Lost in the Lub Lub.
Angels have come, from across the land With deep pockets and outstretched hands “Gather round, creative ones; We’ll buy your gags, just for fun.” Some will win, but most will lose Modesty dangles from a noose Teslas zipping, while drivers snooze Sheeps bleat for blacks—they aren’t amused When times get …
“Welcome to Hipster Heaven folks
First, some rules, please, no jeering jokes
Second, only Spirits are smoked
If you have weed, we’ll take a toke
There are dolphins in Venice
the highways are free.
God, please keep this virus alive.
I finally have an excuse to thrive;
Did you hear that … no?
Sunny—no shots, nor bombs dropped
Only sheep should bleat
lotus, Buddhist monk
gasoline dripping, drenched
strike a match, fire, ash
I feel Godly when staring at ants—
less so with elephants and orcas;
the latter sings and chats for leagues
the prior’s trunk caresses and ensnares
I walk out of the shed in my parent’s backyard and hear chickens in the distance.
I got your gir-rl — ca-lling me
She said you buggin’, like a flea
jumping and biting — ya’ fam-i-lee
Thoughts are hangin’ — from a tree
Who killed the chick?
Smashed and smothered
Was she the perpetrator, or,
Listen friends, listen close
I would like to propose a toast
for the happy couple, new wed
raise your glass above your head
Master, my only friend; dead.
Poetic partnership; *POOF*
must — go — a – lone …
pestering: students and fame.
I tried to be a friend and therapist for several creatives; I failed miserably at both. Although there are similar aspects to each role—such as attentive listening and encouragement—there are mutually exclusive traits as well.
Bukowski and Carlin are a sour lot.
They must’ve been bullied as
troubled youths — absentee parents,
running loose. Thinkin’ they got
Those eyes have seen it all;
trembling to the touch,
I know you’ve had enough.
Hunger pangs—pain hangs
I need some soap
to purge my smells;
We have fast food
TV dinners cloaked
in cancerous wraps;