Toddler-oo

I don't want a murmuring marmite

I don't want a simmering thought

I don't believe in twopenny karma

cause everything I opine is wrong

I don't care what people think

I just want to eat candy and drink

I want to pull the hair of mean girls

and make them fistfight their catalogues

of worth, and ranking, and skirts

I want to demolish dustbins and doorsteps

in an act childlike and gratuitous

I want to bathe again in sentient violence

created solely for and by my pupils

I don't want to mind the gap

I don't want to look right, look left

I don't wish to be circumspect

I just don't want to be babysat

I want to earn a noble life

by clamoring nonsensicalities

that idiots could probably elevate

into gold-mine diktat rhetoric

I want to wage my own self

on my own principles, and desist

from clinging to fabrications and cheap idyll

I don't want to crash and burn

I don't want to twist my turns

I don't want to be a bore

but I just can't fathom my soul

therefore in unmitigated manifest

I am unable to confess

my chores, my plight, my lack of address

my speech, complete, in disinterest

I don't know if it's verifiably for sure

but I'll need a nut-wing cardigan

fairly soon

In the sombre hypothesis

That I intend to drift back to mute stasis

where guards sift through whistling chicks

their intoxication drifting about

Absent liquor oxygen tumors

And then I'll want like everyone else

without question the invaluable excess

of all this we call ours

but are mere prisms to our cellotaped existence

I wish to perpetrate a feast

without tangible release

and I may sink and stick to my manners

sharpened by tools of arts past.

Mono-Scylla-Beak

THE/ HOUSE/ WHERE/ I/ GREW/ UP/ HAD/ WALLS/ THE/ SHAPE/ OF/ CLAWS/ AND/ FOR/ MY/ WEE/ FOOL/ CHILD/ ELF/ I/ COULD/ NOT/ FOR/ THE/ LIFE/ OF/ ME/ FIND/ LOVE/ PEACE/ OR/ SLEEP/ IN/ THAT/ FIST/ OF/ A/ PLACE/ AS/ IF/ IT/ WERE/ A/ CLUTCH/ ON/ MY/ BRAIN/ AND/ HELD/ BACK/ AT/ MY/ THROAT/ ALL/ THAT/ I/ COULD/ BE/ IF/ I/ JUST/ TOOK/ THAT/ ONE/ STIFLE/ OFF/ AND/ OUT/ AND/ BREATHED/ AS/ I/ STEP/ FAST/ OUTT/A THE/ DOOR///

ONE/ DAY/ I/ WILL/ GROW/ UP/ TO/ BE/ A/ GIANT/ CAUSE/ GREEN/ BEANS/ AND/ CORN/ GIVE/ BACK/ THE/ REIGN/ OF/ MY/ CORE/ CHANT/ OF/ A/ SOUL///

THIS/ EVE/ WE/ CHANT/ IN/ DEATH/ THAT/ HAS/ BEEN/ KILLED/ BY/ ITS/ SELF/ YES/ I/ DO/ CHEAT/ ON/ THESE/ TIMES/ WHERE/ SOUNDS/ COME/ AND/ GO/ LIKE/ 

VERTIGO//

SO/ I/ SPACE/ OUT/ THE/ DESK/ OF/ MY/ PROW-ESS/ THE/ DAME/ OF/ GRAND 

MANIFEST/

CAUSE/ I/ AM/ A/ WORD/ A/ WORM/ OF/ CUNT/ STRESS/ BOWED/ DOWN/ TO/ THE

/ MAP/ OF/ THE/ MIND/ THAT/ WE/ LOST/ IN/ THE/ MIST/ OF/ TRUTH/ STAGED/ BY /SAD/ TAIL/ LIGHTS//

satellite stalactites will solely redeem our siamese parasites from sickeningly lusting each other warmonger out.

Pro-Nombre

Dondé està 

the other pen

the one that skis across pages

as I slide onto the precipice

of headache sugar-waves

- This is mine,

I got a haddock

upstairs in my mind,

it looks like a lawyer

and tastes of cherry.

I don't need to wish upon my transience

to pursue my ambience,

I'm on a train !

a loco motive pacing down

springsteenian highways

in my illusion of faith

catatonised parallel

to catastrophic gradual

dishevelment

of civil patience.

I have these days

without any sort of catalogues human denominator

I wonder here

on these seats congested with previous depositor rears

and derelict early party growls

If I should dine indeed

flirting with she

turning into a feast

celebratory descent

of control over this

unfinished pages

and calumnious entrances.

Farce One, Face Off

But who cares, really

who cares, who does

put the other before 

the self,

and shows

the other cheek

who does,

who migrates

out,

of self gravitational

habitat,

and mind

half shut

with their weary

eye socket

combusted with dire

desire -

who cares, 

who does,

about the rhetoric

of mammoth mammal

mathematics

no one does

everyone dies,

and in the interim of life

who doesn't just gaze,

listen, speak empty

utterances

smile, too often 

tired, too little

time, for our cause, 

our centipede thoughts,

for our shenanigans,

us spoilt rugrats

and discontent malfrats,

us specimens

of our own making -

Who cares

when you may sink into hedonism

or see refuge in knowledge,

always is an infrastructure,

to shape sense out

of sacrilegious acts, 

with or without God,

gender, clause, or sector

in which to compartment

our selves neat,

no hay palabras

there are only sounds

that beg crave ask condemn -

Who are we

ludicrous animals,

we seek pleasure before justice

we disappear into folly masks

never look back

seldom reconsider

that we are just Men,

never sole fated

to be absolute sinners.

Waste Turn Pickpockets

We are a warm gun

escaped from the oven

of blistered benediction

and alarm noise

We are the sullen

convicted through filtered ploys

set to debase our transience

sank in arrest, of youth, from semblance.

We are a bludgeon

that flies across native regions

of our semi sketched caricatures

to crush the pulp of veinous mastery.

We are happiness

when we desist from our presence

and command to fruition

intolerable prose that evades us.