New Poetry
These are three poems that I wrote. One is titled "Poem 40" and one is titled "Out of Heaven" and one is titled "I hate Garrett Langley".
Poem 40
What could or couldn't of
the holy moment? is of not
the only encroachment? of
what all she loves or knows
or understands or blows away
into moments of indifferent
suffering; Hell to come, Hell
hath come. and fun and Sukha
and sex and bazookas that
blow away into meaningless
zombies lying still in a purple
petri dish. it should be
spelled peetree.
p e e t r e e
Petri is a funny word. pulverize is a funny word too
and it sounds a little like poltergeist
and it sounds even less like Gatorade.
g a t o r a d e
Throw her, throw her, throw her
nicely. "excuse them," is what she kept on
saying. "excuse them" is what she
kept on saying to herself in the
mirror. "excuse them" is what she
kept on saying to herself in the
mirror that morning. "excuse them"
is what she kept on saying to herself
in the mirror that morning while she
was getting herself ready. and those monkeys
kept on pushing her. and those monkeys
just kept on pushing her. and those monkeys
just kept on pushing her and pushing
her and pushing her and smushing her.
WWYBWTPTLOTW
Where will you be when they
purge the liars of the world?Out of Heaven
Sinking mirrored meadows patiently
tan. A boy abducts a catfish and
the sky congratulates. His father
waited one thousand
years for that moment.
Grassy pokes break the horizon
swimming across nebula; searching
for sky-blue and yellow.
His grandfather's ashes mixed
well with the island sand.
Sun-beat, his wife docks and moors.
"Goodnight," that old lab barks.I Hate Garrett Langley
Let me ask you something,
buddy, could I see your
genitals? Tell me something,
whose can you see? Rats eat what jungle
tigers shred into tiny,
little, itty-bitty pieces, and bombs
do what bombs do. Mushrooms
eat everything. Mold, mold,
mold. That's what Garrett
Langley is, mold. So what
can we do, Jeff? What choice
do we have? Three-hund-red
for-ty-two-dumb-
foun-ded-dip-shits and counting while
Garrett's piss rains
on Gary's parade; Nirvana is
gone, all because he didn't
know what Syria is. And
let me ask you something else,
did you ever fucking read George
Huxley? Do you see me
breathing down your
neck? You get off to it, I know
worms like you whose mommies
were whores and daddies a
fist. And you have the balls
to call me a terrorist? Remember,
remember, the fifth time
you were rejected, remember,
remember, how it made you feel,
remember, remember, you wanted to show
them, remember, remember, you
wanted to kill. What will it
fucking take for you to be
satisfied?
Meditations upon your arriving
to what we call "America" leave
me bitter and hopeless. Thầy
would be disappointed. Thoughts
disjointed, I can do better. Let
me ask you one more thing,
would you accept my forgiveness?
I doubt it.
I wouldn't accept yours.
Macray’s Poems