The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

The end rests
Lan­guid and del­i­cate
A sin­gle dan­de­lion seed
Estranged from the puff
Blown by rebel­lion
Or per­haps just nature’s course
To impreg­nate the ground
With more sun­shiny weeds



The end
It rests on my fer­tile mind
I cry for the clouds to unleash
A tor­ren­tial wrath
Imbed the seed to grow roots
But my mind remains arid
The wind stirs lightly
The dan­de­lion seed rests
Lan­guid and del­i­cate



Moments fused with hours
And time crashed
Against the shore of sen­tience
Vague­ness flashes
Thoughts whirl
Run away
Laugh­ing
Chal­leng­ing
The mote in God’s eye



The begin­ning…
I became…
Chaos fled
Fused Tachyons
Blazed
Scream­ing through the newly birthed light
I become many things
A par­ti­cle in the pri­mor­dial soup
A sin­gle cell
Need­ing mem­ory
To fill the void
Fus­ing
While incom­ple­tion raged
Become…Become…
The voice insis­tent
Demand­ing
Pulling pain
Out of beau­ties ori­fices



The end drained
The pla­centa of birth
Claw­ing for release
Upon the pure sands
Untouched by mankind
Fer­tile soil washed away
From neces­sity
Unnat­ural in the wail­ing cry
To be…
Accepted into the region
Unfit for any king or queen



Weeds grew
Bold and erect
Sup­ping upon the light
And dew as sweat upon the brow
Nature grew unpromised
And auda­cious in peel­ing the lids
From eyes refus­ing to see
The puff–
Blood­ied and alive–
There beyond obsti­nacy
In the face
Of time
In all its abhor­rence…



Then…
The music appeared
At first shy and unsteady
Yet insis­tent…
Demand­ing all take part
All share the essence of their being
Unique instru­ments… unique voices
In that choir all liv­ing things took their places
Like notes fused to alabaster parch­ment



The seed which was now more than a seed
More than what it ever could be
On its own moved to a strange grandeur
A feel­ing, a cer­tainty
That it was eter­nal
That its voice was needed
In that con­stel­la­tion of sound



The music would not stop
Could not stop
It held all things to its cadence

The music played…
And all life danced and swayed
To its rhythm



And it was…



Beau­ti­ful…

Sirens sing the song of death
While rental cops lay cones down
Restrict­ing traf­fic



They have come for me.



I am the Poet
The truth
My words are carved in the flesh of inno­cence
Scrawled in cheap uri­nals
Chis­eled in the faded gray paint of shit holes
Of lonely tomor­rows
I dry the tears of the hope­less
Scream with the home­less
I sing truth that hum­bles Gods
I am Prometheus, Sisy­phus



I cut the throat of pompous laugh­ter
And kill its first born
I eat the soul of dread­ful nor­malcy
I walk the edge and con­versed with mad­men
My words rever­ber­ate in trash strewed alleys
My tread echoed in the halls of jails and men­tal insti­tu­tions
Shared secrets with bro­ken soul­less junkies



I am truths
That freeze men’s souls
And the lies they swear by
The burn­ing blade cut­ting teth­ered souls
Illu­mi­nat­ing light­en­ing



I am the Devi­ate fondling sacred sex­u­al­ity
The ser­ial killer cov­ered in Blood
Suck­ing life from vic­tims
With last breath curs­ing God
Whim­per­ing
“Why me?”



I am the throne­less king
The voice­less trou­ba­dour
The song no one will sing
I am the invis­i­ble chill
That fon­dles your spine
I am dis­com­fort
The night­mare
The book no one will read
I am words no want wants to hear
I am …

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?

Doth thy hunger seek redress
In
Sub­tle Death?

Con­sum­ing essence
best left for
Children’s innocence?

Wouldst thy shed skin
And life
for
a but­ter­flies
Errant Path?

Dance to a falling leaf
in Autumns pain?

A drunk­ards folly
in muted scream?

The flayed skin of truth
Cry­ing imag­i­nary sin?

Would it be
The Die
Rolls
For purpose?

That the Ran­dom Gods
Do so shud­der
at Happenstance?

Would it be the clenched tear
Finds
res­o­lu­tion
In
Linens gen­tle catch

Eat not thy Tail Ourbo­ras
Seek truths gen­tle caress
Let her dic­tates
love you

Seek her embrace
And know
The truth
of pain.

Wouldst thy tail
be
An
End
Unto
itself?

Bubbles…

How your per­fec­tion mocks me

Float­ing on gen­tle current

Adher­ing to immutable laws

As king­doms of men rot in dusty tombs

Ratios and pro­por­tions established

Before the Pharaohs were young

Before the ances­tors of man walked upright

Uncon­cerned with the triv­i­al­i­ties of the world

As kin­folk pop and burst upon the lilac scented air

Do you know the mys­ter­ies you carry?

Do you pon­der your mortality?

Ques­tion your purpose?

Can you plumb the depths of this world?

Pierce the shad­ows that claim the light?

See inside a woman’s heart?

Give mean­ing to the mad­ness I see?

I am flawed

A con­ver­gence of nucleic acids

Coded by uncar­ing mad­men at the the­ater of the absurd

I am the upside of the die

The tum­bling leaf tossed to and fro

by uncar­ing breeze

The spin­ning wheel whose destination

Yet deter­mined

You care lit­tle for the truths that drifts beside you

That affirm you

Spher­i­cal truths of an omnipo­tent God

Who taunts me

Bub­bles…

Only Bub­bles

So I am in this Motel room and I have my John­son poised to enter this chick’s ass. She says “I never engaged in this kind of thing before.” Well, I tell her, “nether have I.”



I use to oper­ate under the assump­tion that Women were a gift of Aphrodite. An altar where I wor­shiped, a mag­i­cal inter­lude, a punc­tu­a­tion of real, in an oth­er­wise bor­ing life, that was before…



I’m get­ting ahead of myself…



So I’ve been fuck­ing this bitch for about two hours and I’m feel­ing good about myself, kind of like Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Cor­ral and the bitch is one the Clanton’s. So I’m pound­ing away, my gun is primed; being a musi­cian I’m pound­ing a whole slew of rhythms in that pussy. I am a jazzed ass cock­smith, I’m giv­ing her long strokes, short strokes, vary­ing rhythms, I am Thelo­nious Monk and the bitch is my keys.



All of a sud­den she can not breathe, well, not my prob­lem; she wanted to fuck, right?
And I real­ize my cock is a poten­tial instru­ment of death and I play the sce­nario out.



“What hap­pened here?”
“Offi­cer we were fuck­ing and she died.”
“You try­ing to say you fucked her to death?”
“I guess so Offi­cer.”
“My MAN!”

High fives…



Of course I stopped. Why?



The story demands our atten­tion…



Five hours ear­lier…



I knocked on her door, first look­ing left, then right, a para­noid thing. I have never been com­fort­able going into another man’s house for the pur­pose of fuck­ing his old lady. I don’t respect myself, in fact I hate me, but pussy is pussy and my old lady is use­less.



I won­der if the same scene is play­ing out at my crib, some Mandingo mother fucker who’s got my worth­less wife slammed against the wall, and she’s repeat­ing ver­ba­tim what’s going through my head. Shit! She’s not a Poet; fuck her and her Mandingo boy.



She answered. Her smile was preda­tory, she looked like she wanted more than I could ever give, any­one could give. She looked that hungry.

Her eigh­teen year old boy is on the couch eat­ing a hot pocket, watch­ing Nick­elodeon and eye­ing me. Now he has no dog in this fight his bio­log­i­cal Dad is on his third ex-wife and his Mom is fuck­ing me at the moment. His step Dad is in South Car­olina at the lov­ing sug­ges­tion of his never faith­ful wife.



Our eyes meet. I can’t read him…odd…
She grabs my hand,
“Let’s go in the bed­room.”



I look at the bitch like she has two heads. Her room is right behind the wall where the TV is play­ing Scooby Doo. And the thought of Scooby say­ing Rut Roo and Her Mom scream­ing Fuck me Jesus…Fuck me… Is even too much for scum like me to bear.
Besides don’t need her kid call­ing me Jesus.



She is insis­tent! Won’t let up. I know her kid hears her pleas, her need. I’m mak­ing a joke out of the whole thing. It’s like a fuck­ing Kafka novel, here I am try­ing to pro­tect her and her kid and she wants to kick my ass because I won’t fuck her with her kid in the house.



“I’m outta here.”
I walk to the door.
She fol­lows me, grabs me and pushes me against the wall.
Now I’m not a big dude, I’m a bad mother fucker but I’m not big and I let her man­han­dle me.
I’m think­ing about the kid…her…



I look at her and then her kid munch­ing on a hot pocket pretending…the world is… Rut Roo…



She is a tan­gle of needs and wants…
I knew at that moment I could never be the answer to that thing that burned in her, her eyes…



“We’ll get a room”



I should have run away and never came back, but… pussy is pussy and I have not had any in a while, being mar­ried and all that…



So…

The mid­dle was the begin­ning and the begin­ning is now…



I’m look­ing at her ass like Colum­bus look­ing at the new world. She never been ass fucked and I … what the fuck… My cock was sucked into her ass, it was like Lassie run­ning into the arms of lit­tle Timmy, home sweet home.



It was a vio­lent ass fuck, I slammed that mother Fucker and she bucked, lord did she buck. I was angry, I was fuck­ing her lies, her Son, her hus­band, but most of all me. I should know bet­ter…



She shiv­ered and shook and col­lapsed on the bed. I was amazed a woman could cum being ass fucked. She reached behind towards me and grasped my hand. I pulled away and ran to the bath­room. I started vom­it­ing and wip­ing the brown sin off my dick. I knew it would never be clean again. No mat­ter how long or how hard I scrubbed.



“You okay Babe?”



I couldn’t answer.

Broken crayons

Grasped by

Crushed fin­gers

Vainly

try

To stay inside the lines



Siz­zling tears

Burn

The inno­cent

Scorch­ing beauty

A flower

That

Shall never ever blos­som



Heart wrench­ing greed

Insa­tiable

Mono­lithic

Com­plete

Unde­ni­able

Total

The slaver­ing jaw of the Wolf



Who will take up sword?

Who will lend voice to this din?

Who will defend beauty?

Inno­cence?

Joy?

The weak?



I hear the trum­pets blaring

A call to arms.

The clank of amour

And the sweat of vis­cous violence

Lay not that upon my brow

I seek peace

Evap­o­ra­tion

Loss

Always loss



Yet

They cry for help

And their tears touch me.



“Your sword my Lord”



I hate what I’ve become…

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.