This is not working. How does one write poetry? I have forgotten.

If the world is but a stage
then I am but a mime,
lost for words and lost in words
and trapped by words,
for the significance of sound
is lost to the mute.

In silence I have brought forth
the essence of craftwork,
washed myself in the afterbirth
of Loki Lie-Smith.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, for whatever fucking reason I want to copyright a godawful draft, 8/25/09)

Foxmask

This harsh dark bold towering text,
black on off-white yellowing curling page,
reminds me of why I thrive on contrast:
indistinction, indiscretion, misdirection,
tools of the Foxmask facing aggression.
I thrive, die, vivify.

Pale cold oceanic salt blur-
I cannot sleep angry and ashamed,
even though you are as blinded
by spacetime as by mock faith and mirror virtue.

This dull steady pathos-flood of oceantide quietus
validates, vindicates;
night and solitude, however,
ransom sensibility
and so I hold onto my perhaps
damnfool hope for your burgeoning regret.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, 1/21/2009)

Meditation on Certainty

The beat in my blood
is the heartsong of creation
'canted in Gregorian basso harmony
with the swansong of existence.

Verse, chorus, verse bridge
chorus. As long as each begins
I can still be sure, at least,
that it will end.

It's the same with days. If
with any certainty
I can say that today has begun,
then so may I say that this day
will end and
the next will come in turn,

at least until it doesn't.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, 7/12/2009)

No title, but I dig it.

The coppery burn of
you
on his tongue and
embedded in his nostrils
wakes him even
from morphine-sleep.

Aftertaste, afterimage, lingering
beneath living skin. You can die
in flesh, but you had
to die
in his arms and so
you will live viscerally,
vicariously, 'til you have twice
decayed.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, 7/12/2009)

I only wrote half of this.

There once was an ostrich, his neck was so long,
and even though he lived in a zoo, he was oh-so strong.
His name was Ollie, but his name was his folly-
he didn't know from where it came!
His mom and dad just didn't have fame.
Ollie lived in the zoo from the time he was two,
without his mommy and daddy. Which
ostrich parents were his? He just didn't know who.
So Ollie wanted a quest. A quest to find his
mom and dad, and he would do his best.

On one dark night, the moon tucked
in to its blanket of cloud, Ollie slipped
out of his cage, over a high wall he flipped.
An easy feat for an ostrich so strong!
He jumped so high he dodged the fence,
and the alarm stayed asleep, it didn't sing its song.
Ollie went from cage to cage to find his mom and dad,
but so far the search was going bad.
A great lion heard him walk,
beckoned him over to talk.
The king of beasts said Ollie was out of luck,
that all the parents had been taken away in a truck.
What would Ollie do? He just didn't have a clue!

(copyright a(scetic)verse, whenthefuck ever, steal this if you want i don't give a fuck)

Pleasing

I, with reckless disregard
for the bile collecting
in my conscience,
settle into a familiar mindless
rhythm I've heard called making love.

This is, at best, playing at love,
as children play house.

This is not even making amends,
cannot be construed as making,
but unmaking.

Your touch-
my god this cannot be pleasure
as you brush away my dead outer layer,
this senseless shell and husk of
memories which litter sheets,
carpets, clothes, drains,-
my new skin I wear like
an infant in a baptismal font
abandoned by its priest.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

Gatortail

We beat it to death
with lead pipes,
crushed its reinforced hydraulic
skull and severed
its whipsnap tail,
and we fried it.
Then we dined
like island royalty,
blood of natives on our hands,
hot on the sacrificial rock,
sizzling in the pan slicked with fat.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

Night Sounds

Night Sounds

We sing and dance in our tribal bliss
and release a songbird from our midst,
out of firelight and into the oblivion of
the empty night. A young boy will often
assume the worst.

We know that the water is deadly- not the
water, no, but what is in it, alligator, green which
yields red and steals a young boy away.

We know that hogs root in these woods,
gobbling grub, and that they scream like
women in fear when an alligator steals them away.

We know all this, but when the discordant
cry of a hog in throes pierces the night
as a gator pierces its belly, a young boy
is just bound to fear for that hours-gone
song-bird, or hours as it always seems to a young boy.

We sing and dance in our tribal bliss
as the songbird perches and joins back in
on that refrain- a young boy is bound to jump
for joy, and riverbilly's bound to keep rockin' tonight.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

"Can we just flash forward..."

Can we just flash forward
to the petty, sweaty, fumbling,
tumbling grope and grab
presaged by your first breathy
grunt of "You're so hot" in my ear,
warm moist exhalation and chin stubble
just as irritating as this untoward advance?

I know myself all too well-
I have lived this night
too many times and
I am so fucking tired
of swallowing my nausea
of subsuming my pride
of sacrificing my self
to testosterone's
hair-trigger
and of being repulsed
by any touch the morning after.
My cup runneth over.
Old news.
I quit.
Who's next?

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 24, 2009)

Toward Iconoclasm

This first legitimate taste of truth,
a scant sip from nectar's vein,
sates not, but stings.

You, who are lotus of flesh,
who are nectar of blood,
blood of aubergine hue,
you, in your giving of gifts,
play Siren, Scylla, and saint.

Yon Doppelganger:
     as Lazarus, in your solitude sleep;
     as Midas, ruin whatever you may touch;
     as Pilate, cruciate pain bestow;
     and as Eros, let your arrow go.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 5th, 2009)