The writings of Oddpoet

Poetry that bleeds, screams and never sleeps

The Street Breathes hack­saw rhythms
Young girls check for signs of men­stru­a­tion
Door stop mavens say God ain’t dead
He’s just in the South of France sun­ning
He’ll be back and as soon as he finds his scepter

Euro­pean Kings try­ing to make a come­back
Tout inbred genes and palace intrigues
Every Thurs­day night right after “The World ain’t got no talent”

Can­cer genes rise and float on amor­phous clouds
Laugh­ing and gig­gling
Con­sult­ing with the ora­cle of the damned
before descend­ing on Joe the mail­man
Two weeks away from retirement.

Me?
I’m just Rollin & Tum­blin
Rollin & tum­blin
Won­derin
If the Gods have Gods

Dream­ers vomit up yes­ter­days
Prepack­aged
In stan­dard belief pat­terns
Strands of inno­cence
Find no pur­chase
evap­o­rates
Lonely motes
Dust­ing Gaia’s weary bones

Me?
I’m just Rollin & Tum­blin
Rollin & Tum­blin
Won­derin
If the Gods believe in their Gods

Fire red blood
paint a land­scape
Only I can see
Soft­ened by the gen­tle blue of still­born babies
Mouths frozen in per­pet­ual why

Brides dressed in white
With pun­gent piss stains
Run­ning down sequined trains
Promise immac­u­late con­cep­tion
to well oiled machines

Me?
I’m just Rollin & Tum­blin
Rollin & Tum­blin
Won­derin
If Gods can be athe­ist
or are they just
Rollin & Tum­blin
Rollin & Tumblin

Savage cold froze tears
Shed in the unquench­able fires
The click clack of cat­tle cars
On smooth high­ways of steel
Hyp­no­tized
Like the coiled rat­tle of snakes
Ven­omous and demand­ing



The air was stale
Tainted by tired breath
Love had no place here
It fled
Embar­rassed by its weak­ness
Its false heart
Yet singing its own glory
Skip­ping and hold­ing hands with invis­i­ble Jus­tice



Herded into shacks
Made of Earth bone
Cursed wood
And the dried hides of Demons
The tor­tured screams of sac­ri­fi­cial lambs
Bleat­ing
mes­mer­iz­ing
drown­ing out all sounds
Of nor­malcy
Appendages of the damned
Clawed Blood runes onto wooden floors
Incan­ta­tions invok­ing divin­ity



“Am I not a Son of David?“
“Wouldst thou for­sake me Lord?“



The sky rum­bled and parted in majes­tic dis­play
And
God
Smiled


Hud­dled skele­tal mon­sters
Where flesh refused to take root
Bones grow­ing
Skin with­er­ing
Daugh­ters raped
The teeth of Sons removed for metal
To fash­ion char­i­ots for ancient Death Kings
Life­times removed from false hope
A miasma of evil Blot­ted Sun
it will never be inno­cent again
Nor will it ever shine as bright



Lib­er­a­tors bear­ing sticks of death
Saw the walk­ing corpses
In this camp of death
They vom­ited up fake hel­los
And shal­low mean­der­ings
Of a dis­tant san­ity
For­ever lost
To evil’s banal face



The world stopped
And was rede­fined



The skele­tal horde
Walked as col­lec­tive accu­sa­tions



As one man
they looked
To the sky
And demanded
“How can this be?”

The sky parted
Seraphim’s and Elohim’s
Bore the Arc of the Covenant
Blaz­ing in Nova light
Pow­er­ful voices Boomed
Across the dark­ened sky
“Holy Holy Holy“
“Behold the face of omnipotence”

God Looked down
And
God
…
…
…
Smiled

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

So I’m dead.

How do I know?

When you die there is this pre-recorded mes­sage that plays in you head.

“You might be con­fused at the moment but let us assure you that you are indeed dead and we will be ser­vic­ing you shortly. Please wait in line and we promise an eter­nity of bliss awaits you. Thank you for your patience, the Management”

Now I am really pissed, I’m dead and I have to deal with voice mail? Bad enough I had to deal with it when I was alive.  At least they didn’t have an Indian accent…

So I’m wait­ing in line and there are some dick­weeds in front of me who are piss­ing me off. I’m hold­ing back because I am per­pet­u­ally pissed and I don’t want to cause a scene. The last thing I need is to get a Rep that I am a dead loose cannon.

Now the dicks in front of me are all excited about see­ing Mom and Dad and Grandma and Pa again… I’m like shut the fuck up and who gives a shit.

Now three places back there is a croc­o­dile in line. I’m like what the fuck is a croc­o­dile doing in line with dead humans? Nor­mally I would kick it’s ass but he is a big sucker about 20 feet long and rather large teeth. I want to start a con­ver­sa­tion with him, let’s face it how many oppor­tu­ni­ties do you get to have a con­ver­sa­tion with a dead fuck­ing reptile.

So I mosey back and say, “Yo croc what the fuck you doing here?” Believe it or not he has these read­ing glasses on and he speaks with an impec­ca­ble British accent. I’m like “This is too fuck­ing cool.” He tells me is name is Peter and he was rein­car­nated as a Croc he was king of France at one time. I’m doubt­ful; of course it seems every­one at one time was King of France. He seems like a cool dude. So I ask the obvi­ous ques­tion, “What the fuck you doing in line with dead peo­ple shouldn’t you be in the croc­o­dile line?” He apol­o­gizes pro­fusely and tells me even though he is a croc he still feels like the King of France. Who am I to argue.

I ask him if he wants to go to the Bar and he does. Now dead peo­ple drink like fish and the bar is packed so I ask him if he minds clear­ing a spot for us and he quickly chomps two fuck­ers down and WA-La we have seats. We start hav­ing a good time, he is a funny fucker and he has me laugh­ing my ass off over sto­ries about bang­ing the Queen of Eng­land. Shit, he said he nailed about all the royal pussy in Europe. I’m jeal­ous because all I nailed were some crack whores and an occa­sional mar­ried woman. What are you going to do.  Now the loud speaker announces “now serv­ing the dead croc who was once King of France” He apol­o­gizes and picks up the tab. I’m like “totally cool man”

He leaves and I’m stuck dead with fuck­ing humans. What are you going to do.

“To be or not to be” Any of you dudes out here truly know what ques­tion the Bard asks?
Well, not many peo­ple think about mor­tal­ity. Don’t blame them.
Back to “The Bard” six words that defines the nature or essence of our existence.

I am the only jerk off, I think, who will call God a Dick­weed! Just did it, not smited yet, (guess that comes later)

Any­way, I go to Heaven, and there is God, drool­ing and snor­ing on his recliner, remote on the floor, a Hus­tler mag on his lap.

So I wake the fucker up.

“God, wake the fuck up, your “Cre­ation” is in dire need of your omnipo­tent services.”

Well, the fuck snores away, well on the 7^th day he rested. I did not take that to mean a fuck­ing per­ma­nent vaca­tion. I am forced to slap his fuck­ing noggin!

Well, I did and he finally wakes up, thun­der, light­ning the whole show!

The Archangels have blades drawn on my throat and even those fag­got Cherubs are bit­ing my ass. Cause I pissed him off.

“Poet”, he says, as he wipes the droll from his lips, “did I not kill you? Or, at the very least, it has to be on my things to do list.”

Well, that did not give me a warm and fuzzy.

“God, Ulti­mate Dude of Dudes, A lit­tle help is needed on earth.”

“Poet! Ass­hole, The only rea­son you exist is because you are a funny fuck!
Don’t push it BABE!” “And, being omnipo­tent, I bequeathed, free will upon ye. Which, ulti­mately means…You’re on your own.”

“God! Alpha and Omega, hear me out Dude. I under­stand the free will con­cept; but, maybe some guid­ance, a mir­a­cle here and there.”

“It’s a mir­a­cle you are still alive!”

“I know God, Emperor of all Cre­ation, I am an ass­hole, freely given. But how bout some mir­a­cles! Maybe cure every child suf­fer­ing from can­cer under… say 12?”

Must have struck a chord, because I could see his Divin­ity thinking.

I took the time to sur­rep­ti­tiously kick one of those fag­got bit­ing Cherubs in the groin. I swear if God was not there I would have kicked all those lit­tle fuck’s asses

“Poet, I see your point. But I hes­i­tate to inter­fere with Human­ity. Free Will I have ordained”

“I dig it, Big Chief of the Uni­verse, But Satan’s run­ning ram­pant on earth, war, dis­ease, famine and Repub­li­cans have been run­ning the show!”

“REPUBLICANS!!!!!!” I could see the big guy was upset; how­ever, he continued.

“I see your plight Poet, but free will rules the day. I can not inter­fere and that is final!”

“God, head hon­cho, think I can get in to see JC?”

“Poet, you are very close to being dead! get out of here. You are not com­ing here any­way!” “Nor can you expect an invi­ta­tion in the future.”

See­ing that I was out­num­bered, and the fact that he was right.…and.…. God did not give a fuck. I was ush­ered, not too kindly, I might add, from Heaven, And Poof I am here.

Gee, aren’t you lucky. Well, think­ing of a way I can cru­cify myself. Got the wood, know I can nail my left hand to the cross, the prob­lem is hav­ing, said, left hand nailed, I am unable to nail my right hand to the cross! Which requires me to plea for help!

Ring.….…..

“Hello” “Ehhh.….Don, I need a hand.“
“Poet…watts up, Dude!”
“Don, I need a hand.”

“What?“
“I am try­ing to cru­cify myself and I need a hand.”

“Christ, Poet are you into one of your to be or not to be moods?” “Fuck you!” Click.….

dial tone…

Well.…That IS the question

“To be or not to be” Any of you Dudes out here truly know what ques­tion the Bard asks?
Well, not many peo­ple think about mor­tal­ity. Don’t blame them.
Back to “The Bard” six words that defines the nature or essence of our existence.

I am the only jerk off, I think, who will call God a Dick­weed! Just did it, not smited yet, (guess that comes later)

Any­way, I go to Heaven, and there is God, drool­ing and snor­ing on his recliner, remote on the floor, a Hus­tler mag on his lap.

So I wake the fucker up.

“God, wake the fuck up, your “Cre­ation” is in dire need of your omnipo­tent services.”

Well, the fuck snores away, well on the 7^th day he rested. I did not take that to mean a fuck­ing per­ma­nent vaca­tion. I am forced to slap his fuck­ing noggin!

Well, I did and he finally wakes up, thun­der, light­ning the whole show!

The Archangels have blades drawn on my throat and even those fag­got Cherubs are bit­ing my ass. Cause I pissed him off.

“Poet”, he says, as he wipes the droll from his lips, “did I not kill you? Or, at the very least, it has to be on my things to do list.”

Well, that did not give me a warm and fuzzy.

“God, Ulti­mate Dude of Dudes, A lit­tle help is needed on earth.”

“Poet! Ass­hole, The only rea­son you exist is because you are a funny fuck!
Don’t push it BABE!” “And, being omnipo­tent, I bequeathed, free will upon ye. Which, ulti­mately means…You’re on your own.”

“God! Alpha and Omega, hear me out Dude. I under­stand the free will con­cept; but, maybe some guid­ance, a mir­a­cle here and there.”

“It’s a mir­a­cle you are still alive!”

“I know God, Emperor of all Cre­ation, I am an ass­hole, freely given. But how bout some mir­a­cles! Maybe cure every child suf­fer­ing from can­cer under… say 12?”

Must have struck a chord, because I could see his Divin­ity thinking.

I took the time to sur­rep­ti­tiously kick one of those fag­got bit­ing Cherubs in the groin. I swear if God was not there I would have kicked all those lit­tle fuck’s asses

“Poet, I see your point. But I hes­i­tate to inter­fere with Human­ity. Free Will I have ordained”

“I dig it, Big Chief of the Uni­verse, But Satan’s run­ning ram­pant on earth, war, dis­ease, famine and Repub­li­cans have been run­ning the show!”

“REPUBLICANS!!!!!!” I could see the big guy was upset; how­ever, he continued.

“I see your plight Poet, but free will rules the day. I can not inter­fere and that is final!”

“God, head hon­cho, think I can get in to see JC?”

“Poet, you are very close to being dead! get out of here. You are not com­ing here any­way!” “Nor can you expect an invi­ta­tion in the future.”

See­ing that I was out­num­bered, and the fact that he was right.…and.…. God did not give a fuck. I was ush­ered, not too kindly, I might add, from Heaven, And Poof I am here.

Gee, aren’t you lucky. Well, think­ing of a way I can cru­cify myself. Got the wood, know I can nail my left hand to the cross, the prob­lem is hav­ing, said, left hand nailed, I am unable to nail my right hand to the cross! Which requires me to plea for help!

Ring.….…..

“Hello” “Ehhh.….Don, I need a hand.“
“Poet…watts up, Dude!”
“Don, I need a hand.”

“What?“
“I am try­ing to cru­cify myself and I need a hand.”

“Christ, Poet are you into one of your to be or not to be moods?” “Fuck you!” Click.….

dial tone…

Well.…That IS the question