon the topless horizon yonder?’ And so, he will till the land… ‘I'm quite parched, actually, thanks for asking...’ Queenie responded bitterly to my discourse, sniffing the corn-dry field not unlike a pig and shit-stomping about her copper-caged circus corral. ‘Thusly dearest, my nectarine treats! Take a look and see what mighty creatures we hold on display this very, very elegant evening indeed!’

‘Oh no, what in God's Holy Hell could you possibly want from me?’

A squirrel squeaks and scurries nimbly between the leaves of the trees. Is he talking to me? The moon still glows, growing increasingly more radiant by the time the tide echoes from farther away in the recesses of our frigid skeletons lassoed up in frozen fright. Pigs for dinner, when winter hits. Dogs bark in the distance. Bells dance round the necks of sheep, whose clanging melodies raise- thanks to the tractors- lush grassblades, multicolored flowers; heavenly hush of ethereal dream, broken rhythm and steady progress. God, the frolicking faces. The Shepard files us a solemn gaze from underneath the shade of his hooded cloak. Queenie takes it upon herself to create a dust cloud with fast, feathered feet, not cloppers for hooves, which covers her form completely. When the dust finally settles, she's nowhere to be seen! sad, she must’ve flown away, in the blink of an eye, like some lovely rowdy Phoenix, plummeting spiraling into another dimension!

I have never felt so settled in before. This little barn called Cow House has proved a serendipitous fancy for me, particularly during this recent strange season. The tire swing makes for a great play thing. Stretching my muscles and sensing the surplus of nature. Suddenly the wind picks up, and I can feel it shudder my spine and sweep my hair, to and fro, and see secrets between the invisible wisps of wind; their tendrils reaching out from the void to clutch. Having attained a certain equilibrium, we remain undisturbed. Having attained a firm grasp, they give up.