---

I never understood why the sex
Swearing has so firmly struck
In the minds of every illiterate sap
And the mouths of each ill-tempered schmuck.

Why this poop?
What of it?
Does not the English language
Provide better words to fit?

Why would a dog call their fella a penis
If he bites at her nerves like a tick?
Wouldn’t that be a compliment
For a man all the ladies would pick?

It urinates me off
To deal with nonsense such as this –
A cluster of fools whose grammatical skills
Ignore their clear remiss.

---

---

All along the Isis
That part of Thames claimed by Oxford
Is a small dirt path.
You think it used
For practical purposes, or bedazzling show?
No.
Instead it is a naval graveyard –
A procession of garbage barges –
A regular Junk Row.

All along this Junk Row,
The dejected tenants line politely, bow to stern,
Covered in dead leaves
Browner than the rust on their bellies
And the dirt on their roofs.
But take their word, and not my own –
Besides my word
Will prob’ly be denied
By those lovely Oxford scholars
And the boats’ owners, who wish to stay port.

“My name is Lady Ethel,
And I’m rather smartly dressed:
Cracked headlamps lit
By pigeon shit
And holes borne ‘long my breast.”

“They hail me Captain’s Rat
Since jealousy ensnares –
Considering
That everything
I own they claim was theirs.”

“Here Comes Trouble is my name,
Sailing stoned-out is my game.
My clogged engine,
Peeling green skin,
And dank steam have gained me fame.”

“Behold, I be the Magick!
Though there’s nothing grand about –
The only trick
You’ll see me stick
Is how I can stay afloat.”

“Sir! I’m the stout Commando!
I always stay covert!
Food, leaves, and crap
(And sticky tree sap)
Keep me from a just desert!”

“I might be called the Doghouse,
But don’t let that name fool you:
My master’s pet
Might be master yet
Since both’ve marked my inside through.”

“I’m the Midnight Fairyman,
And I implore, please stay away –
I’ll try to hide
The lads inside,
But my rocking does betray.”

“Aye, they known me as Scott Free
Since Scott Free is what I am –
The lad in charge
Lives free of charge
Since hey’s quite the famly man.”

“Shloop is written on my belly,
Quite a simple, silly title.
It’s no wonder
Since that blunder
Does not consider college vital.”

“Africana – but say it soft!
Driver’s cruel in thoughts of fun.
Still, I don’t blame
His bondage game
Since young charges scream and run.”

There you have but ten Junkies
Along that cursed Junk Row
There are many more,
Many, many more,
But do you want to hear more
Trash from trash?
Wouldn’t it be better to let them rot?
Sit there until they sink
From the weight of leaves or secrets
Rather than make a fuss
And uproot that soiled soil?

---

---

Bored:
‘Tis what I am
Since what I was
Required a certain aptitude
To rely on humanity’s fancy
And aggravated whim.

People-listening was my game
And, boy! Was it a gas
To hear the personal
The provincial
The scandalous
Schemes borne from those
To whom privacy comes last.

And now: Hark here!
A newer conversation
Fills the rooms with pedantic drivel
As the modern man looks outward
To things that hardly concern him
And ends his winded lectures
With feigned moral aggravation.

They pretend they are the experts
Of their collective truth
But, really, they are just bland
And kind of unoriginal –
Simply, boring –
As they recite the talking points
Gathered throughout the day.

“Relevant this, relevant that –
She probably did so,
But everyone knows he did so –
How do I know? How can I tell?
‘Cause everyone’s saying it
So there’s some proof in it
Or else what I’m saying
Isn’t worth much at all –
But I can’t believe that
By virtue of it’s what I find interesting.”

Fools like this
Go on and on
Whether dates with loves or business friends
Permit jabbering on for endless ends
Without realizing it’s been said before
Or refusing to believe it
Or else lose individuality.

Well, I say, they’ve lost it –
And I’ve affirmed that man is a bore
Since the women and men sound off as one
Just to hear their complaints echo over the floor
Until eavesdroppers like me, who chose – but now can’t help it –
Turn around to shush their drivel
Because our own thoughts are suddenly more fun.

---

---

For Christ’s sake, could you sit still?
Tapping your fingers
On your knee, unrhythmically,
Foot beating a different one
After the legs bounce and cross –
Once, twice, three times a second –
God grant me patience!
What is that rubbing?
That frantic forearm rubbing
Like a flint sparking the fires
Of my annoyance?

And you, fanning the flames with
Loud, uneven puffs from your flaring nostrils –
Cannot seem to behave like an adult.
Your daughter pleads for silence
As you trumpet like a damn elephant,
But you chide her and urge her to shout.
She’s a good girl
And you are more the child.
Finally, you take out your phone
Which might occupy your
Disgraceful, fidgeting self.
Oh, for crying out loud,
Will you plug some headphones in?
I am trying to talk
On the phone,
If you hadn’t noticed.

---

---

This is a poem to vent
All of my pent-up
Anger.
There!
It is done.

---

---

Down the lane, I saw them march:
Her Royal Highness’ Guard!
Fly forth, tout suite, into their ranks,
Where we shall play a lovely prank
And perhaps might raise a cheerful stank
Among this stoic lot.

One two, one two!
Keep in time with fat tap shoes,
Fixed forward like their proud glares
Hidden beneath black furry crowns
That shield them from the points and jeers
Of crowd amused that I am here
To mock their glower, bark and sneer,
Shuffle feet or stomp in time,
Seven eight, eight nine!

They turn around to back again
At which point my approach must change,
And so at the top of my lungs I shout:
“What a solemn procession
For the decay of a nation!”
The crowd is not too pleased at this
And neither are the guards –
“Make way for the Queen’s Guard!”
One shouts in fury.
“Down with the Queen!”
I shout in return –
And am immediately leapt upon
By those who disagree,
Though it all be in fun, I swear,
My gut is beaten with my pleas.

What ho, what’s this?
Dost mine eyes deceive me yet?
New knights of the militia
Fight back on my behalf.
Their fluffy scraggly blackened beards
Shield them from the blows
Of fellow guards who then draw back
Once fearful scimitars show.
“Down with the Queen!”
Chokes a woman
Clutching fearfully to her bong.
“Down with the Queen!”
Coughs a man
Who gambles on the lawn.
“Down with the Queen!”
Whispers a boy
Dressed in pageant gown.
“Down with the Queen!”
Squeaks a They
Who then demands the Crown.

All around the Royal Guard
Throngs of dissidents flock
To kick and bite and voice complaint
Until the guards’ hard features faint,
Replaced with rage and violence
As war between the parties roars
And no one knows who’s right or wrong
Until the bayonets come down;
Protect themselves – Forego the crown! –
As I watch afar with upside frown.

Oh, it’s a hoot to loose the riots
Festering beneath!
You hear hearts close to bursting,
You see the grinding teeth –
But since they can’t but crackle,
Pour gas to add the boom!
Contented fools don’t read their writings
‘Til halfway past our doom.

---

---

Confound the pungent plumbing
Of this asthenic sink!
The water trickles ticklishly,
Tittle, tittle, plip,
Plip; behold
The grime does not wash away!
I should have not
Dried ribs today.
This man near me
I would sympathize, his washing for
Five minutes, were his faucet only
Half as feeble as mine.

---

---

One Two Three
Four Five Six
I’m getting tired sick of this!
Before a single week has passed
Cobwebs have half-filled my glass
Since mugs are my collecting fix
I own close to five plus three and six
Mugs pile the best collector’s heap
For being practical, pretty and cheap –
But damn these fool eight-legged bugs
For building their homes inside of my mugs!
I cannot drink coffee at the breakneck pace
Required to beat their weave-binding race.
So! I have decided to limit the use
Of my mugs for collection and arachnid abuse;
From now on I drink coffee from Styrofoam
That abandons my mugs to cobwebbish loam.

---

---

Here I sit upon a bench,
Musing in retrospect
As the clock ticks by, the full moon high,
A lamppost Space erects.
My patience withers away
As I wait long for the shuttle
To taketh away beyond break of day,
Exempting all bitter rebuttals.

Every bus stopping in turn
Rejects my ticket, null and void,
But I am certain, behind closed curtain,
The world chuckles at my being toyed.
For, as it turns, it turns forth time,
Turning man to turn in turn –
Yet the faster the spin, the sharper the wind
And the hotter its friction will burn.

But I stand alone on this layer of space,
Watching infernos onward spread
As every tear escaping down laments the many crowns
That tilt ‘til they tumble from head.
I lie silently in this manner
As they meander on by, single-file,
My despair distributed amongst them,
Solemn procession stretched for miles.

Days upon days, weeks upon weeks,
Travelers stumble through bus doors.
Left out in the dark, my exclusion unbearably stark
That my very essence is abhorred.
Hither a bus rolls up without warning,
A young lady in charge at the wheel –
She beckons with kind understanding,
Her smile a thirst-quenching reel.

I rise to meet and to greet her.
She takes my ticket in hand
And shreds it with faltering gesture
Despite what had always been planned.
She scoots just a tiny bit over
So in her I’d know I’ll confide –
I sat down with her, shoulder to shoulder,
And we both took in silence the ride.

---

---

I can sleep
In a ball on a train
In a box in the rain
In a chain on the street
In a field on a sheet
On the deck of a ship
Beneath a sink with a drip
Inside a coffin underground
Within a cage in the pound
Tied to ninety-nine balloons
Amidst a flock of quacking loons
Dragged behind a bouncy boat
Strapped to the horns of an angry goat
Driven through with twenty knives
Infected with a hundred hives
Swallowed by a humpback whale
Beaten by softball-sized hail
Stretched across electric fence
While my gut gets gaping dents
As brass-knuckled blows never stop
With my mouth stuffed o’er a filthy mop
On my ass or on my head
Looking awake or stone-cold dead
I can sleep almost anywhere, you see,
Under any circumstance, inadvertently –
For the secret to passing out on a dime
Is to always be sleepy, all of the time.

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