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Home Dog Silly Winkers (A Love Poem for Buttholes)

all these home dogs,
these silly winkers.
there is so much more
then finding your way
to the bottom of a quarry.

Like being behind a girl
when her butthole winks at you
and you put your hands up to your head
like moose antlers.

more simplicity in the way
a butthole winks at you
than an eye does, I think.

More love in it.

Like in the bottom of the rain
when all resisters become transistors
and you feel the weight
of your dead grandmother
as you carry her coffin.

My grandmother was a big woman.

always ate my Chinese leftovers,
not much love in when you're hungry
and your dead grandmother has eaten
your leftovers.

But surely there is love in V-shaped
migrations of hooded teenagers
and how you wish all of life
was a musical so you could hear them
sing instead of the awry wink.

I still get urges to reinstall from time to time,
you know,
the deathly ills in imaginary responses
to the winking butthole,

how full of philosophy this poem is
blew my mind as I wrote it
and my grandmother haunts me still.

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The Second Day of the World's Trek (when it trod upon a pilgrim)

I placed a foot on the throat,
and beneath me, heard a gurgling sound, like tepid water
when its emotions are brought to boil.

So I lifted my knee slightly,
and from below, came heaves of sputtering oil.


This new road, the one I’d signed for, has brought me here,
and little before have I known of such things as laughter or slaughter,
which can both bring to my heart such a stimulating climax,
even though it may seem unsightly.


I laughed as the one beneath me squirmed;
for I knew he had prayed so hard to find his way,
and now his paradise will surely be found
as slowly, I find it for him
and he will pass through to it, with none around.


The oil from him is crude and old,
as will be the ones who will later say they saw,
and I’ll not call my own children liars-
no; for my life is their whim,
because for this one beneath, I could burn.

My name is “World” and with thoughtless steps I swing
to catch all hopeless pilgrims by the clip of their wings,
and standing on this hill, the everyday,
I’ll end this one to keep my own demonic kin at bay.

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Love is like a bird,
like a dove, gliding over you--
you want to be a part of the flock,
and after all, flying isn't really all that bad...
So you walk, wandering through the doors,
and frolic up the flights--
you creep up to the ledge and leap.
and for a split second it feels amazing,
a rush of emotion--
but you feel nothing but the empty air beneath your feet.


Splat

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All Things Return Home

All things return home,
    ashes to ashes,
        foam to foam.
Apples become apple seeds,
    in the shadow of trees,
        buried beneath swaying reeds.
The ocean becomes the air,
    only to fall from the clouds,
        to caress Neptune's hair.
Sheep eat grass and wolves eat sheep,
    nature brings sheep home
        for the ground to keep.
Kings are born and die on their thrones,
    nothing remains,
        not even their bones.
Yes, all things return home,
    ashes to ashes,
        foam to foam,
            all things return home,
                except for Styrofoam.

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In Case of Cliche

I'll split an ocean

with this verse

(raining tears

it's sad to say)

too many views

are so cliche,

and we should just

not think that way,

but oh, the pain

that spreads that way

if I cannot

seek these mundane

petals of hope-sprained flowers

broken at the stem

from hours of

social anxieties

pulling love-me-nots.

They drain in sighs

that chill our spines

with cold oppressive eyes

deprived from words

that can't be fine

even if they're customized,

to ride the track

that trains would

claim their own,

but not allow

the chariots

to follow them

vengefully.

There's a traitor

inside everyone.

So why don't you

just shut up and listen?