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!

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

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

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.

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.

Barb Wire Mannequin

Hung over a precipice
Between boredom
And paranoia
A mannequin
Stuck together
With barbed wires
Congealed blood
Sticks to heavy scars
The wires move
As do the stars
The mannequin sings
A dirge, atonal
The wires string
Through his skull
Ears pierced
Mouth strung shut
He could be free
But

----------
That's it. Make whatever you want to make of it.

This city

Every face is more fucked up than another
I read news about brother killing brother
People dying on the roads and no one seems fazed
This fucking city needs to be razed

To the ground, to the ground
And then salt the ashes
People of this city are
Less human, more asses

They spit and piss on the streets
Walk around like dumb fucks
Even breathing in this city
Totally fucking sucks

Just break this city to the ground
And never rebuild in its place
Let the people disappear
Like criminals without a trace

Even hollow ground
would be 100x better
Build a hole in its place
It doesn't fucking matter

----
Morning hate for the city I'm stuck in.

Spin, said the spider

Invisible webs of memories
Strangulating, suffocating
Hanged like a marionette
From a single string

An empty pain, hovering
Receding, reseeding
The spin of nights and days
Spiders watch, the prey sways

A pendulum heart
Metronome soul
Bored to death
Still able to crawl

To lie in a spinning casket
Crafted from lies
Spiders say that they love me
Without looking in my eyes
----
These days, I'm fascinated by circles, spirals, whorls, and all things that have a radius of some kind. There will be more poems like this. How are you doing.

Woke Up Hungry

Too early to cook
Still I look
Inside the fridge
For something to eat
5 AM alarm
Awoke in a storm
Of running dreams
Fell through the seams
Of sleep into reality
I can put my head
On a pillow in my bed
But to hope for sleep
Would be cheating on daylight
So I sit here
Rhyming failure
With eyes open
I dream of the night

---
Waking up early is never good. One should wake up late afternoon or early night.

The Loop

Somewhere under a lighthouse
Where waves bash the rocks
A man wakes up covered in sweat
His room smells like wet socks
He reaches for some water
And kicks down the glass
Get up from his bed, slips
And fall on his ass
The sound of the waves
Akin to Poseidon's laugh
Breath knocked from his lungs
The man starts to cough
He gulps down some air
Like a fish about to drown
Looks out of the only window
He can't help but frown
The sky is clouded with purple smoke
While the sea is soot grey
Whiffs of white clouds puncture
through the skies so strange
The sun rises, a muted shadow of orange
He looks, eyes wide open
The dance of colors in the sky
A pale terra cotta bronze gleam
Streaks through, as if shy
A streak of subdued matte mauve
Lends the a look so suave
And so beneath the lighthouse
The man drunk on the sky so deep
He falls back where he stands
And drifts off to a drunken sleep

---
This poem is only 25% mine. Rest of it, is yours.

thousand

A thousand ways to say a thing
A thousand ways that you can sing
A song, a poem, or a prayer
It's not right, but it's almost there

You can speak the words to no real end
You can listen intently or pretend
You can rest in silence or be sure
Of a thousand ways to be ignored

A thousand poems are not enough
To say the words that mean so much
A thousand poems are just too less
For sins that I want to confess

A thousand words, a thousand tongues
A thousand breaths inside my lungs
To scream till stars can hear me scream
Why should I wake up from this dream?

No Swans

All the swans are dead
They're not here anymore
We're all some other animals
But what, we're not sure

All the swans have flown away
The planet got too much
This age of darkness
Hardened wings that were soft to touch

The swans have left the building
They're never coming back to earth
No more in sickness or in death
No more till death do us part

Now all that's left are empty ponds
And raging infidel seas
People bet on who'll be the next to go
Maybe the birds and the bees

the shame

this small feeling of shame
when I wax poetic
About all things me
Everything I feel
Shouldn't it be
The duty of a poet
Some responsibility
To make sense of the world
Through poetry
Or maybe ask a question
Or hell, point to an answer
But here I am
Marinating in my own mental juices
Focusing the spot-lights on me
Some kind of selfish dictator
Ordering the emotions
To stand in formations
So I can rhyme
Or at least try to
Maybe I'm the only selfish bitch
But maybe every fucking poet is
If there has to be some shame
We'll share that shame together
All of us, under our umbrella of sky
As life ending space rocks pass us by

----
Some poems, I tangle with for hours, others, I write with speed and urgency of vomit or crippling diarrhea.

night whispers to me

i could be sitting still
or lost in a tornado of thoughts
i could have had my fill
or hungry enough to gnaw my own bones

the radio in my chest
is always seeking
the same frequency
where i hear the whispers of the night

through the static, through the noise
through the time zones, a voice
whispered softly, in invisible notes
is it real or just in my thoughts

so i stalk the wavelengths
i prowl the digital skies
to catch another whisper
of a silent smile
---
I'm really not happy with the last paragraph. I feel there should be more to this one. This is not it.
But this will have to do for now. I am coming back to tackle this soon.

grounded

Men, women, demons selling their souls
On the streets and sidewalks of The Whorl
Cheap, for as much as cheap would go
Dying to hear a yes in the sea of no

Angels with spikes through their wings
Stuck to the ground like helpless flies
As worms eat through their feathered bones
The hawkers selling their blood drown their cries

High on dreams the people sick and tired
Tied to their dull routines, all hope expired
Zombie machines marching to the beats
Of the clocks grafted in their chest holes

This city needs a new plague
To cleanse out the garbage
The human detritus overflowing
Ouroboros feeds on itself, unknowing

Now the angels are grounded
Demons are running free
Hell is here with a grin on its face
And it's looking right at me
---
Could a city be a time in space?