Category: poem

Smell the Chicken Shit.

Warm & sunny day, chickens are at play.
Movements on the ground
when you bother to look around:
bugs & grassy veins.
Wind plucks the chords.
Sticky candy between my teeth
as I admire sweetly.
Holistic chickens shit prestigiously,
attracts flies & my jealousy.
Having a yard is great
until you have fat birds.
Is it big enough or are they bored? 
Did they swallow up the resident lizard?
Yes, it did. I saw it with its
neck broken dangling in a beak
before being swallowed whole
so the other chicken wouldn't get at it.
And it fights the other birds,
and squirrels, insects good and bad.
Still, I pet them every chance I get.

QLR.

Oh, hey! Ho! Library. Heh, heh.
Let me tell you, little quarantinites,
There's a place shrouded in mystery.
It's called a library &
it's where the books live,
and videos, magazines.
Yo! But it's closed
because of quarantine,
but they give you a number
to dial while you sit.
Then they ask your library card
so you better brought it & such.
Then you open your trunk
until the books are safe & sound.
So, thank you, librarians
for keeping the books from harm.

Domesticated Cock.

Domesticated cock that is
a warm penis. Old faithful
that erupts like a pocket clock.
Swing around with pee.
It's harmless, just stinky.
In the open air free as can be,
cradled with cotton & fleece.
Occasionally it would sing in glee,
getting wet in a cave so sweet.
"Hello, I have information
that you will want indeed.
If you miss this opportunity,
you will die horribly!"
"Oh, warm penis, won't you
be kind & leave me alone,
stop wrecking havoc?"
The domesticated cock is
not pleased. It bobs its 
head like a penis not wanted.

Nul.

There's the dark nights
with no land in sight,
drifting in the shifting fog
& the reflections on the ink black.

Sleep's someone else's dream
& I'm having the nightmare leftovers.
They look familiar.
I say, "Hi."

Perfecting the personal recipe
for self-reproach, doubt &
"Oh, what was I thinking?"
"Was I really there? Am I even here?"

I think I will go on, regardless.

If.

If I can love you,
I will murder for you the sun & the moon.
If I can ever be so close,
I will look into your eyes & spit at them.
If I have one belief,
I will twist it into a cup for your tears.
If I can forge anything,
surely the spender will drive you mad.
If I can sing for you
the song that penetrates & suffocates.
If I can make it right,
no one can save you & nobody would care.
If I can do all of these,
would you worship me just as I feared?

Lush.

The night's air's fragrant
like a Lush bath-bomb
that I'm addicted to
and never runs out
but needed more
so I splurged & ordered
online then picked up
at the store cause shipping's
not free and there're people
walking on the streets
good location shopping district
people needs space to
feel safe & shopping is
the common trait brings all
people out even during
pandemic I'm walking
plague & yet I want
the smell of blooming flowers then
I cut them up & put into
jars like reddit says
then I got depressed again
but I never run out of lush.

Last poem blaming the mother.

When I smiled at her to show some affection,
she asked, "how come you have more wrinkles than me?"
Always with the criticism, none of the loving.
You may think it's implied, but I'm waiting
waiting & waiting. It's not enough, Mom,
it's too late, and will never be enough.
But your words are wise, cutting but wise,
maybe that's why I'm so divided?
You afforded no love cause you received none.
A child is just a tool, a competitor,
a variable that has to be evaluated.
The den is lined with hidden barbs.
The rule shifts with no logic only chaos.
I can see now how I peeled away my flesh.
You did all you can, so your counsel I will cherish.
But I shall always be on guard.