pull yr eyes
out slowly
dangle them
on yr wet
face
watch gen
itals burn
A throat punch. Poetry as a shocking and vicious sucker punch. Poetry is dangerous.
Tag: USA
-
stick your
fingers
deep his
eyes are
the weak
est spot
he won’t
feel you
cum
‘blood letters’ are the Haiku’s I write set in dark and disturbing outlaw lands. I’m working to distill the poetic form to a shot of Malort (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeppson%27s_Malört) that punches hard.
-
the dog
gnaws
the bone
the crib
yawns open
as the
grave
the rattle
is silent
-
kick him
hard he’s
down stomp
on his grasp
ing fingers
my daughter
is five
Implication and association. This haiku immediately revolts. Grasping fingers and a five year old daughter plus the opening action all lead us to the unthinkable. What has this man done? Why such an extreme action? Our minds immediately conjure up tales of abuse and impropriety. Perhaps not the subject matter for ‘refined’ poetry. This ain’t that.
-
grey rain
falls
as grease
puddling
thick on
the road
skin melts
in the wet
This is one of a number of ‘blood letters’ i have written as part of my continuing process. 17 syllables outlaw poet Todd Moore styled haiku stories. I’ve a number to come.
-
corona nineteen blues
states killing themselves now
how many will die free?
every day in every way there will be consequences
-
you want to
punch outside your wait
slamming similes
mashing metaphors
on your way to being a
punch-drunk poet
read, write, fuck
find new meaning
in the every day
push harder
write faster
feel longer
put words down
cut ‘em up
bunch ‘em
sharpen your teeth
and share your shit
just doing the work means showing up and getting it done not everything is gonna be perfect but every once in a while u find a perfect moment that does something u never expected and that is magic and will last forever – if u let it
-
drenched and spattered in open hard edged light
dining beetles
scuttle for food
rich tender wet love fills
as flies hatch
maggots teem in the full sun
putrid gracious and final
this banquet is the end of john alone in the woods
-
J swings from the hip
hands high punching through the fear looping hard biting down on cracked blood spattering chin and lip.
The Typer punches back
word for word fighting him on every line giving it all in attack.
J hammering solo so words fall one by one easy
stubbed teeth on sawdust bloody raw all broken for everyone to see
-
so i write a lot in these
little 22 cent books
i figure they’re about my speed
my works are cheap
and i use these black pens
ten to a pack
and i left the house with the dog
without a pen
my little 22 cent books ain’t much
without a pen to write things down
so maybe my poems matter
more than i thought
Outlaw Poetry 