Phalanxes of Tombstones
Reclining against a warrior’s headstone,
listening to a chevron of geese overhead
watching the pewter dawn sun peer forth
There’s no happiness at the end of a rifle
or in a bottle or magic potion, sitting among
my dead brothers, I know there’s no such
Thing as revolution, it’s just another word
meaning leap frog of the rich, so they can
buy a bit of power with the blood of the poor
The honking dies and fog vanishes, money
equals greed, possessions turn into traitors,
no one can stop time or conquer the rain.
For The Real Drunk Motherfuckers
I wanna be
in a moon piss
with a Zapotec
eyes filled &
as I try to remember what
Far and gone so bubbly,
Feeling lovely and hoping for rubber duckies,
Roses in the wind, silk against skin,
Rugs on bare feet and succulently baked meat.
Feeling like at night if things will all be right,
Licking foreheads and sharpening spirits,
Under mounds of cloth and feeling serpeant’s tongue,
Mountains climbed and trails are run.
Nothing’s done, nothing’s done, what’s done is none;
Nothing, but a quiet temper and sparkling eyes
Yield a tough surprise for doubtful minds.
Hear a cry and softly speak because the times
Rupturing our hearts are weak, and until spring ends,
Summer will not be reminding you yet
Like you should begin to forget the life of before,
What you learned on the morns through nights
Adorned, but it was feeling forlorn,
Knowing for what was never adorning
Winter and spring’s life, now eclipsed by the sea,
Felt from the west on the breeze.
Feelings like these
Open me up and help me believe,
Laughter and being yourself and the smartness of friends.
Sometimes I drive around town
with my dick in my hand.
just outside my pants,
and smiling out the windscreen.
Giving it some air.
Because it gets lonely in dirty jeans
and he wants to see the world too.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s a strange thing to do,
but it doesn’t really matter
cause no one will ever see me
and I sure as shit
will never mention it
I push the end,
of my foreskin
into the opening
of my beer bottle.
Of course it’s a strange thing to do.
Especially when I take
my next sip.
my dick has been here.
on the glass.
Like a bulldog on an ice cream.
My dick has been here.
It makes sense.
My mum won’t let me buy a mouse
because she says they smell bad.
D’Arne is pretending to be sick.
It doesn’t make sense.
Nothing makes sense.
That’s why I do these silly things,
and tell you all about them.