PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I’m changing my mind about what I would say just then.

It doesn’t work that way, and let me enlighten you,

You just can’t look at your wrist with confidence

Every time you want to know time it is.

The wombats would come out and have you shot.

Don’t forget to follow the orders, now.



You want to buy that bed, don’t you?

What will you put in it when the rolling hills

Have stopped to look behind them

At a time long-forgotten,

But, nonetheless, amazingly silent?



When you want something, don’t worry about it –

In time, you’ll soon realize you’ve lost the desire.

What do you do when that happens?

I’d say, write more and more.

Write so much that you’re actually building buildings.



This is not a manual of self-servitude.

It’s not a manual for better living,

Or bourgeois attitudes, ignorant institutionalizations –

Nobody needs that at a time of national catastrophe.



The voice comes from behind you when you look in a mirror.

It’s coming to get you, I’m certain of this.

It’s hard to get away or calm down

When you crawl back in through the window

And a hand grabs tenaciously at your ankle.

It is definitely human, but what is wrong?

They’re very determined to make sure it’s safe

For them to do whatever it is they will with that huge candle.

If you didn’t like the looks of it, why were you there?



The red light will reveal which flesh will rip easier.

Don’t ask me why, I have nothing to do with that.

Ask the manager of the vat of boiling seawater.



The accident does not wonder infinitely with conclusions unknown.

The naked eye and ear will go on forever once I die.

Until the needle is poked into the sky and blood comes out,

I will continue to deny the existence of something real.

You can’t sell me your code for killing – it’s madness.



If your ruler thinks things you don’t like,

You have him taken care of in the woods.



With an executioner’s hand, you knock on the door –

The sound carries far, and another one is over already.

My time is desperate when I see the weaving of sequins.



Now I’m trying to be cute – why would a human be described

With a word like “cute”?

Show me an example of one – how about me?

Don’t you like my hyphens when they run rampant?

What does she have that I don’t?

That is a selfish thing to say, but what about me?

When can I have a turn for attention

From the people I adore immensely?



Whatever love is, I don’t know.

Sense is perceived when thinking of the process

Of examinitrition of colors that sparkle

And stick to me and my belongings.

Once a bother and annoying – now welcomed, even loved,

Just like the blue star reflected on the wall,

Where I run my slender fingers along the surface.



I like to be a pillow, so why not?

It seems like something, but maybe the parking lot lies,

Or maybe the video store doesn’t like David Bowie,

Or the one about the armpit tentacles that spread disease.

The sexuality is thick like goo.

What color is it?  Sometimes you’re wrong, so you don’t want to say.



Tonight it hit me unforgivingly, but I enjoyed it.

I just don’t know what you think when eyes

Stare up at you with a hopeful glance.

Make it so, that way we can carry on with no worries.



Endlessly, I want to say that I like the stolen items

Fortified from long exposure to fruit juices,

Hand-squeezed with a warm caress.

The night can get long, but the bike chain is versatile.



So don’t forget, when you’re out, do me a favor –

I notice when something is going on. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Something is going on.