Tuesday, March 23, 2004

locked in hole
peeking out, peek poke
peel back feel out smoke
drifting in wafting through
around you in the hole
peeking out around through
seek out down under around you
envelops your soul
cradles you like mother
and you feel safe, protected
by its volume and viscosity
shielded from obscenity
nudged closer to insanity
every single day you go without one

short poems indicative of lack of style
fueled by an endless hunt for guile
a cunning linguist ends his poems right
if not correctly

i know not how to end, nor when
nor why i write in the first place
only that it purges, cleanses my soul
turning my hole into a vacuum
leaving me wanting more
and i have to start all over again
or fear i'll lose something horrid
i'm not sure i had in the first place

all i know is nothing at all
i feel insignificant, small
in this world among giants
i have not the requisite gall
so i'll sit back and bawl
nothing rhymes with giants, dammit
so why bother rhyming at all?

meta-trains

obsession makes good poetry
blinkenlights providing inspiration
for thoughts on meta-trains of thought
trains carrying within their cars
other trains of thought, carrying
within their cars, thought
about meta-trains, thus the thought
continues.

obscenity as a platform for ascension
into higher planes trains
carrying parts for planes
and plans and blueprints
you can say "fuck it" and it makes sense
or does it? as much
as you want it to, chances
are it'll say as such
fuckall, reduced to nothing
in an empty car
on an empty train
in an empty plane of existence
carried in an empty car
on a full meta-train
carrying trains


i sit and laugh
realizing that somebody, most likely you
just lost something valuable
or at least, you think it is

your time.