hey girrrrrrl! tonight i want to phase through these walls that oppress us. i want to sleep in your brain and reveal my lungs. i’ll whisper into your hair and i’ll take you out swimming. and i will tell you that the pool is filled with bloody tampons. i hope you’d smile but you won’t. but i know you’ll agree to go there because you like the idea of my naked body covered in menstrual blood. i will say that i hate swimming and that my skin will dry. you won’t listen because my voice doesn’t exist inside your brain. you are asleep and you know that i’m not really there. i am somewhere else. you forget about me. and somewhere deep in the heart of africa i forget about you too.

Love Poem #1

Your vines grew like mavericks
how slow they embraced
As I removed the green needles
while slumber I faced.

When you knocked on my shoulder
in heart we grew older,
but ill health made me fragile
too disturbed and senile.
The last things you said
–disappeared without a trace.

Youth is mere borrowed time,
there is no storm to stay
I’ll weep up in heaven
when you fade to gray.

And the hours that were golden, flew off
with chariots –now stolen
While the lost nurtured Meadows
who lay deep in the ocean
With their gentle eyes wide open, they
proceeded on with the wake.

I was a coward in hiding,
trodden and homeless, I
should have bought you bright flowers
–instead you–
–brought me white posies
and laid them by my side.


“There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

Rumbo to Eternity

I told you in my dream: that today
We set the rumbo to eternity
–which way to go?
Oh, I don’t know–

Where does eternity lie?
Set the rhythm and we’ll get to it,
encompassed by entropy
moving free like air made solid,
we’re a breeze in motion

forward, back
get up, no –go down!

Keep still and don’t melt
for our humanity ain’t a syphilitic typhoon,
though we may prop our chins ugly faced
we don’t have to be –ridiculous

Let’s stay gentle,
like a candle that is about to start a fire,
we are ablaze in eternity
and frozen in comfort

Where is Eternity?
For it sure ain’t in me
–is it in you?

Does it flow through your muscles?
Does it crackle in your brain?
O’,it does!
and I can see it clearly:

I sense it in your speech,
In your pupils, nostrils
and even your tonsils
–though they may be removed,
they still move through you,
continuous in existence
in this world visioned through trash can goggles
that are covered in rotten smut

I speak to your image in the mirror
–I speak to who? Me!?
And I realize that our words are trapped
between dimensions of looking-glass
Perhaps they found what we failed to grasp–
–Perhaps they did find what’s still left of Eternity

No one cries on bended knee

She hides a shank
She hides a shank
Heed my word, she hides a shank

My good, good wife carries a murderous knife
hidden between the layers of her short dress
She’s showing off her thighs and pretty legs
as she navigates the dance floor of a nightclub called Paradise
She moves swiftly with grace, eyes deep and set
on this girl I took the pleasure of committing acts of debauchery with just last week

O my wife’s fiery gaze was filled with despise
Filled with bloody murder, filled with bloody murder
And her furious stride only spoke of the poor slut’s demise

No tears–
No more tears, my wife said to herself
She said, I’m gonna cut down that wrecker
Gonna chib the very smile off her pretty face
She spoke to the mirror with her sad maddened mind

Let me tell you the story of last week and my precious harlot,
and how I went running around town,
Yeah, saw her standing by a bar
And my friends told me she only frowned
That she was abandoned by her mother
And never loved by her father
So now she only moves her pretty lips around
They say she was left by the creek
as a babe in a basket
They say she was almost dead
when some whore at a whorehouse
took on work as a saint
by taking the poor child into her loveless arms

But now she’s gonna die
Nobody leaves this world alive
Not even saints leave this world alive
So LORD have mercy on a sinner,
Have mercy on us all

My wife drew the hidden blade
and sunk it deep into her victims eye
The frowning victim’s eye
My good, good wife repeatedly stabbed her dying body
each puncture full of answered prayer
and guiltless serenity

No one cries on bended knee
No one cries on bended knee

I stood frozen
Horrified at the scene,
the carnage that covered these women
the crime of passion, and of love
My good wife declared all this was for me
Like a golden gift for nobody–

She hides a shank
She hides a shank

And none shall weep on this brand new morning
Even if the night ran red filled with torture
No suffering, there shall be no more suffering now
For the innocent lay bare and dead

No one cries on bended knee
No one cries on bended knee

Oral Maneuvers

ORAL MANEUVERS
LICK IT LIKE A LOLLIPOP

ORAL MANEUVERS
I LIKE IT SOFT TO THE TOUCH

ORAL MANEUVERS
EAT SOME ICE CREAM FROM MY A-HOLE

ORAL MANEUVERS
IT’S LIKE FLYING SOLO

ORAL MANEUVERS
TOOTHPASTE PROPHYLAXIS

ORAL MANEUVERS
I THINK MY MOUTH IS ROTTING

ORAL MANEUVERS
THE DOCTOR SAYS I’M DYING

ORAL MANEUVERS
I CAUGHT A ZOMBIE VIRUS

ORAL MANEUVERS
I’m a zombie
You’re my candy
I would love your milky body

I would tongue
all your glands,
your intestines and future plans

ORAL MANEUVERS
IN THIS APOCALYPTIC CITY

ORAL MANEUVERS
INTESTINES ARE A TREAT

ORAL MANEUVERS
MIGHT NOT BE WHAT YOU THINK

Poem: For a Merry Man

Little John's Grave

Little John’s Grave (Photo credit: spratmackrel)

Whilst suffering of severe depression and personal turmoil
Little John took aim at the moon with a long barreled rifle
and he took the shot with the spirit of Annie Oakley
near the village of Hathersage after some William Tell malarky

But he missed the apple that he was supposed to hit
for it had been stuck in his throat for the whole time
and Little John sobbed when he saw the exit hole
on the dark side of that old moon
as it cut the sky in half with its fall

And soon the moon did crash
at the church yard of St. Michael’s
in the village none other than that of Hathersage
where under an old yew tree a tomb stone sprang
for Little John with a gallant bang

Sung:
They buried Little John under an old yew tree
in the ground of Hathersage
There he lies with his mighty hands
in the village of Hathersage
They buried Little John under an old yew tree
in the ground of Hathersage

Poem: Väliinputoaja (or most depressingly sandwiched between two forklifts)

Author’s note: There’s so much for everyone to enjoy with this post! This is a blog entry with two poems and the whole idea seems multicultural.
Here we got two poems by me, a poem in Finnish called Väliinputoaja and another one called (or most depressingly sandwiched between two forklifts).
They have nothing in common, but deal with the same subject. The paradox is hot. Master class hot.

 

Väliinputoaja

Tämä tarina omaelämänkerrallinen
on pojasta, joka kadotuksestaan kurotti,
mutta tyhjin käsin yksinäisyydessään
hän luovutti vain paljaita salaisuuksia.

Pojalta rahat menivät suoraan kädestä suuhun,
nopeammin kuin apina kiipeää puuhun
ja näin hän kasvatti vatsansa ammottavaksi aukoksi,
jonka hän siunasi pyhällä rakkauden verellä.

Tänään poika tasapainoilee kuolevien unelmien seppeleillä,
Hän horjuu ja itkee
Epäröi ja elämänsä jättää sikseen

Tämä poika on rakas ystäväni
Hän minun nälkäni sammuttaa
tuomitsemalla minut kukoistavaan olemattomuuteen.

 

or most depressingly sandwiched between two forklifts

there was a boy and there was his story
everything autobiographical he would tell
would be just another word in his web of tales
about dispensable luxuries and/or utter perdition
that he would weave with care
just so he could bring them to light
with such regal infatuation as if he was illuminating oblivion

he usually ate all his money faster than a bloodsucker could smell blood
he stuffed the green cash deep down his gullet ramming it with his fist
and soon he had worn out his heavenly body into such a condition
that he had to partake in an act of sanctification
where the virgin saints would bless him with their vitriol

in heart the boy is a trapeze artist
balancing on the wreaths of two olympic gold medalist forklifts
he is being killed slowly, but the adrenaline is keeping him intoxicated
he falters and he cries like a little shit
he doubts for a moment too long
and his life decides to disengage itself from his very being

this boy remains a dear friend of mine,
he satiates my needs with simple judgment:
by anathematizing me into an expressible state of nonexistence.