The Peak no longer grasps for the Sun
It’s shoulders huddled and drawn
Beaten down by time
It’s hands
Centurions
Marching towards distant conquests
Beating footpaths on it’s once proud crest

It settles unto itself
Taking council with memory
Past dreams of glory and vibrancy

Dims
Flickers
A candle which no longer battles darkness

The Mountain falls
yet
Remembers…

And Clint died

The clock nods
And says
“Just to remind ya dude“
Another year lays parcels
Into my pack

Oh the weight

But what of Love?
Cheap and tawdry
A bar stool whore
Eying advantage
Plundering
A Viking raping with guttural screams
The Poet can sing of it
I had my fill of it

And Clint died

Memories set the table of dreams
Preparing a feast
Begging for party favors
Dressed in Sunday finery
Hiding the thread worn elbows
And the yellowing white
Of faded innocence

No one will show
I never do
And memory will shed tears
And slowly fade
Dissolve
Dispersed into the wind tunnel of time’s inexorable march
Towards…
Something…
Some place…
Its last words always

“But what of Love?”

I smile
Let the Poet sing its glory
I had my fill of it

Besides

Clint is dead

Layers of false hope strew the stage
Genetically predispositioned to save the gene
I am more than that fuckers!

Climb they implore
Can you not see the light?
I can not be blinded by false hope

Their penciled stick figured God
Would embrace me
Like some chick’s cheap fuck toy

Would you cheapen insanity?
Make it a crawling insect
Searching for death?

I stare at the world
In a ring made of cheap dreams
It ain’t good enough

I go deeper into the maze
The path is down
Not up

I am the last magician
But I ply no tricks
I just dig

Deeper

Deeper

Hide you?

Or

Reveal you?

For who you are



Will you always hide

In shadows?

Alone



A slithering hematologist

Laying belly to sand?

Wouldst you deny truth?

Are you the apple that rises

When dropped to the floor?

The Tear

That climbs?

The broken toy

Crying for mending?



Nay

You are none of that.

Yet you play your life

Like a trick shot in a cheap parlor game

A used tissue in a coughs forgotten dream



You shine…



The night retreats

When you arrive.

Find your Dawn…

Lady…

I briefly wonder how woman masturbate. Probably with environmentally friendly solar powered dildos. I hate Women.

So my older Bro says, “Dickweed, stick with drinking yourself to death, suits your style.” Gotta love my Brother.

So I decide to go outside, which is a feat in itself because I haven’t left my room in about three months. I find most people boring — I really hate rubbing elbows with the fuckers. I leave the belt around my neck; I figure maybe I can pass it off as some kind of new sartorial style.

I see the mailman and I was going to tell him to stop delivering me mail, I don’t open the fuckers– what’s the point. But, I figured he worked for the Post Office and therefore was in his own private hell.

So I make it to the overpass, beneath me is the New Jersey Turnpike. I read somewhere; it was one of the most traveled roads in the US. I watched the social insects whiz by. I dig the sound. The World is full of songs; you just have to know how to listen.

I notice the inward curving fence and it pisses me off. (I’m always pissed) I mean it’s not like I can’t get some C4 and blow a whole in the sucker.

I know they are trying to stop jumpers. Not because they care about human life, they don’t want you fucking with traffic. I once saw a jumper splattered like sea gull shit on the asphalt. People were getting out of their cars and kicking the dead fucker saying shit like:

“I got a massage in 30 minutes I’m late because of you dead shit”

“I have a two hour window to cheat on my husband and fuck Ted the insurance man”

And my personal favorite:

“Someone scrape this dead fucker off the road”

So I mosey down to the local Dot Head store. What’s his name is at the counter. Cool dude but he has far too many consonants in his name. Hence “What’s his name?” Now, he has this pet Anaconda who he loves, so I ask him if he has any new pictures and his eyes light up and says: “I’ll be right back.” He runs to the back room and I run to chest freezer whereupon I start stuffing frozen Ice cream sandwiches down by pants and in my pockets. I love stealing shit and I love Ice cream sandwiches.

So he comes back and starts showing me the pictures of his pet snake and in the meantime my balls are freezing from the frozen Ice Cream sandwiches stuffed in there and let’s face it, who needs frozen balls.

I give him a fake smile and I split and start eating my plunder. Oh yea, then I went home.

]]> http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/12/17/another-failed-suicide-attempt/feed/ 2 http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/12/13/dancing-around-the-edges/ http://oddpoetworld.com/2009/12/13/dancing-around-the-edges/#comments Sun, 13 Dec 2009 11:49:29 +0000 Eddie Mount http://oddpoetworld.com/?p=335 So I am at the Haddonfield Speed line’s parking lot and this chick has my dick in her mouth. I’m waxing philosophical watching the social insects scurry to their next task.

“I wonder what my future ex-wife is making for dinner.”

My future ex-girlfriend looks up with fawning eyes and asks “How is it?”

I blurt out “Meatloaf!”

What?

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

I love that line when I’m getting a blowjob and I never miss an opportunity to use it, much to the dismay of the blower. It is a bad blowjob. There are two schools of thought on “The Blowjob” One states: “there is no such thing as a bad blowjob”, the other, is the dialectic antithesis of the first postulate, “There is! because I have been the recipient of far too many”

I wonder if it would be pushing things if I left a “How too” Blowjob sex video on the front seat when she drops me off around the corner from my future ex-house.

My mind wanders back to the tableau before me and I start counting the insects who are wearing sneaks. Footwear was never a big deal to me but when you’re getting a bad blowjob, well, Ya got to think of something besides meatloaf.

So I have a population sample of about 200 insects and a 45% sneaker wearing rate with a standard deviation of about .5.

“Moan”… “Moan”

Oh yea, I’m dropping a few well placed moans for the chick’s ego stroke. You can never tell a chick that she gives bad blowjobs; in fact you can never tell a chick anything negative because they take that shit personal. A babe can tell a man he sucks at eating pussy and the dude could care less. Okay, he might say: “Wash that stench pit and maybe then I could take off my respirator and actually eat it Bitch!” But that would be it. He’ll go back to counting sneakers or thinking of meatloaf, whatever.

Now if you tell a chick that shit she would plot your emotional destruction. Chicks are the Hannibal Lecters of emotional manipulation and ultimate mind fuck. Yea, you’re pretty well doomed when you piss a chick off.

She comes up for air and I could tell she was about to say something stupid like: “I love you”

I don’t give her the chance.

I push her head back down on my rod: “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Back to the sneakers, I think I’m on to something, I’m pretty sure I’m close to a Universal Truth. Universal Truths have been fucking with my head ever since I was a kid. I can never nail the suckers.

I’m always dancing around the edges.

She gets up and smiles… I smile back. I wonder if our smiles are real smiles. I wonder if I am dancing around another Universal Truth.

“Have to get home babe, I have to cook for my future ex-Husband and my gay son is home from school.”

She starts her car and holds my hand during the short trip. She is squeezing my hand like a tea bag trying to get as much of my essence as she can.

“Call me Babe!”

I promised I would.

As I get out of her car an old lady shakes her head.

She knows I’m slinging dick.

I notice how disheveled the corner property is since the previous owner got busted for insurance fraud.

I turn the corner and my future old lady is walking my future ex-dog arguing with my future ex-Son

Something about beer money.

She sees me.

Her smile is a disguised wince; she knows I’m slinging dick too.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Meatloaf “I blurt out.

I walk up my future ex-driveway,

I’m pretty sure there is a Universal Truth here; I’m always dancing around the edges.

And the incandescent greens of sweet Silvan

Fade to brown

Silvan retreats



The trees yawn

Preparing for sleep

Release their children

Mother breeze envelopes them

In sighing heartache

And caress them in majestic dance

To the forest floor

“Hush my children

Sleep the sleep of death”



The winter of my life approaches

The chill of approaching mortality

Grips my Soul

I no longer hold on to yesterday

I dismiss it fondly

Telling memories to roam free

And seek succor from dreams



The Soul fights

But years never lie

“But what of Love?

Was it only the Poet’s song?

Was it only a dream?”



Lady Death approaches

And embraces me

In cold warmth

“Hush Child”

“Time to take another journey”

“Your wars are over”

“Hush now”

“Hush”

The train that is…

Filled with busted dreams

And

Salty tears

And faceless people

Who no longer cared



There were not many there to see me off

Just a few…

They begged me not to leave

Where was I going

I had no idea

I was just going

Who can answer such questions

Their tears were touching

As If they knew

I was never coming back



Take directions

No point in that

I never follow them

Go right

I go left

Besides

No matter which way you go

You always arrive at your destination



Looking back

I wonder if I had a choice

If I could have changed anything

Might as well try to change

The color of your eyes

The way you laugh

Or

Will the rain away



I arrived

It was a cold place

The Sun seldom shone here

Twilight the best you could hope for

There were no flowers

Just twisted green things

Reaching out

Towards an invisible savior

In that struggle

They were beautiful



There is much beauty here

A daunting will to survive

Which permeates all life



A dour moon

Which paint all in glimmering ice crystals



An incessant breeze

That orchestrates

A heartrending dance



A Landscape

Hewed from Earth’s tired bones

Stabs out at the night

Proclaiming In painful epitaph

“I am Alive“



But here…

There be Demons

Pentagon officials announced they fucked up again in their eight year pursuit of 911 mastermind Osama Bin Laden.  Award winning journalist Oddpoet revealed that Bid laden was not in North Waziristan but actually working as an animator for the Walt Disney Company.  When pressed Pentagon bigwig Gates admitted that Bin Laden penchant for changing one letter in his named befuddled the Pentagon’s brain thrust.  The plug wearing Gates said, “It’s really not our fault we were looking for Osama Bin Laden and he was working as Osama Ban Laden, You have to admire him, he is a crafty son of a bitch.”  The pentagon wunderkind went on to state that he believed Bin Laden had outside assistance and probably four or five foreign nations were involved in the nefarious scheme.  He urged all Americans to remain suspicious and terrified.

Scientist announced they had nothing really to announce.  They did say the quest of cures for children leukemia, cancer, aids, global warming were continuing at a snail’s pace.  “But on the bright side we discovered after intensive research that when you rip a lab rat’s ears off they make a really cool screeching sound.”

A group representing the “Real horror writers of America” urged a boycott of the phony Vampire movie “New Moon”  It’s an outrage, you have 13 year old chicks fingering their sludge pods over some cute vampire who don’t even suck blood.  What the fuck?  He predicted dire consequences on the continued fagification of American youths.  “Let’s face it a vampire is suppose to tear your throat out and they never fuck, sheeze”

The National Organization of Woman’s news conference announcing the group’s legislative initiatives urging the “castration of all males” was disrupted by the iconoclastic Oddpoet.  While overturning tables and tossing dildos at the “lesbian fucks”, Oddpoet announced his own agenda. He planned to “coldcock any chick who pisses him off” to demonstrate He turned and dropped a female reporter who got too close.  In the melee that followed Oddpoet was remonstrated by an associated who screamed, “she was not a lesbian Oddpoet, she was a pretty cool nymphomaniac who would fuck any man who looked her way or bought her a cup of coffee.” the never remorseful bard said, “Fuck the bitch, they’re all dykes in training”   As he was being led away to a waiting police wagon he urged all lesbians to continue making “Dyke flicks”, and that “he was still a sucker for girls going down on each other.”

In related news, Oddpoet planned to publish from prison his controversial annual Yuletide extravaganza, “very cool suicide letters.” The gang raped deviate stated that he had the “utmost respect for anyone who up and offed themselves.” The American Business alliance rejected the post and urged anyone in the depths of despair to hold off on killing themselves till after the holidays.  That “the consumer driven American economy needed every present bought and paid for by aforementioned emaciated American poverty stricken consumer, It’s no time to be selfish”

And every word of it is true…