pOeTrY tHrEaD oF a dErAnGeD mInD

All my deranged poetry shall be in here. Except for the vandalisms. The vandalisms shall be in a separate thread.

WARNING: THIS THREAD MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR THOSE WITH A PURITANICAL MINDSET.

First poem:

Too Many Heads In My Penis???
A poem by Wolf Larsen


Too many heads in my Penis?

Too much of my brains splattered all over the page??

So the beginning of the poem is running off with the ending of the poem and the middle of the poem is rioting & rioting and this line of the poem is a still life of a crack pipe amidst an abstract-expressionist kind of desk in a desert made out of your feelings, and the dripping faucet drips one word onto the page at a time while your testicles are rumbling with all the earthquakes since the beginning of time and thousands of Penises are squiggling out of your ears and even the walls don’t recognize you, because your face has become all the riots exploding throughout the world right now, and masturbations & mirrors & poetry all begin racing by you in a tornado of days and even the sky can’t help you anymore, so you dress up as a space alien and you walk all the streets in your brains but you’re lost amongst all the thousands of city blocks in your brains and you see that the endless city in your brains keeps expanding & expanding into a forever horizon of your expanding brains, so you begin frying your brains with poetry, so you begin frying your eyeballs with words, you begin searching in your testicles for the new gigantic poetry, smoke the new gigantic poetry with crack-cocaine until not even the city streets know where they came from, and you snort the train tracks up your nose and you run around the train tracks naked until you find 2:00 AM, because poetry is a third rail

Copyright 2014 by wolf Larsen

Warning: those with a more religious or puritanical mindset may wish to click off of this thread. Thank you for your understanding.

Liberation!
A poem by Wolf Larsen

The poem rushes off the page and begins dancing with the Afro-Brazilian drums in Bahia, the drums and the poem become an unstoppable rhythm booming and booming and booming together, to the rhythm of the drums the poem rushes across the universe, to the rhythm of the drums the poem dances with paintings the poem becomes a synthesis of crashing-colliding-different-artistic-styles of the 20th century all coloring the words with a fauvist-Cubist-impressionistic everything, the drums are joined with saxophones and symphonies and the rhythm of the poem is played by musicians throughout the world, the poem rushes through all the novels ever written and the poem becomes all the novels ever written the poem swallows all the characters in all the novels ever written and all the characters in all the novels are yelling the poem across seven continents and the poem rushes across seven continents the poem flies over the sky the poem rushes over the Internet from telephone to computer back to telephone from continent to continent everyone reading the poem at the same time everyone writing the poem at the same time the poem has the power of a hurricane the poem is crashing and shaking about just like an earthquake and the poem rushes across the North American continent like a literary tornado and the poem becomes thousands of paintings painted by millions of people throughout the world the poem is spontaneously spoken by every human on the planet and then all of the primates on the planet begin howling the poem all the dogs on the planet begin barking the poem all the machinery in the factories are producing the poem the words of the poem are flying by like a fast-fast-assembly-line and the workers throughout the world are constructing the poem the poem is being built sky ****ing hi at construction sites around the world the poem is endless skyscrapers reaching up past god the scream of every newborn baby is the poem the dying sighs of the elderly are the poem the poem is generation after generation of mankind charging across the page reaching to fulfill a great destiny of socialism & communism the poem embraces the greatness of the October Revolution the poem goes into the ground with the miners the poem feels the hunger of children going to bed at night hungry the poem feels the cold and the rain hitting the bodies of the homeless the poem frets with the worries of the unemployed...

And the poem begins dancing again with the drums and the poem races around and around the Earth over and over again with Sputnik the poem is the first man in outer space the poem burns down everything in its path like the Great March of Sherman the poem is painted on every blank wall in the world because the poem is a graffiti-mural of words that dances in outer space the poem is a vortex the poem is a black hole in the universe that swallows everything around it because the poem is beating & beating verbs that beat with the poem the poem beats with the beating drums the poem is all the chants at the workers demonstration demanding just wages and better working conditions the poem tingles and feels joy with the discoveries of a painter who creates some new canvas of some new art movement the poem has the power and the emotion of one great speaker after another at a workers demonstration their voices rising in wave after wave of human frustration and anger that will no longer endure the diseased status quo that must be smashed into pieces...

The poem is millions & millions of sledgehammers all crashing into pieces all the traditions that must come to an end, the poem is a wrecking ball that smashes capitalism into pieces, the poem is the cries of impoverished billions demanding change...

The poem has a thousand rhythms – the poem is Asian and African and new world and European all at the same time, the poem speaks French & English & Swahili & Chinese & Spanish & Arabic & Portuguese – the poem dances with Caribbean blacks, the poem dances with the modern dancers in New York City, the poem dances all the folkloric dances of Europe & Latin America, the poem dances with black miners in South Africa protesting a new apartheid an economic apartheid called capitalism, an economic apartheid that has united a black & white elite from Johannesburg to the White House of Washington DC...

The poem is a tidal wave of imagery standing huge above the reader, the poem is endless wave upon wave of imagery headed towards the reader right now!

The poem screeches with subway trains, the poem honks its car horns, the poem builds highways across continents, the poem flies up into the air with airplanes that crisscross the world, the poem is the progress of mankind, the poem begins nearly four billion years ago with a comet with amoebas on it crashing into an ocean on a third planet from a sun, the poem rises from the ocean and stands on its two feet and the poem builds big cities with its two hands and its brains…

The poem creates many spirits and deities, and then the poem replaces those spirits and deities with gods, the poem replaces those gods with one god, and then the poem smashes that one God into pieces with it sledgehammer – because we humans are the gods of the earth! We humans are gods that all create this great poem together! This poem has breathed with life for 200,000 years of Homo sapiens! This poem has learned to create tools and give birth to fire!

This poem is a great experimenter – a great inventor – this poem can reverse the course of rivers – because this poem is a great river of endless generations of humanity all living & breathing one great poem together!

This poem knows hunger! This poem knows feasts! This poem has destroyed and marched over its enemies! Nothing can stop this poem except for the mushroom clouds!

This poem is held hostage by those with the atomic button in their hands, by those who eat caviar and laugh at the hungry!
This poem makes the dry earth fertile! This poem gives the dry earth rain! This poem gives the dark shadows sunlight!

This poem is the orgies of Rome, this poem paints an orgy on every ceiling on every building on the planet, this poem distorts itself into endless chaotic-abstract-sculptures on plazas throughout the world, this poem is a wrecking ball through every neo-classical & international style-Bauhaus building on the planet – this poem replaces all of it with thrashing-restless-sculpture-buildings of adventurous architecture with no two buildings even remotely alike with architecture becoming the new poetry that fills the skylines of our cities with wondrous creations that even yesterday we could not even imagine!

The poem races through the classrooms where a new generation is learning, the poem is not sterilized and Lysol-ed the poem does not try to hide all the ugliness in the world, the poem celebrates ugliness! The poem celebrates beauty! The poem celebrates everything! The poem breathes with everything on this cesspool of a blue & green vomit of a planet...

The poem paints murals everywhere, the poem creates a thousand new canvases every moment with a thousand different art styles that it just invented! The only limit to the poem is ourselves! The poem has no limits! The poem is 7 billions of Homo sapiens all imagining a poem together! The poem is simultaneously created in the imaginations of 7 billion Homo sapiens all doing some wondrous giant thing together!

Nothing can stop the poem! The poem is a bulldozer! The poem is a comet! The poem is a spermatozoa swimming fast-fast-fast towards your egg in your fallopian tube! The poem grows for nine months until the poem screams in a new world!

The poem rolls noisily forward like tanks into battle! The poem is the great Soviet army smashing onwards in a storm of clashing steel & bullets! The poem is a wrecking ball smashing Nazi Germany into dust!

The poem is five American soldiers drawing straws in Vietnam, the poem is the straw huts of the Vietnamese burning to the ground, the poem is crying villagers in Afghanistan crying over the dead bodies of their loved ones murdered in cold blood by drones in this endless war

The poem is the question mark of World War III destroying the human race, the poem is revolution & socialism saving the human race from World War III...
The poem sings the International – billions sing the International with the poem – billions of armed workers marching with the poem towards a great future of WORKERS democracy...

There is no separation of politics & art & artist & worker in the poem – because in the poem all these are united together – because in the poem the worker & the artist shake hands and then embrace – because in the poem the worker & artist work together to create a great new poem – a great new poem with thousands of styles of architecture

The poem is marching worker-armies marching forward with the red flag, the poem is thousands of workers digging trenches around Moscow during the Russian Civil War to defend against the rampaging bloody armies of counterrevolution, the poem is created with the hands of workers throughout the world...
The poem breathes, the poem shakes, the poem seethes, the poem is millions of hands grabbing paintbrushes and creating something new & wonderful that has never been created before…

The poem is Modigliani & Picasso & countless others painting the female nude despite the cries & protests of the Puritans who know nothing of art, Puritans who only want to chain art & literature to their diseased hypocritical "morals", the poem rips the censorship off of banned books so that all may read what they choose to read!

The poem is sexy! In the poem men & women wear what they want to wear, in the poem men & women walk naked in the streets if they so choose – because the poem is freedom – because the poem is the freedom to do with one's body as one chooses!

The poem is made of the breathing sensual naked bodies of billions! The poem is made out of naked human flesh! The poem is as erotic as the moment of your conception! The poem is an orgy of the entire human race painted on all the walls and all the ceilings simultaneously as the worldwide orgy occurs!
This poem is written by the devil Wolf Larsen! We are all devils & saints! All the nouns & adverbs & adjectives dance in the orgies of heaven with this poem! Because all music is an orgy of sound & rhythm! And all music is a poem without words!

The poem is a vagina and the poem is an erection and the poem is an anus and the poem is a mouth! The poem is billions of vaginas & erections & anuses & mouths! The poem is everything sexual the you could imagine all thrown together in Baroque-rococo murals on walls throughout your city as far as the eye can see!

All the verbs in the poem thrive with sex! The poem is 10% preachers in a whorehouse! The poem is a priest getting a blow job from an altar boy! The poem is a politician snorting cocaine the night after he's given some big speech against drugs! The poem is beautiful women whoring themselves to rich men to survive – and sometimes marrying those affluent men – perhaps one of those women are your mother!

The poem is millions of telephone conversations at this very moment, the poem turns all those endless words & languages of all those conversations into sculptures! Yes the poem turns sound into sculpture! And the poem turns sculptures into paintings! And then the poem turns all those paintings into words – into the words of this poem – which in turn creates paintings inside your head!

The poem crosses the ocean on a ship in chains. The poem is the sound of billions throughout the world of all colors in chains. The poem invents a new grammar. Then the poem invents thousands of new grammars. The poem beats & beats forward with those drums and the poem is an orgy of black & white & brown bodies all having an orgy in a colonial square under the night sky! And the poem screams out with your scream when you’re born nine months later!

The poem shows the primates in cages in the zoo, and then the poem projects an image of you – and then you know where we all came from!

The poem bends religion over and ****s it up the ***! Only without religion can the human race march forward to its great destiny! Only without superstition – without the worry of being watched over by some supreme *** in the sky – can we truly be free to write what we want to write – and to create the beauty & ugly greatness that we advanced primates were destined to create!

Only a human god with a vagina or a penis could create a poem! Only a smelly advanced primate could create the greatness of a poem! Because poetry is smelly! Because poetry smells of your farts and your defecations and your piss!

Because the Puritans and the literary world that want to Lysol all the farts and your defecations and your piss and menstruation fluids out of poetry are the greatest obstacles to a great poetry! If you want something clean & sterile & that smells nice then stare at a blank wall!
I create this poem with the piss & feces & menstrual fluids of the human race! I create this poem with the blood from all the wars! I create this poem with the sweat of laborers building giant cities!

All the cars are words moving back and forth on a highway called a poem, and more words of this poem are dribbling out of the vagina of a woman who has just had sex with her lover before her husband comes home, because the poem throbs & throbs with seven billion hearts beating, because the poem is the rhythm of trains & traffic, because the poem is a sidewalk in New York City and all of the faces of all the people walking on the sidewalk are in this poem, all their worries & lusts & emotions create this poem together –

This poem is valleys and mountains!
This poem is purple & green & orange & red & blue!
This poem races as fast as drums & racing cars & flying spaceships!
This poem arrives on other planets as the human race arrives on other planets!
This poem spreads across the human race like a disease!
This poem spreads across the universe as the human race spreads across the universe!
This poem frees itself as the human race frees itself!
This poem is its own master as every worker on the planet will soon be his or her own master!
This poem is every art movement that has ever existed all combined into one universal chaos!
This poem links all poems together into one breathing colossus of words!
This poem is as immoral as any whorehouse or parliament or church in the world!
This poem tears away all lies!
This poem tears away all façades to expose the truth!
This will be the most honest poem ever written!
This poem has only just begun!
This poem has planted itself in your imagination where it will grow like vines through your mind...

Copyright 2014 by Wolf Larsen

Warning: the following poem deals with serious/controversial themes. Those who wish lighter reading may wish to click off this thread.

Never Mind the Red White & Blue! My Colors are Black Brown & White! My Colors are All of You!
An epic poem by Wolf Larsen

The poem begins in an up-and-down rhythm with a slave ship going up and down in a stormy sea, the poem rattles & BANGS & creeks with the sounds of chains BANGING and the ship creaking, the poem continues when those same ships are later “recycled” during the potato famine for a new cargo called the Irish…

The poem is African drums BOOMING & beating & BOOMING & beating, and Irish music joins the African drums, and then the slave owners take away the drums from the black people and the black people play saxophones & trumpets in harmony with bluegrass/country music…

The poem walks along the waterfront in New York City where the Irish & other white ethnics carry the cargo from the ships up the docks on their broad shoulders, then the poem walks along the waterfront in New Orleans where black broad shoulders carry cargo from the ships up the docks to the warehouses…

The poem sweats under the hot sun of the south, the poem sweats with the black sharecroppers sweating under that hot sun, the poem suddenly begins churning & churning with the noises of the textile mills where the Québecois (French-“Canadian”) & other white ethnics turned the cotton into cloth and then the poem begins whirring & whirring with the sewing machines on the lower east side of Manhattan where the Jews turned the cotton into clothing in tenement sweatshops…

The poem is a stormy sky over immigrant tenements from the 19th century to the 21st century, the poem is a stormy sky over sharecropper shacks and the poem is that same stormy sky over housing projects & repossessed homes & trailer home “parks”…

The poem has the sooted face of a miner, and the poem is the nine year old face of my great uncle in a textile mill working 12 hours a day six days a week, and now the poem has the white face & the black face of two little children of two families being evicted from their homes…

The poem SCREAMS & cries out with a latino child crying & SCREAMING as she watches an immigration officer taking away her mother for deportation, the poem is a mother crying over the dead body of her son in a casket who was SHOT to death by the police, the poem is the sound of police billy clubs BEATING over the heads of striking workers...

The poem is the sound of a police revolver shooting a bullet into a young black man’s back, the poem sighs with the sad nod of a young woman accepting her boss’s indecent proposal because she wants to keep her job, the poem cries with a middle-aged woman crying who has just been laid off from her job along with a thousand others…

The poem raises its fist with a thousand people in the streets raising their fists and chanting slogans against war – chanting slogans against miserly wages – chanting slogans against medical care that many cannot afford – chanting slogans against yet one more black man shot down in cold blood by the police…

The poem seethes with anger & anger & ANGER for years & years with a population of millions seething & seething…

The poem seethes with the white man sick & tired of working for miserly wages, the poem seethes with the black man sick & tired of getting shot by the police, the poem seethes with the latino man sick & tired of all these deportations, the poem seethes with the women frustrated with inequality…

The poem worries that those who hold the atomic button cannot be trusted with it, the poem is HUNGRY with all the hungry people, the poem is worried with all the WORRIED people…

The poem knows that the future MUST be different, the poem knows that the way things are cannot stay the way they are…

In the poem the worker & the veteran shake hands and march in protest together! In the poem the soldiers refuse to fire upon the workers – and the soldiers & workers embrace and fight together against the war profiteers – against the war-hungry politicians…

The poem sees the future of black, white, & brown workers UNITED! The poem sees the future where black, white, & brown in blue civil war uniforms will finish the last Great Civil War. The poem sees the future where the next Great Civil War will not be about north or south, but about those who work rebelling against their masters! The poem sees the future where those that work shall triumph over those that inherit their wealth! The poem sees the great democracy of those that work, and everyone will have work at good wages, and the poem sees the future where those that were wealthy are no longer wealthy and they too will have to work…

Copyright 2014 by Wolf Larsen

Advance permission is given for the reproduction & distribution of the following poem, provided that credit is given to its author, that no alterations are made in the poem, and that the purpose of such reproduction & distribution is not hostile.

A Poet was Writing Peanut Butter
A poem by Wolf Larsen

A poet was writing peanut butter all over the walls in baroque sentences…

Meanwhile, policemen shot young men to death.

The poet wrote sailboats sailing across the pages…

Meanwhile, world superpowers aimed their nuclear weapons at each other.

The poet masturbated new words into phrases of poetry that danced around each other…

Meanwhile, one out of every five children in his country went to bed hungry every night;

The poet pulled everybody’s brains out of their heads and created tornadoes of art with everybody’s brains…

Meanwhile, the prisons filled with ever more ruined young lives.

The poet declared his dictatorship of fornicating words blasting out of his penis…

Meanwhile, young women at workplaces were pressured into sex by their bosses, young men were raped in prison, and legions of the poor begged in the streets.

The poet pulled vowels & consonants out of his pie and turned them into naked roman sculptures having eternal sex with each other…

Meanwhile, the civilians died in endless wars, the soldiers came back with limbs missing, and the war profiteers amassed giant fortunes;

Meanwhile, the poet created new skies for the human race to live under, and the poet created giant temples of creative delirium for all to read…

Copyright 2014 by Wolf Larsen

Mother****er Boom-Boom Trigger
A poem by Wolf Larsen

I sick my rabid mother on you, you itchy-otherfooker-Uranus-****s-in-the-heads-bleep!
You ain't nothing but a ***** with psychosis in Uranus,
And these Mother****ers be ****ting the meaning of life everywhere,
And my diarrhea is more Mother****er than Preparation H,
‘Cause you be a ***** with more bellybuttons then a Moon on crack,
So I bust your *** with caramel-bullet-pudding,
‘Cause you ain't nothing but a rainbow in my penis!
You be the biggest Mother****er of all the space aliens in my testicles,
and my Dick is bigger than all the ants in a Salvador Dali painting,
And your mama's pussy is wider than the Grand Canyon on LSD!
So go eat a plate full of tangerine submarines, you mother ****ing hernia in a box...

Copyright 2014 by Wolf Larsen