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…

The hole is get­ting emp­tier
As the faces fade
Into the shad­ows of the walls.
The faces never smiled any­way…
Just stared inward
With vacant eyes
Col­lect­ing data.

Invis­i­ble ten­ta­cles
Push away the sky
Demonic hoards work grav­ity machines
And archaic machin­ery
Fueled by lust and burn­ing souls
Faces replaced by black hearts
Not deign­ing to beat
Fly­ing Iri­des­cent insects wing­less
Fall
Deeper Into the chasm

The insa­tiable void
Devours screams into silence
Just below the slow lurch­ing rhythm
Of organic cogs plead­ing
For release…
Plead­ing to the supreme mus­cle
That will never cease.

The mech­a­nisms of the hole
Have all become vis­i­ble.
Each mask of flesh
And tis­sue has dis­solved…
The pre­tense of all human issues
Has been resolved
With the clar­ity of a sin­gle glance
Inward–
Into the eye of raw pri­mor­dial reality.

Eerie calm
Amidst the howl­ing silence
Essence dis­tilled
Gran­u­lated
Await­ing deploy­ment
Shape Shift­ing shad­ows
With wands made of clouds
And aban­doned bones
Pre­pare incan­ta­tions
Ecto­plas­mic scripts float upward
Nucleotides seek­ing union amidst the pul­sat­ing mass
The Hole pre­pares for birth

All pos­si­ble data
Has been col­lected
The embryo
Weath­ered by caus­tic evil
Inten­tion­ally unpro­tected
Emits a siren’s blar­ing cry
Of liv­ing…
Of liv­ing…
The ini­tial sign
Of human life unforgiving.

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

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…