The writings of Oddpoet

Poetry that bleeds, screams and never sleeps

Apoca­lyp­tic Stew

Phase
Shift
Crazed
Rift

Argent
Black­ness
Cogent
Confess

Vicious dogs
Mangy mutts
Pinup hogs
Vile sluts

Some fallen Priests
Are eying cock
A banker’s feast
A scat­tered flock

All wounded souls here
Spin the wheel of time
No one can see clear
Rea­sons con­fused crime

Cen­ter­folds are singing
A crass and tune­less song
Demon wasps are sting­ing
The poi­soned malaise strong

Who truly can remem­ber
When it all came tum­bling down
That dark day in Novem­ber
We all wore the jester’s crown

Greet­ings old friends. I thought you were lost…

A trea­sure, unearthed, cov­ered with grass, dirt and moss.

Words that span the decades, they always spoke my heart,

Though you were gone for a while we were never truly apart.



I lov­ingly smooth out the wrin­kles and peruse you with plea­sure and glee,

Thoughts of love and pas­sion was that– truly me?



Songs of love and lust, that lifted me off the ground,

Sus­pended me in enthralled enchantment.

Only to come crash­ing down.



I learned that love is a vic­tim of its own pas­sion.
Such con­fla­gra­tion, heat, and fire

Ignited in a flash,

Can have only one result,

All that will be left is ash.



I smile as I tried to pierce the veil of mys­tery that sur­rounds us.

The uni­ver­sal truths that Teases us all…who can see

The uni­ver­sal soul, the col­lec­tive uncon­scious of humankind
I know it does exists,

How­ever, when I try to grasp it in my hand
it van­ishes in a mist.



Old friends, Old words.

I will always have you beside me to remind me of those sim­ple times.

Where life could be reduced… explained… with mere prose and rhyme.

As I pre­pare for the end and as the decades, tick away

A poet’s gift is their pas­sion for they must always have words to say.

I rage at the incom­pe­tence of my words
Another futile attempt to
Pierce the caul
That fil­ters my dreams



Ripped from a woman’s womb
Not of a woman born
Seek­ing com­pan­ion­ship
Find­ing only scorn



The obfus­ca­tions of Satanic spawn
The TV’s point of sin­gu­lar­ity
Into that black hole I’m drawn
Blind­ing me with banal­ity



They killed Lenny Bruce
Dis­guised as over­dose
They though they broke him
The Phar­isees did boast
They died face­less, unknown
They are for­got­ten corpses
Devoid of flesh and bone
His words live on



I am a Poet
I dance
Between the crush­ing weight
Of con­for­mity and chaos
I move to a rhythm and beat
That speaks to my unique vision



My songs are pain
Not joy
Of ques­tions
Not knowl­edge
Of a bro­ken heart
Not love



I am the pack less wolf
The out­sider
You never see me
I hover on the edge of invis­i­bil­ity
I am the embar­rassed pause
The faux pas
And the lost cause



I am a poet
I am what the world made me
And what I was meant to be

I met her.
A woman with a child’s eyes
Filled with won­der and questions.

She danced through the snow
Cold could not touch her.
Her heart burn­ing pas­sion.
Her soul a prism
Where she shaped dreams.

Oth­ers fal­tered.
Her steps were ordained.
A child of Apollo.
She was her own Muse.

She spoke to the world
In a lan­guage
That caused won­der.
Armed only with quill and ink
She changed worlds
Shaped hearts
Made tears obsolete.

Her words were like songs
Indeli­ble
Unfor­get­table.
They vibrated in time to a uni­ver­sal clock
Tick­ing truth and beauty.

Poetry was her art
Her pas­sion
The altar where she shed
Her life’s pain.

All were amazed.

But no one saw the sad girl
Behind the beauty
The words…

She was a child of Apollo.
Her steps were ordained.