Deadpan Poetry

towering grate of wisdom/ the elder pants

spiders in her hair

scalpels
define her eyes
sandstone slits
her tongues

cauterize
texts are written
then burned
at the stake

she plants
frozen serpents
gather to die
in her wake

her cunning
legendary
digging waypoints
to elsewhere

All Set

conversinginmetaphors:

all set sweet hearts the stool is just a delusion
is life merely just a hologram or turtle necks
the camo pants make your toe look obtuse

many intoxications with home bound tricyclists
don’t text while blind folded or masticating the
percussionists can be symbolic and horrific o face

the all you can defeat buffet unlocks possibilities
and digressions of alternative bicycles with out-dated
connotations aforethought as afterthoughts I think

frost personage video games make you rethink
HBO Go and championship wrestling belches
with dwindling savings accounts without Chapstick

stranded thought life

darkhorsepoet:

and again this falling snow
throws invigoration
at the ground
but winter is dead
and in death it works
trying to hide either
the remnant ugliness
or the coming beauty
change is coming
and she’s calling again
my love, the land is too treacherous
for man beast
machine and ghost
baring it all
the land
bearing down on me
baring its teeth at me
smiling fangs dripping
about to feast
on a quivering morsel
of tender exposed flesh
the wind
a howling holy ghost gospel choir
calls me home
I finish my life on my knees
grace my sole recourse
my final act plays out
who knew I had hidden
so much regret?

Extra-Tiny Cake at the Fatty Dojo and They Damn Well Better Serve Extrapple (for Virulent-Tuber)

paradigmpoet:

I tackled a flying shenanigan and found it more jiggly than I expected.  The resulting art was fraught with pity.    

And the fiery penance for this most grievous spectacle?  A forced wake and bake with Zelma Campbell.  Even Will Shakespeare has no words.

The mercury turns counter clockwise here, must be the sudden trickle of Evan Williams you keep shoving at me in a Mountain Dew bottle.  I can’t drink the fire water, sir.  The villagers will tear me limb from limb. 

They have extra-smiley eyes. 

I don’t trust it. 

Did I just see you ride by on a narwhal?  So it’s pandemonium, then.  

I don’t even see how you grip with your hooves all caught up in that cool chick’s hair. 

I know you like to swallow the ocean, but never be afraid to breathe a little

in between gulps.

And stop staring at domesticated animals and laughing.

You are an asshole. 

But I love you in a don’t-make-me-turn-this-car-around-dammit kind of way.

Is that weird?    

Yes.  I know.  Delicious cake.   

Calm down, smoke a bowl and do this later when you’re really bored, like let’s say after you’re dead.

• Crawl upon someone’s skin like an insect and insert something resembling a mandible.
• Start a cult called the discipline of cake calling yourselves disciples of cake and swallow delicious cake sitting on a pew made of gingerbread littering the floor with cake crumbs and have an altar where you show your piety by eating tiny pieces of cake on your knees wearing nothing but a wool robe with plenty of pockets for extra tiny cake.
• Establish your authority over a domesticated animal by pointing and laughing at it for as long as it takes. 
• Hide in a bush and leap out yelling oooga boooga at passersby wearing nothing but a John Ashcroft mask. Extra points if it’s Halloween and Janet Napolitano.
• Demand to speak to the proprietor when the barkeep says they don’t have Mike Tyson’s punch out.
• Replace every noun you might use in a fine art critique with the word shenanigans.
• Go to Cuba and smoke Black and Milds for the sake of freedom, baby. 
• Watch Half Baked and try your damnest not come come away as happy as an indescribably happy thing.
• Gargle mercury. Then say whoops.
• Schedule a job interview and speak only in ribbits. 
• Begin a love poem with the line “I miss her deep scars and thick scar tissue on top of that.” End it with “colostomy malt explosion.”

The Tulpa. 9. Tongue-Eater.

steffenrmitchell:

The lancet liver fluke first infects the terrestrial snail
Which then secretes the parasite in cysts that are left in its moisture trail
If an ant finds the trail, it will use it as a source of moisture,
Swallowing the cysts and infecting itself with the fluke
The fluke will move to the ant’s esophageal ganglion,
Where it will manipulate the nerve cluster and control the ant’s behavior
Once in control, the fluke leads the ant to a leaf, where the ant remains
Until it is eaten by a grazing animal
It is the nature of the parasite to seek a host higher than its prey

The tongue-eating louse enters a fish through its gills
Attaches itself to the base of the tongue with its mandibles
Slowly gorging itself on the blood of the fish
This eventually causes the tongue to atrophy and fall off.
Once the tongue is no more, the louse attaches itself
To the stub of the fish’s tongue
The fish can use the parasite as an effective tongue
At the price of its blood
It is the nature of the parasite to save its host from death

eschewing usual shenanigans

Pale and beardly.
Never experienced oppression

apart from the slow drum
of feckless oblivion.

Followed for the tits?
It’s nearly time to bounce.

Usually moments away
from total dissimulation.

Never forget to shave.
That’s a bald faced lie.

Sometimes forget to take 
anything seriously.

Except weekends.
The current anginal pain: 

a very good example.
Prolifically akin to cancer.

Better ignored or treated.
Sometimes use expletives

not cause it inflicts attention
but cause it is the only way.

Saturday a collaboration
between poets and comedians

felt like a distant sliver
floating in the reaches.

That’s not poetry, jackass.
Sometimes regurgitate lines

most gratuitously self-indulgent.
Sometimes write lines with I

want to gouge myself out.

Be Kind. Use Logic In The Process.

Read More

an insultingly transparent attempt at hiding one’s epeen

Read More

Last Call

beautymarkings:

Here they come stumbling, trying to fake that sexy swagger in shoes far too impractical for being so drunk. You are no Mae West in that cheap polyester dress. The art of the tease lost in a sea of free for all cellulite and half crescent ass cheeks peaking beneath skirts two sizes too small.

I watch them, wondering if the men they’re seeking see what I see. These lost little girls, all struggling to validate themselves in one night stands, as though regrettable sex with a near stranger is some sort of trophy. There are no winners here, just a field of land mines, a soon to be sad display of wreckage.

Somewhere in the mix, the female sexual liberation turned into license to be graceless. This spectacle the antithesis of what that movement ever stood for. The notion that we can fuck just as easily, without guilt imposed by societal standards of the 50s, the pristine holier than thou housewife, no. That’s all well and good, but that is not what this is. This is desperation. This is embarrassment, with necklines so low I can see the daddy issues from across the room. All this squandering to “find a man” with no real consideration of quality, of worth. Still not knowing how to be emotionally self sufficient. Still clinging to the hopes that some boy will tell you how pretty you are, every shred of what you mistake for self respect hinging on one liners. This is not women’s lib. This is a freak show.

It’s not that I ever think I’m better. I just wish they could think more of themselves.

Falling Off The Edge In Laughter

scathing rebuke of the new tumblr poetry editors poem featuring not-so-subtle hints of passive aggressive pandering

all this schmoozing 
is giving me a migraine.
you folks can expect
probes of spam
in all the right places.
i want to extend
a personal fuck-yeah
to my friends delegated
to god-emperor poom.
to the other eds whom
continue to detest my brand
i still kinda want
to make out with you.
but i would be remiss
if i didn’t stir the pudding.  

so

i regret to inform the rest
of you: your ineffable pundits
were in after-party attendance
at the grand opening of the 
george w presidential library.
everyone was lying 
around in piss and vomit. 
it was rather squalid.
fun fact: you are looking
at the founding members
of the “supernatural” fan club.
sometimes their pens leak
diarrhea like my own
but more discerning.
and what good is pudding

if not stirred?