124. The Boner-Groaner

A comedy I am watching –
The family kind, moreso –
And I must say I’m laughing hard,
Which only brings me woe.
All alone in my apartment
This might be no big deal –
But the minute that he comes,
The distraction’s set in steel.

There’s nothing I despise
More than unprecedented Wood;
He pops up more often than not
Which is far more often than he should.

I’d like to know where I got this boner,
I say:
“Wherefore hail thy stoner demeanor?”
Offended as usual, and quickly taut,
It replies:
“How should I know, you perky twat?”

“Could it be from cotton rubbing your crotch?
Or the sudden effects of five cups of scotch?
Might be from the jittering of your car
Or even the pressure of bunk on my bar.
You get aroused so easily
That it’s almost most likely to be
Nothing at all but the nudes in your head
Or passing the women you’d like in your bed –
At least hearing their voices all from afar
Is enough to count me shot for the stars.

Though I don’t know what ails you,
I am sure of this truth, son:
A thousand things have set me off,
But sex certainly ain’t one.”

61. Won’t You Partake?

Observe this spread of Earth’s sweetest joys,
Oh! Won’t you partake?
A plethora of fleeting streets, feats, and toys,
Witness not a single fake!

The world is wide, time perniciously short,
Usually squandered often.
This fine night, prove my worthy cohort
And time I soothe and soften!

Drink dry draughts of fine cheap beer, their
Sensual heat, so sweet!
Or sneak a snort of costly coke, my dear,
And from the dumps be beat.

Seize from the tree of Earth and see
Things Earth cannot hold!
Simply hold fast to your drugged repast;
You’ll feel as good as gold.

I wager, if lay you down besides a beaut, it
Should be a boon.
In no time flat you’d clutch the fat of her
Bare, fresh moon.

If it’s moons you desire, so shall I shower
Down wealth above;
For monetary value possesses practical power in
Luring lewd love.

Permit me whisk you away to a faraway realm
To exist in fantasy –
Leagues away from the bland, dreary helm
Of Captain Reality.

I promise your pleasure ne’er be begot,
A journey filled with ease –
You can be sure of that, friend, or my name is not
Mephistopheles!

171. Tranquil Turmoil

Silent serenity – A peaceful reverie –
Dining in a lodge on the snowy mountainside
Where the window cools the mind and the whiskey warms the head,
Preparing it to dance
To flounce about with flurries –
For the snow flutters round
This peaceful skier’s lodge –
A furnace burns within, while smoke rises without,
Black furls among folds of scarlet and purple,
A horizon darkening,
Though still bright with angels’ dandruff
That weighs down haughty conifers with a deadly icing
That will be cheerier
Witnessed tomorrow on the slopes
Where I rediscover the energy of my youth.
But now the ice in my whiskey is the only cold I know,
And the faces of the tourists as they prepare to fight my mountain –
You see, I make the deadly cliff my friend
when my thoughts are trained on it.
I have an aim, a game, a goal.
But in this lodge I am left
To thoughts of life alone –
The glass threatens to drown me,
The meal threatens to choke me,
And all the while I watch the flames
That comfort but threaten to scorch me.
I’d much rather face death
Than face my own self –

So, I sit here, and order a beer,
To wait for the yolk of the sun
To break free from the shell of the snow,
When I can leave this cocoon filled with dangers unseen
And take on the risks clear below.

149. Respect

No pictures here in Westminster –
I see you there, rascally sir!
There will be no photos taken here
I swear it on my grave.

Oh no, you shan’t, not at St. Paul’s!
We’ve nothing hidden, just the rules –
I don’t care your memory’s short,
We’ll expect you here again.

Turn off the flash? I cannot believe
The way you expect no reprieve
Since I know you’ll use it when I am relieved –
Look! See the decay in the stone
Caused by the flash of your phone.

St. Peter’s Basilica, did you say?
I don’t give a hoot about Italy
Or what in the Louvre your camera sees –
Britain does it best. Oh yes!
You’ll forget what you saw, and come back again –
Can’t we be sure of that?
Oh, yes!
We can be sure of that.

115. An Incontinent Soliloquy

To pee, or not to pee – that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind
to suffer a bloated bladder
or humilated loins –
To rise, to dream no more,
Or to trust the dream as
That, but a dream,
and relieve myself.

‘Tis a constipation
Devoutly to be wished.
To rise, to weep —
To sleep, to dream —
ay, there’s the rub,
for is that sleep less dreamlike,
lest we shuffle
off mortal coil
And give way to piss?

The pangs of uncertainty,
the bladder’s delay,
The insolence of subconscience
and the urine –
When he himself might his quietus make
with a bare butkin?
To grunt and sweat upon a toilet seat
in night’s dead still
but from the dread
of something after dreams
makes us rather bear those soiled sheets
Than exert for a fly to the loo?

Thus cleanliness
does make busibodies of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is yellow, o’er
the pale cast of sheets,
And enterprise of great piss and moment
With this regard their currents spew forth
And lose the name of a dream.
Yet, to force wake upon oneself
Is a fashion of the same body
that fails to keep lowed passion cork.
I feel nothing remiss
And trust in turn to piss.

— Soft you now,
thou unjust Willie! —
Limp, in thy orifices
Be all thy shame remembered.

94. The Bunny Hunter

I fancy a bit of a hunting
For the creatures of the field;
I shoot them high
I shoot them nigh
For the bounties they will yield.

But every shot played is all a-fowl
A Pheasant upon my plate;
I am in need
Of a different breed
To appease my starving state.

The Birds are all one of a feather
In a tree that strains their squawks;
It is unfair
To lose all my hare
Because I can find naught but their flocks.

I fancied a bit of a hunting
For the creatures of the field;
But not in this place
Will I find latent grace,
Only mad bony Cuckoos revealed.

202. A Pleasureful Plummet

Oh shit
Oh shit
I’m sixty-nine thousand feet up in the air –
And now I just realize it.
I trained so hard for my A license
To jump out on my own
Oh shit
And now I’m falling falling falling
Through clouds past birds down down
And am realizing it
That I trained to learn the thrill
And a thrill I sure am having
But not the one I expected
And not one I’m sure I want
Oh shit
Why didn’t I realize it
When I slipped this flight suit on
Or strapped down all the harnesses
That feeling this pressure
On my chest
And feeling the tug
Between my legs
And being subject to this show
Of gravity and wind upon my body
Would force out this reaction
A secret I didn’t even know I had
So how can I help it –
Oh shit
I’m so freaking aroused and can’t do shit about it
But fall the rest of the way
And pray those falling behind me
Think they’ve burst a raincloud on a crystal-clear day.

91. Threat of Extinction

If there were no humans
The air would be relieved
From strangled choke of smog and smoke
Coughed out by their machines.

If there were no humans
The land would be set free –
With fields and beasts and birds and trees
Not bound by their ill will.

If there were no humans
Would not the seas be blessed
With more marine life, less oil strife,
And glaciers all intact?

If there were no more humans
The world would lose its worth –
For does beauty really exist
With none to witness it?

211. Beach Day

Choppy the waves that crown the sea,
Black the beach our eyes can’t see –
Iron umbrella strapped to my back
With spread to beat back the burn of flack
That sprays like sunrays, or foam at the knees
Tripping up our boys wading in, floating free,
And those primed to hop out the LCVP
To seize spots for basking and advance the attack.
“We’ll start the war from right here!”
Shouts our chief among the debris
Of waterlogged sandals and detainees
So we pump ever faster, to triple our tracks,
Cover that beach with swissed Union sacks,
And so, to make sure fun in the sun the future guarantees,
“We’ll start the war from right here!”

189. Minority

I feel marginalized
Ostracized
Because I am not accommodated
For being a left-handed man;
Everywhere I move,
Everything I touch,
Reminds me of just how handicapped
I am as a left-handed man.
I ought to sue the government!
I ought to have reparations –
For I’ve never known the privilege
Of being a so-called “elite”
Who can use his right hand in anything
And not feel hindered or oppressed
Though he hinders and oppresses me
By being born quite differently!
And yet, because we are unique,
Being a rarer bunch to find,
We find solidarity in our identity
And tell you: Yes! Left-handed men
Can be just as good as Right-handed men
If not better!
But it’s still a pain and you still should pay for my discomfort.