Ode to My Poopy Poetry.

Please note:
All my poetry

(subsequent to the mass
that has been written
here, in this blog,
over the enduring years,

at least
until I find
a relatively
easy way
to move all
my former poetry)

has been relegated
to another blog,

Flush of the Mindpot,

in the quite-fuckin’-likely feeble

to compartmentalize,
and express
my messed-up head-space

in a more digestible
to you
as well as



Concealed Behind Naked.

Dismembered memory.
Patchwork reconstruction.
Frankenstein reverie.

Complex soul.

necessarily an unreliable,
kind of eyewitness

I am not
I am more
I am beyond


and yet faced
with quite
a challenge.

Can you dissociate,
or are you

oh so

deeply entranced
by the distorted

this low-resolution

this abstract
tribal mask?

is nothing, really. No worries.
So I say.
And yet, all the while, silently

fucking idiot,
can’t you see?
All this, all of it,

it’s really,
fucking killing

Spacetime & Alien Vibrations.

Age circa six.
Playing Space Invaders.
Blind to the significance.

Carried along by my river.
Dumb to its alien process.

Up above, all around,
the gears are turning,
moved by hands

and fingers slaves

to strings

pulled by puppeteers
from out there,
up in the sky.

they are here, unseen
and more than merely

If I knew
what I know,
what would I do?

Close and latch
the windows,
draw the blinds?

Lock and bolt
the door, go to bed

with a gun,
one eye open,
and only with the lights on?

No psychic
or material
is shield
enough. No armour.

No cocoon
of suffocient

One mind
can’t take this impact,

at least not
all at once,

and the resulting
don’t ripple

out to the lake’s edges
in a day. Pluck

a strand
and embrace patience
as you wait

for the whole web
to vibrate.

Of the Height of Hopes for Reason.

Rewrite history
in the minds of the tribe, cast
yourself in better light. In their minds,
reality yields

to their confidence
in your “alternative facts.” No matter
this embarrassment of riches,
this wealth of evidence
to the contrary.

This is post-truth.

This is where religion
meets politics
once again. Crying: are we just being


in our high hopes
that logic will prevail,
that reason will win

in the end?

Alien Triad.

Inside liquid
black eyes,

by the mirror

that is
your warped,
knotted mind:

your reflection infects
you as you are suspended,
as if in amber,

empty puppet,
initially immobilized:

a marionette,

hung up
by its strings

on the weak limb
of some old

tree as the wind
a ghostly

and the oak,
she dances like an erotic

to the invisible soundtrack
of static
plus psychological projection,

completing me.

Tension Descension.

Here I hang
in the balance between
polar extremes:

questions I can’t face
my soul to spill,
bring myself to ask;

answers you’re too greedy
and controlling
to provide.

So I burn away,
chase green smoke,
rise above the firmament.

Descend into the flask.

Pop another pill,
prescribed or otherwise.

Find an entry
or take matters
into my own hands.

So: find a way
to get off,
get back
on/at anything, so:

find a spiritually,
and physically satisfying
source of orgasms,


That said,
I’ll probably just

Bitter Seeds, Forbidden Fruits.

You’re wrong,
though. I can indeed help
it. Proof positive
as I refuse to succumb
to. Subliminal mantras

do not sway
me. Calculated tones,
and microexpressions:

vibes, subliminals,

they can play
with me, true:
I have found my low, false self

taken in by false advertisement
(quite an embarrassment),
but then again, even

if they were true,
if I were a relatively satisfied

customer, I win
in the end.


I conquer my hells.
So you can go
fuck yourself.

Explored your style
of path (ever so
thorough) to collect

and just

though my motive,
to be honest,
also involved a thirst
for the rush

(glow of soul,
bait of mind,
tease of flesh)

offered only
by the forbidden:

the more justified
the status,
the more desirous.

Unwitnessed Crumbling of an Unnaturally Orange Fruit.

No matter the truth,
it fails
to impact this damned ego.

Rolls off like rain,
no dent,
hairline scratch in evidence.

To truly bring him down,
you must get him where it hurts.
Drag his name through the mud,
deprive him of audience.

Watch the weak,
man as he finally whimpers.

Only means
of summoning response.

Ego only
broken when he’s all dried up
and there
is no one
left to watch.

Then and there,
he crumbles.

One Digit for Dead Worlds.

In the dark,
the desert stretched wide.
Eternity, so far as I knew.

Wandering, running,
stumbling toward mirages
and into awaiting graves

or greedy, homicidal arms,
empty but promising,

I’m not so naive anymore.

There are occasions I wish I were.
does not come without its benefits.

It’s popular for damn good reasons,
but all in all,
at what cost?

Innocence is ignorance
though that only
feels nice till the world falls

on your empty heads
and you collapse
and you’re all to blame…

All I ever lost and hoped to gain
remained hanging
in the balance of this question
I knew all too well
that I just must fucking answer:

far wiser now,

I extended a middle finger
and moved on.

Poverty’s Offerings.

Comes from a place,
an alien space,

of no emotion,
least, not as known,
and into a world
inundated by it,

in which I am
to it

(I am but a sponge,
a radio receiving all stations at once;
jet fuel without a container)

and all its vicious vibrations,
agonizingly low
and painfully-pleasantly
fucking high frequencies,

and in
either case, relentless

realize that. Please,
keep that in mind.


I am surfing naked
here. All I know is that you comfort
and excite me.

All I know is that you’re all
I’ll ever need
to keep going. To drown
in your eyes

again. To have you straddle
me, invite me to climb
on, enter after twisting
you ‘round,

holding you down
and plunging
into, driving

you to a place available
through our meat and wires
where there’s no one left
but you and I,

so nothing to truly
hold or let down,

or otherwise
or terrify.

Just soil.
A baseline
from which to grow

in winding roots,
and far above,