Back to reading poems from my basement. This one might not be appropriate for all audiences.
I’ll add the text of the poem later today in the comments.
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Back to reading poems from my basement. This one might not be appropriate for all audiences.
I’ll add the text of the poem later today in the comments.
I write crap
Let me tell you a secret.
Butt you have to promise not to tell
Anybody, promise to keep it
Between us like two cheeks
who have their shit together.
Whether they have to go or not
Pressed together in silence
Like a fine chest of skin
In an abstract photo
A ripe breast folded in…
Cleavage of the underside.
I write crap
I’m that poor poetic sap
Drizzling diarrhettic verse
On a blank page that I’ve somehow made worse.
My journal’s the equivalent
Of bound two-ply, half used
To be one day perused
By hind sight, scent
To discover what my mind
had left behind.
No one gives a shit butt me
About the process I poetically
push constipated vapor
Into form on toilet paper.
Some poets write the glamour of the pen
And the precision of ink, when
I’m happy that it comes out at all
No matter how words fall
In the porcelain pool of poem stink.
My chunky poems reflect me
Glistening to those poetically
writing on a sun swept slice
of ocean life, eventually
I’ll join them, if I remember to flush twice.