Had too many glance and click away.
I thought you were here to find out:
my life story;
or why I write poetry;
or who is this person? ?
for anger or delight.
But those things, like tabloids and
stale chips for the unworked brain.
Dear, I do not want to bore
but poems I do not whore.
So read, read, read some more.
But do not ... more »
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Doyen Lingua Poems
The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace Even more he despised the humans below causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.
A Poem Is
emotion condensed into a paste smothered onto buttered toast giving life a taste
The pencil just sat there. Not being chewed, or sharpened. Not on the verge of a great novel. Unused. Unnecessary.
On the Back of a Napkin
I found a little poem crying on the floor whose dark-chocolate eyes were filled with tears whose center was cleanly torn
Beaten ‘round its river home, the icy current on its bone. Resting shade of passing icthus, does nothing for its deepest wishes.
Andy Warhol x30
Away and Apart
Sitting down, face to face there is no bandaid, there is no brace. I am 1,800 miles from home, staring at you through a screen. Missing you with an aching pain.
God, My Lover
You are a mystery to me, God my lover, the poet with velvet hands and a heart like a war-drum.
Love unrequited, please throw me away. ‘Cause I'll never leave you, and I cannot stay.
Fly on wall...
Thought peculiar that brother's smear (which smelled like him but did not move,
At some point, Siddhartha ate pork, Though he thought it was rice Because it was.
ATTENTION DUTIFUL READER: You are invited, o those so devoted, to join the ranks of my friends. To drink with me, the immortals on pages.
Wishes of an Infant
My reflection doesn’t look like me, he’s standing on his head. His mouth is where his eyes should be his eyes are somewhere else instead.
The crystal mountain The white tombstone The surfing hills
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face
and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace
Even more he despised the humans below
causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.
The ‘trusses beneath him, rose from the ground.
His duty to hold back the demon hound.
The bell tol’d them all the time
as another man died right on nine.
And no one noticed the stony, grey smirk
of the bat winged pillar on the corner of Kirk.