The writings of Oddpoet

Poetry that bleeds, screams and never sleeps

I’m sick of it all
Flow­ery verse
Cheap prose
Shal­low mean­der­ings
Play­ing with my cock
Blow­ing loads on paper
Say­ing Van Gogh was here
It all runs together
Like mag­goty meat in the trough
Feed­ing the mass man­nequin market

I’m the Poet
With my head up my ass
Exam­in­ing
My colon
My intestines
Report­ing to the world
Some­thing
Ain’t quite right in me ville

I need poetry that bleeds
That makes me uncom­fort­able
That has an edge
That cuts me
If I get too close

Poetry
That grabs me by the throat
And tells me
YOU GONNA DIE MOTHER FUCKER!

Dan­ger­ous poetry
Poetry that guts me
That is banned in schools
Poetry you can’t read
In polite com­pany
Poetry that gets me arrested
Sent to prison
That will rape me with broom han­dles
Flay my skin
Till there there is noth­ing
But the words

Poetry that rages
Assaults me
Rips the pil­low out of my hand
That drags me from under the bed
That tells me
YOU CAN’T HIDE MOTHER FUCKER

Poetry that speaks of love
Not in rhymed cou­plets
Nor wist­ful sighs
But shakes the fab­ric of time
Shat­ters the foun­da­tion of the Earth
Causes the Plan­ets
To break free of their orbit
Stops the heart
With its pain and loss
Poetry that changes me for­ever
That allows me to finally live
If only for a second

I need poetry
That I can’t read
But only feel
Ink inter­min­gled
With blood
With tears
With shit and piss
With sweat
That vibrates off the page
And becomes the North Star

I need Poetry that bleeds
I need Poetry
That
Fuck­ing
Bleeds

Malt Shop Blues ~Bro­ken Word Piece~

My words and thoughts are sought
On the mat­ter
But blocked
Dis­man­tled by the uni­ver­sal cock
Of the mad hat­ter…



Block it.
Seal the dark­ness from the light
Of the lat­ter.
Light always has a way of pen­e­tra­tion
Forc­ing its way into the degen­er­a­tion
Of white on black
That lacks noth­ing more
Than the sub­stance of color.



It calms
It claims vir­tual real­ity of valor
In the sub-sequential dual­ity
Of twin peaks
Wink­ing at the sun above the mist of cloud.



They want me dead
And so do I…
Aloud…
But you just can’t let the grip slack
No mat­ter what turns black
And what falls to frost bite.



Des­per­a­tion isn’t a pretty color
At nightvi­o­lent
Some­where between the ultra vio­lent
And infra-readiness…



I won’t live on the edge of your rib­bon
As less
As adorn­ment
Or sed­i­ment dried
By blaz­ing sun­light and ter­mi­nal winds
As for­lorn spent
On Sun­day after­noons.



I am every color of the rain­bow
And the moon
Muted to mono­chrome too soon
By the whimsy thrown
And tied at the ends of braids…
I’m not here to pretty the parades
Of black and white cha­rades.



I won’t stay
To wit­ness your decay.
I won’t stay
To wit­ness my mon­soon of tears…
Not tomor­row or today.
You could claim your fears
But they knew you wouldn’t…
There’s so much more
That means so much more to you
That you couldn’t.



I’ll refrain from weav­ing chains
That grew
Around the cir­cum­stance
Meant to only drain you
And the color from the worth of dance
And it wanes…
Con­se­quen­tial panes
Of mir­rored glass…



You turned me into you:



Chaotic and lost
In Won­der­land alas…
Where the only way out
Is through
This
Pass.



Unfor­tu­nate to be left with only
Through.






©Jen2010 2–6



Cours­ing
Under­stand­ing
Only nul­li­fies
Ther­mal heated electro-magnetism
Of top­i­cal heroic ego­tism regur­gi­tated
So I dream ethe­real…

My face is blis­tered by the demands

The sug­ges­tions to free

Cut and cauterized–

They’ve hurt me.

Have you not heard me pleading

For the release of all that caresses?

His release.

Have you not heard me beg­ging to the presses

All these years?

I’ve done what was asked

Walked across acres upon acres of shards of glass

Passed razors through the maze of my soul

Dis­sected my heart with a mon­o­cle mirror

And I’m whole

I’ve for­given my fingers

And I’m whole…



But his release–

His release demands of my mind’s eye

His suf­fer­ing rakes the embers of my need

To sus­tain my high

Blis­tered and scarred

Ris­ing to an inferno I can’t disregard

And my fin­gers beseech thee

As my con­science screeches to me daily

Release him

Just release him so my sight can see

He lives with­out me

Sat­is­fac­to­rily

Allow me to wit­ness him serene

In the wild

Liv­ing out his most desired dream

And he will be filed under case closed.

I’ve done what was asked

I’ve inhaled the rose

And suf­fered each thorn as it passed

Licked the morn­ing dew from your boots

Uprooted roots I thought would never be free

And rotated eye­balls to view within

The bloody inter­nal mas­sacre of sin and debris…

I guess I just don’t know what you want from me



But you know what I want from you

Oh you’ve always known what I want from you

And you hold it close to your chest

Under lock and key and duress

I could kill myself, leave a sim­ple note of sin­gu­lar pleas

But you still wouldn’t give me what I need–

His release.

For his release is mine



And you’ll never let me go

Blis­tered and mangled

You’ll never let me go as such…

I’ve seen too much.



©Jen2010 1–31

As you no doubt do not know, I have been through a divorce where­upon I lost my house and every­thing I worked for all my life. That will be the sub­ject of a future post. But for now, let us exam­ine sex and desperation

I was mar­ried, which by def­i­n­i­tion meant I was not get­ting sex from my sig­nif­i­cant other. I was required to employ the ser­vices of a pros­ti­tute. Now some of you might cringe and say: “Dis­ease! Dis­ease!” Never fear, I would do the Odd­poet Babe Check. I would open the door upon hear­ing the knock and, ”Okay, she has two legs, check”; “let’s see, no vis­i­ble scabs on her face, good, very good.”; “Honey, roll up your sleeves,” no vis­i­ble track marks, “Come on in babe!”

My sec­ond choice for sex would be a Bar, Women there are usu­ally:
1.Of ques­tion­able moral char­ac­ter
2.Drunk
3.Desperate
When I was younger, I would prey upon Women in bars, sure as shit between 12:30 and 2:00 AM a few would either fall off bar stools or their nog­gin would slam against the bar passed out. I would imme­di­ately swoop in like a vul­ture on carrion.

Well I had fun, they did not remem­ber. This, of course, worked out for both par­ties. We did not have to do that stu­pid phone num­ber thing. Ladies we never call.

Alas, since I have no shekels I am forced into the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion: Dat­ing want ads. How far have mighty fallen. What fol­lows are things you do not want to say in your ads:

“Look­ing for my Knight in shin­ing armor”
First of all I do not shine my shoes let alone armor. Sec­ond, I do not have any frig­gin armor. Please!

“Look­ing for my soul mate”
Well not sure I have a soul and if I did it would an ethe­real, spir­i­tual entity not remotely inter­ested in exchang­ing pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids! That’s a loser girls.

“Look­ing for Mr. Right”
This is a sure fire way to have your ad passed over. When men see that alarms go off, “Shit! She will want to change me into her “ideal man.” Pretty soon she will have me watch­ing Liza Min­nelli movies.” Don’t work Ladies!

What does work? Briefly:

“I swal­low”
Top of the list! Of course you run the risk of being con­sid­ered a slut, but you will never lack male com­pan­ion­ship. Like every­thing in life it’s a trade off.

“I love to drink but I can’t hold my liquor.”
Highly rec­om­mended, It has two advan­tages, first men dig that, sec­ond, you can engage in all types of obscene behav­ior and who can blame you! Shit, if you’re drunk. It’s kind of like a get out of jail free card.

Lastly,
“I am a widow whose hus­band left a whole lot of money, look­ing for one night stands.”
Very good one.

Hope this helps; I will be explor­ing this topic in the future. In the inter­est of soci­o­log­i­cal research, of course.

Till Then,
Humbly I remain,
Oddpoet

The Cen­sus bureau defines poverty for a fam­ily of four to be $21,200.00, This, of course, means if you make $21,201.00 you bet­ter not cry poor because you will get your ass kicked. Add or sub­tract about $3500.00 per child and you can fig­ure the rest out your­self.



How did they come up with this ridicu­lous cal­cu­la­tion? Civil ser­vants! They assigned two guys to fig­ure it out and they were prob­a­bly pissed about some­thing (civil ser­vants are always pissed) Maybe they didn’t get over­time the week before so they say “frig it” (civil Ser­vants are always say­ing “Frig it”) so they get out the old dart board and throw the darts and BAM! $21,200.00 was the magic num­ber. By the way, all Gov­ern­ment pol­icy is decided by the dart board method, do you think they are actu­ally ana­lyz­ing this stuff? Please! I was a civil ser­vant and I know!



You guys do not remem­ber the dark ages when the Gov­ern­ment decided that peo­ple had 2.4 chil­dren per house­hold. Well as Amer­i­cans we could not tol­er­ate any­one hav­ing more than us so Uncle Sam was forced to chop up babies and hand out a .4 baby to every fam­ily with two chil­dren. It was heart wrench­ing. I lead the fight that stopped this bar­barous prac­tice and rea­soned with the peo­ple that instead of chop­ping every fourth baby up we could all keep two kids and send the odd num­ber over­seas where they could work eigh­teen hours a day in sweat shops mak­ing cloth­ing so Wal-Mart can sell us Amer­i­cans real cheap clothes. Yea, always felt good about that.



How do you think we defeated the Evil Empire dur­ing the cold war? Sim­ple, we found out they had more mis­siles than us and being Amer­i­cans that was intol­er­a­ble so we built ten bil­lion of the suck­ers and forced the Soviet Union into bank­ruptcy. The rest is, as they say, his­tory



Back to poverty.



Defin­ing this dire and heart break­ing “con­di­tion” as “poverty” does not speak ade­quately to the prob­lem. I pro­pose the Odd­poet chart; I believe it speaks more elo­quently to the issue. Here goes:



$21200——–Poor Fucks

$16000——–Really Poor Fucks

$12000——–Destitute

$10000——–Totally Fucked

There!



Every­thing in life is a con­tin­uüm and we as a soci­ety need to address the degrees of poverty, I sub­mit:



“Jim, how’s it going man?”

“Not good Odd­poet I am a poor fuck.”

“Stop cry­ing man, I am totally fucked.”

See…big dif­fer­ence.



The prob­lem with the typ­i­cal American’s view of poverty is: IT’S THEIR FAULT! You know it’s true, never try to bull­shit the Quas. It is not that we are bad peo­ple; it is the bull­shit that was incul­cated into our brains since birth. The Amer­i­can Dream, work hard and you will suc­ceed. Maybe I was pre­co­cious because I never bought into that bull­shit. Sure there are Bill Gates, War­ren Buf­fett and a whole bunch of self made very wealthy peo­ple. How­ever, the over­whelm­ing major­ity of global wealth is inher­ited. Yea, peo­ple are born into it, which takes a lot of hard work.



If poverty was a cho­sen con­di­tion it would require the fol­low­ing mind­set:



“Honey, I was think­ing, who really needs a car, nice house, vaca­tions, ade­quate heath care, edu­ca­tion for our kids. Babe, that shit is over rated, I think we should shoot for being Des­ti­tute.”



If you believe it’s their fault you can not run from that logic. Sure you see poor peo­ple on the street cor­ner drink­ing and it appears they do not want to par­take of the Amer­i­can Dream, but it is only that they have had their hearts ripped out of their chests, and they sim­ply no longer give a shit.



Briefly, world hunger:



Ever see those poor beyond poverty peo­ple from third world Coun­tries wait­ing in line for hours for a frig­gin bag of rice and the frig­gers are grate­ful! If I was hun­gry and had to wait in line for two hours and some dude handed me a bag of rice, I would say:



“What the frig am I sup­pose to do with this?

“Go to a wedding?”

“Give me a burger and a bev­er­age of my choice or I will kick your ass!”

Well, I am an Amer­i­can.



I never do this but I will step out of char­ac­ter.



THE BIGGEST CRIME OF THE LAST ONE HUNDRED YEARS IS NOT THE HOLOCAUST, NOT THE LACK OF CONCERN ABOUT THE AIDS PANDEMIC, IT IS THAT AS A GLOBAL COMMUNITY WE ALLOW ANOTHER HUMAN BEING TO GO TO SLEEP AT NIGHT HUNGRY. IN THIS TIME OF THE UNPRESEDENTED ONCENTRATION OF HUMAN WEALTH AND TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENT WE ALLOW THAT CRIME TO GO UNFOUGHT DEFINES ME AS A PIECE OF SHIT! YOU DECIDE FOR YOURSELF. I GUESS WHEN WE DECIDE TO LOOK AT ONE ANOTHER AS TRUE BROTHERS AND SISTERS, MAYBE THEN WE WILL RISE AS ONE AND SAY NO MORE!



Till then, fuck you and give me a burger and a bev­er­age of my choice.