Tuesday, August 30, 2016

No algorithm

I can twist and turn this little thing
That beats steady in my hand
The ticks of a clock, the twisting box
Is something I no longer understand

No algorithm can solve this puzzle
To find a solution to this situation
No algorithm can satisfy the conditions
To answer this twisted questions

All conditions applied, confusing still
Rules have started to blur
Faces melt in a rainbow of color
I dip a finger in and stir

Sometimes I solve this in my head
Remembering the steps along the way
But then I reach an end that's dead
And I have nothing to say

All I can do is trust my gut
And keep searching for an answer
I twist and turn and move and burn
I can't wake up from this mesmer

----
This is about one thing that's about two things.

bloodletting

I think I need a doctor
I think I need a nurse
I think I need a thief
To put some money in my purse
but, uh, it's called a wallet
and whatever you might call it
it's used to carry money
(get the poem back on track honey)
(hushmaiknowwhati'mdoin)
i need a real sharp doctor
with a real sharp knife
a knife sharper and more dangerous than
the tongue in mouth of my wife
(she doesn't read this blog anyway)
(so i can say anything and get away)
(haha)
and i could use a pretty nurse
with some power in her muscles
cuz she'd need to hold me down
(mmm, hold me down)
while the doctor cuts these words out of me
from my fingers and my toes
from my cheeks and my nose
from my arms and my stomach
from my legs and my face
slice, cut, chop, sever
i need some major bloodletting
to rid me of this fucking fever
(i've got this fever, mama)
i just do not want to stop
watch me as i spiral
and wipe my life up without a mop
i'mma throw it all in a bin
and set the fucking thing on fire
cook rotten pieces of me on the flames
i never want to retire
they'll have to pull me away from the keys
with chains, horses, and elephants
but i'll still keep on fingering words
without wearing any pants
fuck pants!

Monday, August 29, 2016

monkey on my back

I was drinking with some stupid motherfuckers
when a stupid motherfucker told me
'Hey, man, you look burdened, like, uh,
like you have a monkey on your back.'

I looked at him
then I looked at the monkey on my back
I told the monkey to stay calm
Try not to attack
Try not to rip the face
off the stupid motherfucker
who passed judgment on my monkey
for the monkey is mine
we're best friends
he rides my back all day
and eats lice from my hair
gives me beautiful head massages
and we watch tv together, too
i lend the monkey a single one of my earbuds
we rock out to mindfuck metal tunes
and when I read a book, the monkey turns the pages
it's fucking helpful
to have a monkey who'd peel grapes
and put them in your mouth when you're fighting trolls online

but what do stupid motherfuckers know
the fun of having a monkey on your back
no matter how heavy the monkey gets
it's still my monkey

Sunday, August 28, 2016

thief

thief of time
thief of calm
stolen rhymes
in your palm

in your palm
the words skitter
like crazy ants
that bite bitter

the bitter bite
of moments lost
fading visions
of digital ghosts

digital ghosts
in memories
in rhymes
in stories

stories
stolen
secret
sighs

every poem

some poems slide down your throat
to sit in your gut, like a bad pizza
some poems get stuck in your teeth
like candy, chewing gum, or glue

then there are poems like butterfly kisses
they flutter by (floating) like eyelash wishes
also some poems are like a brick to the face
spinning, smashing, zero grace

some poems are like equations
that have no solution
some poems are like a thesis
long and winding and no fun

some poems have big words
you'll surely need a dictionary
some poems use small words
that might not add to your vocabulary

but every poem is a poem
that deserves to exist
every rhyme is a rebellion 
in this world of shit

Friday, August 26, 2016

Bob Dylan is so Old

I am listening to Things Have Changed
Again
That's the only Bob Dylan song that I like
It's soft, sweet, crazy, sad as fuck
Seems like Mr. Dylan is permanently
Down on his luck

I used to care, he sings
In his weary voice
Why does it still do it then
Does he not have a choice

Does Bob Dylan ever feel sad, too?
Does he listen to his own songs then?
Has he given up on everything worldly?
Is constant touring even worth the money?

I'd like to sit across Mr. Dylan someday
Pour him some whiskey and talk away
Ask him these questions to his face
And maybe request a song, not two.

One is enough, I just want to see
The look on his face
Does he smile when he sings
Things Have Changed

Have Things Changed, Mr. Dylan?

----
No vendetta against Mr. Bob Dylan. He is a cool frood, but incidentally I've written a poem about him earlier too. Read it here.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Starfish

Starfish, o starfish
Why do you lie there
Like a dead body
Spread out, sans care
Just missing
A chalk outline
Otherwise you look
Fine, abso-fine
Starfish or scar-fish(?)
What's dead in your eyes
You stare right behind me
(What's dead may never die)
Starfish, your limbs are
So cold and so still
Should I dare to touch you
But I've had my fill
Starfish, now you flinch
When things are getting hotter
Starfish, I should throw you
Right back in the water.