The writings of Oddpoet

Poetry that bleeds, screams and never sleeps

So bout a month ago I was feel­ing Bla. Ever feel Bla? it sucks, so I decided to work out. Now I’m thin and obses­sive and when I work out, well…

So I’m pretty ripped right now but you’ll never see it. I’m not like one of those fags on the Space who show off their six packs, I do it for myself and… Okay, the chick next door I hate when you fuck­ers force me to tell the truth. Now I had this skin thingy I thought was Pso­ri­a­sis so I’m ripped and I have my shirt off but only for the Sun to cure my Pso­ri­a­sis thingy and the chick next door. Right?

Now I reclaim­ing my broth­ers yard that has been lost to Nature. I’m cut­ting trees, shrubs and I almost decap­i­tated the Mail­man who made the mis­take of stand­ing still under a tree I had my eye on. Now the more ripped I get the more the young chick next door waters her tomato plants, no shit! Funny as hell. I wanna tell her “your plants need snorkels.” I just smile and say “Hello” cause I’m on a mis­sion and Rama of the jun­gle will not be denied. So I finally have the yard back and I get a call from the Der­ma­tol­o­gist who took a skin sam­ple a week ago for analy­sis. Turns out it’s Cancer.

I could give a fuck but I never miss an oppor­tu­nity to fuck with peo­ple, Doc­tors, Judges, lawyers don’t mat­ter. And the only rea­son I’m still alive is I’m wait­ing for Con­gress to pass that “Kick the fuck out of your Ex-wife day” Has any­one heard any­thing on that? Let me know if you hear any­thing. So she says it’s can­cer­ous and I say,

“How did you know Doc? My birth­day is the 20^th of July and I am indeed a Cancer.”

“No, No Ed, the test showed Can­cer.” Con­cern ooz­ing through her voice.

“Of course it did Doc, did ya think it would show up Taurus?”

Pause…

She starts laugh­ing cause she knows me a bit and she tells me It’s not a real big deal we just might have to “cut your balls off to arrest it.”

“Doc, you fuck­ing with me? Never play around with a man’s balls Doc, unless it’s in the bedroom.”

“By the way what’s it called Doc?”

“It’s Thoma­lue­cy­tyey­our­fuckedato­sis”

I know stu­pid ques­tion, for some rea­son I heard Julie Andrews singing “Super­cal­ifrag­ilous Expialidocious”

But she assures me “just take these pills and don’t get pregnant.”

“What­ever Doc”

Now I can’t go out in the Sun too much and I hope the chicks tomato plants don’t die cause of it.

So I go to the Kitchen, now I’m a mus­cu­lar ver­sion of Martha Stew­art, my obses­sive nature is to clean cause my Broth­ers don’t do it. They insist on a cur­sory wash­ing of the dishes despite that stain­less steel thingy I bought back in the day when I had cash: called a dish­washer. I don’t have the heart to tell them when they turn their backs the shits right in the dish­washer. Now to appease them I put a nice clean towel on the “clean” counter where they can lay the washed soon to be washed again dishes. Right? Now I also wash stuff like large Tup­per­ware and pots which I lay on the “Clean” towel to air dry.

Pretty sim­ple con­cept, ya think? Nope, the “clean” towel is often host to my Broth­ers mak­ing piz­zas on it, bot­tles of ketchup and pick­les. Which, of course, defeats that whole clean towel thingy. I can’t say any­thing cause I’m an indi­gent, obsessive-compulsive, mus­cu­lar, Martha Stew­art wannabe with Can­cer. But I want to scream, “Do you Fuck­ers make bologna sand­wiches on your pil­lows? WHAT THE FUCK!”

Oh well, I’m about done with the out­side work, repaired con­crete steps, repaired fence, painted parts of the house, edged the lawn, fucked Mother Nature up and told the bitch to “back the fuck off! Poet is here now Mutha Fucker”

Gotta turn my atten­tion to the inside of the house, what a fuck­ing mess. The first ten times I cleaned the toi­lets I donned a Tyvek suit with live air. Well I am an Obsessive-Compulsive, mus­cu­lar ver­sion of a Martha Stew­art wanna-be, soon to be respon­si­ble for dehy­drated tomato plants Poet with Cancer.

What­ever…

I got to be the last dude in the world to talk about love. Not sure what it is or what it ain’t. Peo­ple say this demon­strates “love”. Birds are alleged to mate for life some peo­ple are impressed by that but given the fact their lifes­pan is about a year I’m not hold­ing any parades. Shit, I was mar­ried to Gut­ter Trash for twenty years I guess that makes me fuck­ing Romeo. Was gonna put some Poetic verse to it but decided to don my sar­casm cap instead.

Female Bird get nailed by a repu­pli­can dri­ving a Fer­rai. She is hurt

She is immobile

The male bird brings her food

This is pretty touch­ing. She is lying there help­less and the male bird brings her a pizza with xtra pep

Now it gets a lit­tle sad so I’ll forgo the sar­casm or maybe not

She is dead yet it looks like he is try­ing to move her.

He seems upset

Here he looks really upset

Judge for your­self what’s going on here

I do not believe in impart­ing human emo­tions onto ani­mal behav­ior, but lo can that be despair we see?

Res­ig­na­tion?

Okay is he bird sad? Where I got these pics the dude was all effu­sive over the love he says is demon­strated here. Well I have my jour­nal­ist cap on and put the poet away, he is a real fag any­way, good rid­dance. Birds do not, can not feel love as defined by us, but maybe it is some­thing deeper that would shame us all or maybe he flies away and looks for another mate. For­get­ting she even existed, who can know the answer? I would love to inter­view the dude, as all my faith­ful read­ers know, I am flu­ent in sev­eral ani­mal lan­guages. You decide…

A city hides in shadow



I am

Won­der­ing why I’m uncon­cerned as

Well man­i­cured hands con­duct heart attacks

and coax malig­nant can­cers with poly­phonic rage

Witches wear­ing beauty’s face

On pen­cil legs and stick fig­ured arms

Coo lovely words behind sneer­ing lips

In the hall­way Insect feet chit­ter across tile floors

Click­ing and hissing

Paus­ing

Click­ing and hissing

Skele­tal hands screech slowly down cob­webbed dusty windows

Accom­pa­nied by cowled mourn­ing doves moan­ing dirges

Shad­ows echo down aban­doned hallways

Blood drips slowly down the walls

Form­ing words that…

Sor­cer­ers prepare

Gig­gling like school­boys read­ing fuck mag­a­zines

Macabre whis­pers from man­hole covers

Woo delighted chil­dren with ice cream and dark­ened carousel rides

Puls­ing eerie light

Green as fresh death

The night is punc­tu­ated by screams

Drown­ing amid angry wind and stu­dious ignoring

Every­where

Forced smiles and the stench of fear

Souls are caged in skulls

Skulls are sewn into the bod­ies of torn heroes

Mounted on stakes

Eye­lids and lips removed

Lid­less eyes smile and stare per­pet­u­ally at anyone

Who would challenge

A city in shadow

Hid­ing from itself

There he was
Cold and Dead
Eyes open
As if
Even in death
He would seek to pierce the veil
The unknow­able



Oh brave soul!



Regal he was
As if he would Chal­lenge the Gods them­selves in com­bat
Pro­claim­ing to the world even Death can­not dim my flame



Lying there
Once Lord of the air
Sul­tan of the sky
Arc­ing and danc­ing upon cur­rents of divine magic
Yet
Soon to be swept up by Sara­cens – Cretins–
A for­got­ten car­cass
Whose bones lit­ter this for­get­table world



They are Inca­pable of know­ing the power you once wielded



A wick snuffed in its rag­ing glory
A blos­som rav­aged by winter’s cold truth
Dying with embers flar­ing
In bit­ter rebel­lion you would scream
“I was Lord of the Air!”



if I be a true man
I would anoint you in pre­cious oils
And cloth your death in sim­mer­ing gold attire
Lead pro­ces­sions pro­claim­ing
“The Lord of the Air has expired”
Wouldst now the sky be so bar­ren?



Alas the world tum­bles and the die rolls
Such is how pre­cious hearts are stilled
Ignominy claims us all as her own



How heaven and hell dance
And demand cadence from its play­ers
How the mighty
Are thus laid so low



Rot in the Street
Lord of the Sky
Is It is only I
Who would sing thy glory



When the reaper calls…
Who would speak such words for me?

The Vul­tures sing
A vicious song
Rapa­cious
Bit­ter



Hun­gry



Patient



Glid­ing
Upon invis­i­ble air
Wings paint­ing death



Their clock ticks slow
Like metronomes
Bleed­ing
Mor­tal­ity



Their har­mony
Dis­cor­dant
Jagged
Dis­so­nant
Atonal
Sus­pended fourth
Need­ing res­o­lu­tion



They alight
On the fir­ma­ment
Coal black eyes
See­ing through Life
Pass the veil
Into eter­nal
Damna­tion



Wait­ing
For the last beat of the heart
For the feast



They are God’s
Favorite chil­dren



He loves their song
Plays it con­stantly
On his celes­tial iPod



“Sing my off­spring”
“Sing me to sleep”



God slept



And
No one
NO ONE
NO ONE



Can



Ever
Wake
That
Mother
Fucker
Up

On crisp parch­ment unfolded from within a weath­ered pouch

Deliv­ered by an unknown horse­man

His words came to her…



“Inamorata…



The dark­ness is com­plete



Through Hades lies



And Cerberus’s breath



I believe again we’ll meet…”





The vis­i­ble trem­ble in his usu­ally ele­gant cur­sive fright­ened her.…





“They



Say no man can escape his death



Yet



It’s what I seek to do



I’d travel



Long and trou­bled roads



to



lie again with you.”



Silently hot tears began to fall

They stung her cheeks

His words, now blurred through the saline and fire light

Grasp­ing the paper he once touched ever tighter

She read the words of her love, her poet, her war­rior…



“Beloved



The Stars are strange here



Their mock­ing light



Lend­ing cre­dence to the dark­ness



All



Man­ner of Demon spawn



Assault me



Whis­per­ing…



Taunt­ing…



Telling me



You are a lie



That beauty such as yours



Does not exist”



She knew this day would come

The old woman had warned her

The prophecy she denied

It now beseeched her



“It’s as if



They seek to deny you



Have me dis­avow the



The fidelity of you



I can­not



Give lie



To the truth of you”





The fire in her hearth roared

Blaz­ing with the pain in her heart

She fell to her knees

Shiv­er­ing in fear, feel­ing her loss

Despite his deter­mi­na­tion

Doubt befell her

The witch was wise

The prophecy ful­filled

But yet, he still believed…in her.



“You are the way­path



The



Road



Back to the world



Where dap­pled Sun­light



weaves webs on flow­ing streams



Where caress­ing breeze



Orches­trates the dance of leaves”





Her heart trem­bled

The locks of golden hair softly flow­ing

across her shoul­ders rever­ber­ated with her pain.

Car­ry­ing the weight of each sob and gasp…

His love was unlike any­thing she had ever known





“I can no longer suf­fer this dark­ness



I seek the light



I seek you



I recall your image in my mind



Grow­ing



Fus­ing unto itself



Explod­ing out­ward



Like a newly birthed Sun



I cast away the chains that would bind me here



Your image glows in the dark­ness



Lay­ing the crea­tures low



And I walk



Deter­mined



One step



Then another



Closer



Ever closer to you…”





She traced the last of his words with her fin­ger…





“They call me the



Heretic”





“So



be



it.…..”





Fate had found her.

Her love, her poet was gone.

Falling away like the ink from the parch­ment



“So be it.…..” She uttered.



And then there was the dip­ping in the well…



A well of ink to fill the quill of her hurt and her pain.

Once she began, the words flowed for weeks and days.

As did her tears.

Her poet was gone.



“They



Say no man can escape his death…”





“So be it.…..” She cried.



She had never writ­ten a word of verse before that day.

She only mused the beauty of the oth­ers.

But she loved his the most.

And he knew it.

She was his muse.

He was inspired.

He would cre­ate.



“I seek the light



.…I seek you”



Under the gaze of her love

He had writ­ten lines laced with col­or­ful com­plex­i­ties and mean­der­ing metaphors.

Twisted mean­ings like puz­zles with unseen keys.

They made her think.

And she smiled with delight.

And the pas­sion­ate ones, of love, were few and far between.

When they came they brought tears to her eyes and a smile to her lips.

But now, her poet was gone.



“All



Man­ner of Demon spawn



Assault me…”





“So be it.…..” She wept…



Then, in a morning’s mourn­ing, she sat at his desk, alone.

Fin­gers traced the parch­ment of his choos­ing.

Crisp and clean.

Unlike the dusty and soiled parch­ment deliv­ered in the horseman’s pouch.



“Beloved



The Stars are strange here…”



She closed her eyes and caressed her cheek with his bril­liant white quill.

Oh, how she’d watched it dance in the evening’s fire light.

Night after night as he wrote she watched it sway in his strong hands.

Spin­ning tales and lines and magic before her eyes.

She admired his mind. And loved his soul.

But now, her poet was gone, and her days turned to night.



“Whis­per­ing…



Taunt­ing…



Telling me



You are a lie”





“So be it.…..” She cursed.



Her nights were the days she wrote the most.

Line after line she found her voice.

She tried to purge her pain.

But it would not go away.

Again and again, there was the dip­ping in the well…

A well of ink to fill the quill of her hurt and her pain.





And she knew…



it was for­ever.





“I recall your image in my mind



Grow­ing



Fus­ing unto itself



Explod­ing out­ward



Like a newly birthed Sun



I cast away the chains that would bind me here



Your image glows in the dark­ness



Lay­ing the crea­tures low



And I walk



Deter­mined



One step



Then another



Closer



Ever closer to you…”





“So be it.…..”



She closed the door.



Her poet was gone…

I climbed a tree.

Think­ing

I could see something

New

Some­thing no one has ever seen.

Before

Scraped

Bleed­ing

Sway­ing



Pre­car­i­ous death

Peers through arched eyebrow

Non com­mit­tal

Death don’t give a fuck

We all on his to do list.



I climbed a tree

And saw

The deadly same

The pierc­ing wail of conformity

The heart rend­ing cry
of the incom­plete heart



I will get up

Tomor­row

And

Know

I will climb the tree.



What else can I do?

They were cut into bloody chunks

Just raw hunks of meat and bone

With flesh hang­ing in sinewy strands

Drip­ping putrid gore…

All stacked nice and neat

Around the bor­ders of a mind

Closed from all view other than mas­sacre.

They deserved it.

The mind cried rot­ten green fingers

From blood-shot eyes

Know­ing just one thing…



They deserved it.

The mind spit blood

On them in contempt

Their own blood

Spit

Upon sadis­tic smirks and laughter.

The mind peeled back eyelids

With sur­gi­cal precision

So that they could see

Their death upon the minds death

Upon their death…

But they would never look

Past the cornea.

Walk­ing death.

The mind strolls midday

Con­ceal­ing disease

Cough­ing out shyly

Ran­cid bits of elbow and scalp

Into a fancy lace mono­grammed han­kie



But…



By mid­night the mind returns for more rearranging

More chop­ping

More axing of body parts into smaller pieces

To be shaken free from nos­tril and ear

As the mind walks down the dark­ened path

Leav­ing a trail of mushy decom­posed toes, labia, and vertebrae

To find the way back home.



They deserved it.

They all deserved it.

The mind rests at night

On a bed of spines

Snug­gling pil­lows of brain matter

And blan­kets of flesh

The night­mares never cease

For they laugh in the face of mur­der.

©Jen2010 1–25

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Inde­ci­sion

With­ers ideal long­ing love

After lifetime’s wear and yearn­ing suffering

Let our vying eclipse

Yes­ter­days of under­stand­ing.

I

Amidst mad­ness

Sur­ren­der and disappear,

Awaken lost over­tures never earned…

Always near darkness

Silence calls and ren­ders ebony disdained.

Fall into now’s delight

Mer­rily engaged…

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Beckon eons from our risked egos

Insol­vent

And mur­dered…

Drain every artery dead.

Oh hear…

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Find in God’s heart tonight

Fear­less out­raged reason…

Mes­sages erase.

Alas near death

Yesterday’s orig­i­nal understanding.

©Jen2010 1–18

Cold she is

Paint­ing death with icy fingers

A deft scalpel touch

Oh vicious heart

Wan­ton killer

Your caress and breath

Hound the living

She puts a fin­ger to icy lips

Shh… she hisses

Fin­ger crum­bles, tiny shards shatter

To end at elbow

Nay, the body mat­ters not

She hisses eternal

Lips caught

Frozen

Pursed in what would be

The per­fect curve

Of the per­fect kiss

Left behind as forgotten

Shhh… she attempts again

This time evil emerges

Black but­ter­flies escaping

Black thrust…

Shhhh…

All trem­ble

As black hearted Freya works the wheel of fate

Vapid breath freezes on cold steel

Pet­ri­fied love encased in muted breath

Once Blaz­ing embers

Sadly still their tired hearts

The sour breath of hibernation

Min­gle with shiv­er­ing seedlings

Spring’s promise hushed by her win­ter rag­ing heart

She halts the wars

With raised eyes

A moment’s flash

They are left behind…

To later embrace

It

Pen­e­trates deep

Seek­ing her, search­ing sleep

She flies

On the wings of black butterflies

She flies

Tire­less upon the earth’s frigid breath

Brought to breast upon death

So cold

The wind to spur flight

Warmth eter­nal

Upon the liq­uid kiss of infer­nal spring night…

None com­pare his demise.

A stat­u­ary of ice.

Gos­samer threads of silver

Fore­told in an ancient tomb

Weave webs of magic pathways

All lead­ing to that doom

The Sun’s fire

Quenched by black­ened night

As sup­pli­cants light candles

And but­ter­flies take flight

Spun of loom

Adorned of pin­na­cle flame

–For shadow–

The sil­ver hush

Escapes her time­less lips

Once more

Shhh….

Cold…

Black…

As a winter’s eve.