A POEM RESURRECTED: from the lost book of Evangeline, chapter VI, verse IX

featured in the poetry forum December 28, 2015  :: 0 comments

I can say without ego this is my finest sword.
-Hattori Hanzo

After the last manic pixie dream girl with bad boy and daddy issues
is gone gone gone. And all that remains undulating in the toxic wake
of our banal debauchery is suicidal depression.
When all her glitter on my tee shirts
finally falls away, slowly fading with the sensual
musk of her little deaths on empty silk sheets,
until I alone lay within
the molten core of the meat house
of unsated desires. A humble public servant’s
announcement to all humanity, my confession if you will,
as I bleed out while you read on the inside
ensanguined lines slid over a soul faceless and eternal
and I and eye ironically live
in mental terror of lost time, mortal errors.

The slashed flesh heals, we wear our warrior’s self inflicted wounded
memories with all of the solemn pride of a holocaust survivor’s guilt.
The scarred soul festers and boils until it erupts in
random acts of senseless violence. Time
devoured wasting away trapped in a spiraling
repression confined to wither in this room
as days become weeks become months become years
six years sitting sedated on synthetic sorrows.
I stopped writing as I lay plans within plans… dying.

Is a poem fermented in penis envy, canonical insecurities
and the inept pontifications of a boozed up philistine
spewing impotent rage. Chalk it up to the game.
Face the new paradigm, the long pigs on the soft parade
feast well on sloppy second comeuppance.
Short changed, dangling deftly as a participle
in the Muses breezeway, a delicate reign falling
before it can rise to one on her knees
for the nectar of Eros drought.
A dry well rusted pipes busted the succubus pumps
ashes, ashes, dust, dust.

No controlled hallelujah from Calliopes lips
or primal sway of her hips. This busted oar dangles limp,
hobbled Baracus drunkenly weeps, foundered upon the rocky shore.
The dip a useless tool moves neither maidens head
habitually failing to bottle the ship once more nor
to rise even to the occasional poem.
Morpheus whispers,
“Is karma gonna hafta slap a bitch?”
“Take the blue pill”.

Is this a poem for all the people
“who are no longer diving but sinking.”
I do not want to write anymore.
I am afraid. But, I will
not allow this thing to infect me, invisibly
fueling subliminal anger to blind rages.
Secrecy is control.
Those who abuse use our fear
to shame us into a Stockholm syndrome silence,
powerless we cover their sin with our muted amnesia
no escape cowering beneath their greater power,
usually for life.

But, this is not a poem these are just the desperate words
of a bard trying to stay alive in a deaf, mute and blind
to human suffering world drowning in a sychophant
sea, polluted with primordial sorrow a man-made madness
satellite HD beamed into our flat screen skulls.
I scream, you scream, liked, pinned, shared, memed.
Everyday we witness another epic little atrocity. Forgotten.
What if this is a poem? Who gives a pity’s fuck?

Eventually, we begin the impossible
transformation of becoming, human, being.
Together we breached the ancient walls within
the prison of the mind, abandoned
our necro-nihilistic despair and unburdened,
without the gaslight beast on our backs,
freedom, freedom is just a line away.

Read poems with stranger friends and lovers.
Wherever the people gather to share good poetry
I am with you.
I am with you in wonderland.
I am with you in neverland.
I am with you in Disneyland.
I am with you in Zombieland.
I am with you in Armageddon!
I am with you. I am with you. I am with you.
I am with you
forever. I am

with you.

editors note:

Is this a poem? I can’t say, but someone help me find the top o’ my head! – mh clay

Vagina Monologue Blues In E Flat Live From The G Spot

featured in the poetry forum January 24, 2015  :: 0 comments

My inner goddess is posting duck face selfies on Facebook.

My inner goddess is Crip walking to Oingo Bongo ‘Grey Matters’ on YouTube.

My inner goddess is improvising confessional poems of urbane Ennui mid coitus.

My inner goddess talks before, during and after intercourse.

My inner goddess never read any of the books or watched the movies.

My inner goddess only read the fan fiction that inspired 50 shades.

My inner goddess is just messing with your head

because that’s what goddesses do.

My inner goddess loves to play rock, paper, scissors.

My inner goddess always scissors.

My inner goddess is part Indian.

My inner goddess be making it rain up in here.

My inner goddess can’t dance.

My inner goddess drives a stick.

My inner goddesses’ neighbor is an asshole.

My inner goddess is getting a new piercing.

My inner goddess has a stigmata.

My inner goddess has a Mohawk.

My inner goddess is thinking about dreads.

My inner goddess puffs on a cigar.

My inner goddess blows smoke rings in your face.

My inner goddess is a bad mutha’ fu…

Shut yo’ mouth!

But, I’m just talking about my inner goddess?!

My inner goddess rules!

…with an iron fist.

editors note:

Best bow down to this bitch, keep her in; if she ever comes out, we’re f**ked. – mh

Looking Forward

July 25, 2010  :: 0 comments

Nathan and Mona both were looking forward to Aaron’s arrival. Besides the fact that they both enjoyed his company, his presence kept them from fighting. Things were becoming difficult between them since Mona had stopped having sex with Nathan around the time she started pursuing Trevor. Aaron was coming over to watch movies with them. It had evolved into a …

Eat It Now, Taste It Later
Another ludicrous confessional poem regarding the connoisseur’s high class pussy and imported beers.

February 13, 2010  :: 0 comments

I see you. And before you’ve ever noticed me eyeballing you, it is too late. I know what you look like naked, safely hidden away from the unwanted gaze of prying eyes within the M. C. Esheresq confines my corkscrewed imagination we’ve just finished having sex we are laying on our backs naked next to each other. I am enjoying the post coital cigarette blowing smoke rings around your nipples idly watching the blue grey plumes of smoke drift down across the landscape of your body as you lay beside me sated smiling sleepily too tired to smoke. What I lack in youthful enthusiasm I more than make up for with experience when I am finished with you there is no country left undiscovered. I am so … thorough, that years from now when you are masturbating with your favorite dildo; a big purple latex monster you sardonically named Barney; sloshing through the primordial swamp between your thighs, your eyes closed your vibrator humming your favorite song, let’s get in on, it will be this night you will be thinking of. when you are married and have your prerequisite 2.5 children with some other man. when the two of you make passionless love without conviction out of habit. because you settled for him and he settled into this routine. when you won’t end the dead relationship or have an affair, not out of fidelity but out of fear. because now that you are no longer a nubile you are afraid of what another man will think looking at your middle aged spreading woman’s body. Everywhere you look all that you can see are the tight bodied young girls who miraculously keep getting younger and tighter while you’re only to be able to continue getting older and slacker beneath your loosening skin. when there is no one else around and nothing better to do when you are no longer giving pity fucks but receiving them, after all the years of the grudge fuck, the fast fuck, the fist fuck and the fuck fuck when all of the stellar fucks are nothing but fading memories and the only good fucking you get now is at your meaningless job where you fucked over by dumb fucks who don’t give a flying fuck about you. when you get fucked up a the company Christmas party and get caught in the underground parking lot bent over the hood of your bosses jaguar fucking the guy who works in the mailroom. pity you forgot about the surveillance camera and now that video is on the internet just goggle indecent acts dot com look under sloppy drunk fucks your getting thousands of hits a day. when men who once sniffed your panties just to inhaled the sweet scent of your power now scratch and sniff at your crusty old crotch and wrinkle their noses their faces puckered as if they had just gotten a whiff of that milk that you left in the refrigerator long past its sale date. When the connoisseurs of vintage pussy no longer sip from your furry cup as if you were a bottle of fine champagne. But now pour you into the gut as if you were a forty ounce of cheap malt liquor that you drink with a brown paper bag still covering it. when your old man eats your pussy as if he were eating at the chow hall in boot camp with a drill instructor standing over his shoulder shouting eat it now taste it later. when your lover drunkenly slams their beer gut against yours for hours until you are raw, bloody and bored. whenever you need a man in order to make you come you will think of me and remember this one night together and then your orgasm will come breaking over your body with all of its crushing power like the great wave. right now in the theater of my imagination we are full Grande delecti mid coitus and you see the faraway look in my eyes and ask naively enough “what are you thinking about?” I look into your eyes mask my lust with a discreet smile before I lie and tell you “nothing”. It doesn’t matter whether you are the cop who gave me a ticket for speeding, the senator running for president, the judge sentencing me to time in the county, the nun floating through the cloistered corridors of the hospital, the waitress in the weeds or the bartender pouring my drinks. Right now, All I want is your pussy.

Do you know what they put on fries in Amsterdam?

February 13, 2010  :: 0 comments

Smoke shop etiquette. There is no such thing as a head shop anymore. There are no bongs since Tommy Chong did deuce on a nickel for using the “B” word on his line of water pipes for tobacco use only. Madam I don’t know anything about urine test. Sir, I don’t want to hear about your parole officer, insurance company or the state bar. You’re being tested tomorrow, you’re high right now and you want to know what you can do. Nothing. You’re riotously fucked. I don’t know why that guy with a hickey on the back of his neck wanted a bottle of videocassette head cleaner and an inhaler? No, we don’t sell single beers or single cigarettes. May I suggest the Quickie Mart. Goddamn it I just broke that 14 millimeter ash catcher with the blue perk chamber and a 14 to 18 down stem diffuser on the perk, thank god it was some 50 dollar no-name generic piece of glass and not a GOVERNTMINT. If I were you I would buy my salvia now. The purple sticky’s already banned in eight states and will be banned nationwide by February next year. I see you have a passport, remember its twenty years federal offence for bringing a water pipe into or out of the country. So if you’re going to travel abroad and take your six hundred dollar glass Illedelph water pipe with you ship it to your hotel room UPS. I got it. Hello Ye Olde Smoke Shop Steve Ward speaking, how can I help you? Yes were open until midnight tonight. Yes, we have every type of dispenser. I don’t know what a cracker is? Yes, you can make a lot of whip cream with three cases of nitrous. Salvia is an incense. No, I bought the last vial of sage oil yesterday. Uh huh. No, I don’t know when the manager’s going to order more. Yes, I’m sure you do spend a lot of money here and I’m certain that if you were to take your business elsewhere we would be out of business in a matter of minutes. No sir I’m not blowing smoke rings up your ass sir. I was merely agreeing with you sir. Yes sir. My supervisors not in right now, he’s only here 7am to 11am then he’s out of here. Yes, his name is Reilly Freeman. Yes, thank you sir. No, I don’t think I’ll do that just yet sir, but thanks for your suggestion. OK, bye bye. Ye Olde Smoke Shop, how can I help you? Yes, we’re open from noon to eleven today. Yes. Yes, we do have a large variety of strap-ons. Yes, glass led lights inside, vibrating, dancing dolphin; we’re out of the surgical steel 18 inch right now. Yes, we have it in black latex. Well, I don’t know if we carry the horns of Venus in the three inch diameter. However, the matches are free. The two quiet ones broke one of the telescopic batons on a guy last week. In was a POS made in China. If you want to really see the world work retail, see what people do for kicks. The schoolteachers who forgot to take off their nametags bought a crack pipe, excuse me an incense burner the other day. Those are jewelry bags. Yes, what size do you need? What style? We’re out of the eight balls in the ¾ x ¾ all we have left are the Heavy Ds and the Blue Devils. Yes, our gay and transsexual DVDs are the same low price as all of the rest of our adult features. Yeah, hundred to a pack, it’s buy three get the fourth free. No, we don’t carry synthetic urine. Try the internet. No we don’t sell chillums, those are glass bats. I’m sorry mam, I won’t be able to serve you because you’re inquiring about drug paraphernalia. This isn’t stomp or cut and no I don’t know which of our nutritional supplements goes best with ice. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store. But, most of the guys with mullets, mutton chops and Fu Manchu’s wearing confederate battle flag bandannas usually buy this in the crystallized form rather than the powder. Have a nice day. Yes, it acts like a little convection oven. No, it doesn’t incinerate it. It goes gaseous at about 290 379 degrees Fahrenheit. No, we don’t carry that brand but everybody else does. My wife says we just about have the market cornered on the dream jobs of every breed of slacker, artsy stoner type in the world, the dream job triumvirate being; number one, the record store. Neither one of us works at a record store but my old lady get’s us free screenings of the used movies, video games and comics that come into the book store where she works. She has the same arrangement with movies as well. It’s one of the advantages of working for an old hippie. Of course for us the ultimate perk is the books, because we’re both writers. So, it goes without saying that we’re both readers. But, it is I who has the ultimate in underachiever chic job because I work at a smoke shop. A job for which a lifetime of using my body as a chemistry set and my mind as a science experiment make me uniquely qualified. It took me six months to get this job but with a pinched nerve in my back the moving trucks are out of the question. And in this economy the galleries are closed up tighter than a nuns pussy. Of course, I was ready for everything from the entrepreneur to the end user. I possess an intimate understanding of our clienteles’ ummmm dare I say… needs. But, what I wasn’t prepared for was the way we talk around everything using the language of the weak, talking around everything. But, I gotta keep the shop open to pay the bills. So yeah, I sold that couple that came in at the last minute looking to spend around a hundred on a no name POS from china a 30 inch piece 9 mill half frost, ash catcher with a diffuser on the down stem, glass on glass Amsterdam Design Studio. Made from German Shot glass. They manufacture lab equipment. The highest quality scientific medical grade glass. Just three hundred dollars. It’s okay, just leave at least twenty-five percent down to put it on lay-a-way. What’s lay-a-way? You are kidding me right? No, the pipe stays here until you finish paying for it. We ain’t in Amsterdam. Mother fucker. Yes, were open every day except Christmas.

If the Rest of You Weren’t such Whinny Pussys I wouldn’t have to write this shit.

February 13, 2010  :: 0 comments

Being a poet is something
you’re born to at the genetic level
Like gender either you’re born a cunt
or you’re a dick with a pair of balls.
Although there are rumors unconfirmed
of a one nut poet. Regardless, most people
who write poetry weren’t born to it.
they’re literary transsexuals. But,
whacking off a mans cock
and balls has never made him a woman.
No matter how large the breast implants.
and surgically attaching a dildo
to a woman’s crotch ain’t ever going
to make her a man. no matter
how clever the illusion. The doctors,
nurses and mid-wives pull you out
of that stretched out cunt of your mothers
look between your legs at your equipment
then announce to the parents as she cuts
the umbilical cord.
it’s a boy.
it’s a girl.
it’s a poet.
and that’s when the fathers cry.
It’s in the blood. It’s in the DNA.
You’re either born with the write
equipment or you’re not.

Don’t cha just hate it when2

featured in the poetry forum February 13, 2010  :: 0 comments

Don’t cha just hate it when some no talent ass clown gets up
on the stage and you know and I know he’s going to suck
like a black hole even before he starts to suck he’s sucking
he’s going to suck so hard his skull is going to implode
and he even knows he’s going to suck and you can see him start
to sweat big salty beads roll down his forehead
his skin starts to look pale and you wish he had tits
so at least you’d have something to look at while he prepares to launch
into one of those 100 mile and hour auctioneer voice monologues
about something inane like how bad he sucks but he didn’t think to
write about that and he wishes he had tits to distract you
from how bad he sucks and before he begins he’s getting cotton mouth
and stops to get a drink of water and he’s sucking so hard
they name a vacuum cleaner after him and he’s wondering about the wisdom
of having a triple espresso with the cheese pizza before getting on
the stage and how much time three minutes really seems like eternity
and he’s wondering if his fly is open because the audience is looking
at him as if he was standing on the stage with his cock out and now he’s just
stand there sucking like a virgin on prom night remembering
how great this poem seemed last night when he wrote it at 4:20 in the A M
but now he even begins to doubt the self referential wit that he thought
would help to carry this thing over he begins to wish he had written it in
verse iambic pentameter or done it as a 130 beat per minute rap
just to baffle the audience with bullshit because he has no substance

he’s not really a poet hell he doesn’t even read he spends most of his time
waiting for his fat assed old lady and her kids to go to sleep so he can log on
to indecent acts dot com and jack off to German Goo girls
before his coyote ugly wife wakes up and seizes his erection
before it does its usual Houdini act and disappears at the sight of her
when he isn’t drunk enough and the lights are on retreating inside
like a turtles head of him when all he really wants is to just once
be able to cum with out the fear of getting her pregnant
because she’s got kids from her first marriage
and they’re great kids they’re so great he figures she got it right
the first time but he doesn’t want to have kids with anyone who has kids
like that now he’s gone off on this scatological tangent and he’s scrambling
to save himself before he bombs like a radical Islamic fundamentalist
then he feels guilty for bagging on the towel head suicide bombers
and he’s doubting the veracity of his own work and he’s wondering how
many people in the audience will have to go look up the definition
of scatological and veracity oh just shoot me now
he’s sucking so hard gods getting a chubby
he hasn’t said a word he’s just standing there sweating with his ass
about to explode and when the three minutes are over they mob him
with faint praise and you forgot that you were just wishing he had tits
now you just wish he could teach your girlfriends to suck like he just sucked
you swear he could suck a cinderblock through a 100 feet of garden hose
he’s forgotten that he was just wishing he had tits because he’s sucking
so hard now he’s gonna have to put out so now he’s wishing he had a cunt
we were right and he was right you’ve never even seen porn stars that sucked
so hard he never says a word he just walks off the stage and you applaud
because he sucks so hard he bends light.