Friday, February 2, 2024

Moins Misérable Poèmétrie

Moins Misérable Poèmétrie     <---  mutilated French


Got to go to bed.
Maybe rest the head.
Try to sleep like the dead.
Dream in colors that aren’t red.

Stay There

everybody goes to hell
we're all going to hell
pack your bible and pack your beer
we're hightailin' it to hell 
and the devil will be there
Some people got no choice
others always have known
when we hit the flames, 
we’re all on our own

Say Goodbye

The year will never end.
Like every year previous,
it will linger upon our existence.
Following each of us.
Stalking us. Ensuring we break.
Harvesting our energies.
Harvesting what remains of our souls.
Eventually, each and every year
Will continue beyond us
Not recognizing we ever inhaled,
Exhaled, digested, or cried
Until we are no more
And the years still will never end

So, happy new year!

Moon Itch

I'm climbing upon the underside of the moon.

All spidery legs and itchy too.

I am a circus without a tent,

a gambler without a working pair of dice.

Whosoever itches themselves itches me too.

Phone Betrayal

I await a phone call.

The sky outside is gray.

I hear autos pass by on the street.

A set of brakes slightly squeals 

as though happy to slow down. 

I await the phone that never calls.

Tobacco Load

She’s got brown fingertips

And 3rd degree burns on her lips

She’s got ash tray breath

I’d kiss her more often but

I fear catching her death

She smokes like a chimney

putting the atom bomb to shame

But it’s not her fault

It’s nicotine to blame

sky purges itself

Grandma won’t open the door

Raindrops sting like darts


loud Seagulls cry out

Fish fry in oily sizzles

Coca-cola pops

Evening Blessed

It is dark outside

the sky has shut its eye

warming us gently

beneath its lid.

The Sound of Nature

This is the sound of nature

beating your soul to a pulp.

I apologize. I am mistaken.

This is the sound of humanity

beating your soul to a pulp.

Nature blithely lurks watching.

Whether in horror or agreement,

nature does nothing to indicate.

Nature makes no effort to prevent

your soul from becoming pulp.

Once done. When you are gone,

when you are just a stain of pulp,

Nature may have a taste, a gulp,

Or not

in a bar

in a bar,
just want to lift my glass, be left alone,
crawl inside the television set,
pull the screen up around my neck,
tuck myself in, and
be gone

[ Meanwhile, in another location entirely ]

I am your deity

said the pony to the snowman

it's time to get deliberate

and you are out of focus