write a really WEIRD poem

tell me, when does 'some time' start
and is it gritty or is it pink and
when it ends
(how will I know?),
will it idly drift by or
drop with a clang?

The Vogon fixed us to our seats
to take the words and make them greech
and dribble gluesome, like a toilet stench
which wandered grimly by the beach
to the sound of a ragged cowtooth moan.
Like cloggy marsh or faecal squelch
we felt it underneath our teeth,
and thought with every sodden breath
he'd made that room a place of death.
But screaming would not be polite,
since we had bade him come that night.

Sizzling hot,
The pot calling the kettle
Charred,
Culling
More than just piecemeal
Scraps
For animal feed,
Spread liberally
In a sturdy
Trough,
Inspiring
Swine's
Minds and stomachs
To accept the
Nutrition
As a mainstay,
Not a temporary
Recuperation
Delivered
By rote
Without substance.

They say that such intangibles as determination, success, willpower
And the like
Are meted out to everyone,
In a fair manner.
That one has to merely make the effort.
So why is it that it seems more of a challenge to some
More so than others?
Do all go through this agony,
This mind-wrenching, soul-gripping
Torture
In order to gain something that in no way has bearing
On the essence of one’s life?
Why should it be thus?

Jan 4, 2007
02.20

Following blindly through crystal landscapes,
Through bloody hallways opening empty doors,
Either side is the sun the moon is ahead
Above streets of winding fear

Close your eyes
I have no eyelids
Then cover them with your hands
Do not leer you might get caught
These foamed fingers scratching roughly at skin

Would you care if I left and never came back?
Walk golden-rimmed deserts
Where half-eaten scorpions breed with the sand.

A vivid nightmare, beautifully rendered! In the 4th line of the second verse you might want to change "leer" to "fear"?

Brave sons of steel
our voices hoarse, out of alignment,
grind off to metal points when men come near.
Blood beats us hard with rain
sharp shines our skin,
our throat's a pit of stone
the fruit has left. 'Tomorrow
is another day,' they smile
while we spit oil, gluggy on their shoes,
demand attention to an angled face
and turn in step with chiselled chins
to mark the bleeding endpoint to the stretch.

High above, the circular sawbird
carves up the sky to ragged flames
and all the horrid mess of it crumbles,
sprinkles tinsel in the mouths of starving fishes,
in streams bitten off the ocean of question.

And then when vapour, tired in our teeth,
burns off in slouching Summer's lot,
we'll know then that the pull of metal thoughts is strong,
and rest our iron bones from rage.

Steel saliva still maintains its shine
of real experience, with lines of spittle
flecked from the tongue's patinaed sheen.
The silver crust of newly-molded words
chosen with exceptional care.

i lie awake again tonight
and the echoes of my nightmare
are thrown back at me
from down the hall--
dancing up and down
like the big purple four-square balls
i used to trip over
during recesses
so long ago...

Not by Chance

Never
Is the way I feel about you,
The chance that we'll ever be together
Ever since the look you gave me
That said
Never
Not in this life time.

Earthworm kitchen hope tape capital roving reporter Dave Louski coming to you live
from the cave dwelling not-so-recent past
It's
somehow nothing nor even going or getting and waiting it
just gets that way when you get it out, but inside, no
it's so very something else,
yes,
but not too much, no, nor too taut or kinked or kindled,
no,
not even with a whisk or a brisket
not even with a nosegay or a petit-four
and no
certainly not for you
Dave Louski
there in your up to the minute time traveling silver news globe.
hark at you
go get ya
ya hobgoblin, necromancing, singles-bar-frequenting nautical naught.
Where do you get off? O r r a t h e r I would, I mean should say,
When?

Tacticle pedant reprobate hopscotch queen, sorry,
king (it was the hair, something feminine, in particular
about your moustache, I'm sorry, I've been ill, a disease of the
brain pan, I'm
better now, but I still get these
febrile little
buzzing sensations
especially when someone nearby smells as bad as you.
I'm sorry, did I say that?
It wasn't me. I was not myself. I never am. No one is. There
is no self or causation. Nevertheless, we must take
responsibility for the selves we are not.
I choose Ghandi's.

Good to see you back B! Yes, the big Louski. we shared cheap scotch in a Ramada Inn bar in New Mexico. I was not the least uncomfortable with his nose.

Exquisite intricacy

Bordering on

Technical genius,

Suggesting

Inordinate skills

Of the tarrying kind,

Brought to the surface by

Antiquary tastes,

Recognizing subtleties

Long forgotten

In contemporary

Contexts.

True vision

Mirroring

Innuendoed images

Gathers dust

In the

Tepid foyer

Of toasted declamation

Screams
is all I can hear in my ears.
Filled with the pain they bear.

I look around,
but it's so dark.
No, wait a minute,
there's a spark!
The sky is 'breaking up'
stars are falling down,
and the screams in the middle.

I try moving,
but I'm all tied up.
Tentacles of Malice
binding and leeching,
my life's torn away.

Beasts and Devils,
along with brighter
beings like Angels,
danced in an endless battle.

The Earth was crying,
creatures were dying,
screams were deafening,
and I was shouting...
but I knew I was alone.

Suddenly, everything stopped,
my senses went dull,
and I closed my eyes...
I expected to rise, heaving
from this hell I was dreaming.

But no, my friend, I wasn't on bed;
I was still there, I'm just simply dead.