All the Bullshit Poets Have Come Out
All the bullshit poets have come out again
To kneel at the riverbank, to bank at the pearly gate.
All the bullshit poets have come out
Calling day for night, with diamond-shaped tears,
Oh so very private. All the bullshit poets have come
Out, out of closet, still peaches but with fuzz shaved off.
All the fuzzy bullshit poets have come out again, peachy
And out. Such a delight to see poets fight, all their
Bullshit poems alike.
What is an ounce of gravel?
What is an ounce of gravel?
A handful of dirt?
Two whole meters between a forgiving God
and one that strikes down, takes away, unreasonable.
One pound of flesh for every time
you told me
please stay. Go. Come back. Don't ever
return here. I don't need you
anymore tho feel safe, or rather,
your safety is a cage and a razor.
It peels me from my bone.
What equals in love
one pint of soul, boredom, and future?
Half-empty or
half full.
What is a liter worth
in heartbreak, a cup of sorrow. How
much water can a camel carry,
and for how long,
if a bird's way is the shortest
through the desert?
An ounce of gravel
when you feel low, hold your breath
and count to twenty.
Here i come.
A mouthful of tears, shaking
its head.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Not like this.
Dirt weighs
more than death
for pride's sake, a soldier's
dirt, the priest's dirt, the
dirty tongues of lovers. There is no
visible sacrifice or
honor to uphold.
How far can evil stretch?
How low can good be lowered
and still be considered good?
100 mph?
A bottle of rum? Two dozen
white roses?
Elephant Land
I write to you from elephant land
in thoughts of suicide by a poisonous snake,
we have been here a week now.
Subways too deep to think, crawling numb-
hearted prophets with analogies
and plastic surgeons to hold in court rooms.
I write to you from a plain picture, from
your inner ear or the surface layer,
we have been here but a second but it's
already overtime, down to zero
and back again. Did you notice? That
the speed of silence is faster than sound
which is why I decided against it
in the last minute or so, since God died
in this dream I had but at least
he wrote a book about it, while my god,
remain unpublished, unbaptized
until the ink dried, twenty-two years ago.
I write to you from elephant land,
a cross-breed between a rocking chair
and an elevator, rocking my way
to the next level. Snow white to snow red,
I'll let you fly my heart like a kite
and reel me back with the rainbow attached.
If you're sorry, just etch and scratch
since tomorrow there's a different weather,
although the weatherman is similar.
I write to you now, elephant land,
with a wish to feel less intoxicated, or less
aware of the feeling, at least, then I could
sign this ignoring where it originally came from.
Elephant land, I write to you from inside
a bullfrog croaking at dawn, its last meal
or a plant distorted by traffic, esoteric landscapes
and ebony coat hangers. I write to you
from a pay-per-line interstellar telegraph with
rhymes included, I only wish you could
do the same for me sometime, use your sins
and your disfigurations. Use your sins and
your disfigurations. I keep falling
between the truths, I write to you from
the heart of a vegetable, gone transparent
over the holidays, sinking into
the carpet, someone's lunch. Elephant land,
on heavy shoulders, I write from the
perspective of wallpaper, to you, a whale bone
or a prayer, geographically attractive.
I am my own countryside, the tall grass
tickling under my feet when I say the words
isosceles, enchantment, sincerity, leisure,
manner, sweet, and sympathetic
without breathing, understanding there are
only six pills left, seven if you count
the one I used to count with. So I write
to you, from you, Elephant land, please
send me a new prescription.
All the bullshit poets have come out again
To kneel at the riverbank, to bank at the pearly gate.
All the bullshit poets have come out
Calling day for night, with diamond-shaped tears,
Oh so very private. All the bullshit poets have come
Out, out of closet, still peaches but with fuzz shaved off.
All the fuzzy bullshit poets have come out again, peachy
And out. Such a delight to see poets fight, all their
Bullshit poems alike.
What is an ounce of gravel?
What is an ounce of gravel?
A handful of dirt?
Two whole meters between a forgiving God
and one that strikes down, takes away, unreasonable.
One pound of flesh for every time
you told me
please stay. Go. Come back. Don't ever
return here. I don't need you
anymore tho feel safe, or rather,
your safety is a cage and a razor.
It peels me from my bone.
What equals in love
one pint of soul, boredom, and future?
Half-empty or
half full.
What is a liter worth
in heartbreak, a cup of sorrow. How
much water can a camel carry,
and for how long,
if a bird's way is the shortest
through the desert?
An ounce of gravel
when you feel low, hold your breath
and count to twenty.
Here i come.
A mouthful of tears, shaking
its head.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Not like this.
Dirt weighs
more than death
for pride's sake, a soldier's
dirt, the priest's dirt, the
dirty tongues of lovers. There is no
visible sacrifice or
honor to uphold.
How far can evil stretch?
How low can good be lowered
and still be considered good?
100 mph?
A bottle of rum? Two dozen
white roses?
Elephant Land
I write to you from elephant land
in thoughts of suicide by a poisonous snake,
we have been here a week now.
Subways too deep to think, crawling numb-
hearted prophets with analogies
and plastic surgeons to hold in court rooms.
I write to you from a plain picture, from
your inner ear or the surface layer,
we have been here but a second but it's
already overtime, down to zero
and back again. Did you notice? That
the speed of silence is faster than sound
which is why I decided against it
in the last minute or so, since God died
in this dream I had but at least
he wrote a book about it, while my god,
remain unpublished, unbaptized
until the ink dried, twenty-two years ago.
I write to you from elephant land,
a cross-breed between a rocking chair
and an elevator, rocking my way
to the next level. Snow white to snow red,
I'll let you fly my heart like a kite
and reel me back with the rainbow attached.
If you're sorry, just etch and scratch
since tomorrow there's a different weather,
although the weatherman is similar.
I write to you now, elephant land,
with a wish to feel less intoxicated, or less
aware of the feeling, at least, then I could
sign this ignoring where it originally came from.
Elephant land, I write to you from inside
a bullfrog croaking at dawn, its last meal
or a plant distorted by traffic, esoteric landscapes
and ebony coat hangers. I write to you
from a pay-per-line interstellar telegraph with
rhymes included, I only wish you could
do the same for me sometime, use your sins
and your disfigurations. Use your sins and
your disfigurations. I keep falling
between the truths, I write to you from
the heart of a vegetable, gone transparent
over the holidays, sinking into
the carpet, someone's lunch. Elephant land,
on heavy shoulders, I write from the
perspective of wallpaper, to you, a whale bone
or a prayer, geographically attractive.
I am my own countryside, the tall grass
tickling under my feet when I say the words
isosceles, enchantment, sincerity, leisure,
manner, sweet, and sympathetic
without breathing, understanding there are
only six pills left, seven if you count
the one I used to count with. So I write
to you, from you, Elephant land, please
send me a new prescription.
