Perditrix Mundorum

I take and I take and I take
and when I'm fake those who know, ache
from the hate that's normally mistak-
en for something fake or
half baked and in stakes
too high, i'll feel like i'm the one to die but,
no. The one to die is us
and though we combust
we must
realign and center.
I'll re-enter a place of
passivity when you tell me
you're eliminating
me and you give me the
"believe you-me when i'm
saying we are ending," plea.
I will never end.
I'll bend and mend the world
till it's spent and when I blend them, my
pretend world will then send a message
of passiveness when I send the current stem
of reality to its detrimental end.
You'll call me a dick; swing like a pendulum.
I am the perditrix mundorum,
please tell everyone.

Bitched

My hand and face in pain, I write slowly.
I'm not sure where the pain in my
hand came from but it was most likely
from the fight this morning.
Over nothing.
A fire is inside my body
but my brain is still controlling
no? I don't know.
My world is full of shadows
because I've imposed my brainwave
patterns' strange detections
onto it's plain-surface description which dictates
all is all and all is none.
There is no purpose to all of this
but without this pain
in my hand, in my face
how will i know when things don't hurt
or aren't real?
I'll have to just accept
that my life is too short to know everything.
"We were all bitched from birth," He said.
Can I really say some more than others?
My pain only seems more real
because i'll never know the world,
the auto-imposed world of others.
Not really.

Quick but not Prompt

An attempt to structure, suggest
and prompt but it's hard
when it's bland and chewed up
and stomped
out like a cigarette but first,
let me get a second of your time
to not rhyme but instead plead
with you, either
come up with better prompts or
expect rebellion!

Cerebro

Each head sits,
biding time
with rules of pressure
for each line
until, as it is quite often,
 a certain lack
or, maybe, plenty
of stories begin to devise
inside of  her winding,
wrecked,
(although,
as she prefers it,
experienced)
hills and valleys
except the dips do not mean less
and each whole just as deep
as the grainy slopes
filled with words and a particularly
undetermined idea of time
that can only,
in the search for definition,
hope to build some mounds
with fellow ditches
to carry out the finite 
worth that can be resolved,
formulated,
or, on a good day,
destroyed into the acceptance
of a certain place incapable
of accessing a limit
but still knowing, and maybe
only because it is primate,
so the birds might learn it,
of far, and end, and absolute
instead of wisdom
and infinite
and confused
in some amalgamation
of sounds and tones
to describe the universe.

Peices of Fools

Fools live in peices
in the deadened-glow
of the lime jello rainbow brainwaves
from the sketch of an astronaut eating midnight gumbo.
Poetess ramblers blog ramblings of the purple existence,
the crane bag.
Come friendly bomb,
my libido wears a tuxedo and
screams of yakkity yakkity yak
beckoning, "send more coconuts."
it's always something...
it's doggerel

tnemesaB

And just forget
to come, play on my side
past dim light of your suggestion
that evolve into bright spite
or, a sanctuary,
Underneath the hidden stones,
The basesment grew out too early!

Little Tiffany Dee

Little Tiffany Dee
liked glitzy shopping sprees.
A bomb was dropped,
the world was stopped
and little Tiffany Dee
died incompetently.

(and no one cared what she was wearing.)

Trifflin'

Ey, you!
Yeah -you- bitch.
come-ear
I huuurr chu was lookin' for laaarrry?
Tell that trifflin' ass no-good, limp-dick muthafucka'
to come take cuuurrr of his baby
dis motherfucka don't pay for his self!
tellin' me he's gonna be
spendin' the night over there with three
women
an expeck me
to believe him 
when he say he just sleepin'!?
Nnnn-uhnnn, muh-fucka


You lookin for laaarrry, you no-good hood Jezebel?
fuckin' hood rat, yo pussy smell!
bitch, tryin' to take what i'm hittin'?
bitch must be trippin'
step back in the kitch'n 'n
get chocked out by the chicken
neck, no respeck
in the projects or wherever
the poor stay clever and clear
stormy weather
I have to be honest and admit to me
that i'm not the victim of an emotional sea.

Flibflub

In a festive misery, I exclude my inclusivity
I become a hermit
to escape to
A place without meters and parking permits
I deserve it

For I see that time is really frozen 

and people make the mistake of projecting

their hopes and aspirations 

on "the future,"

some made up concept

to compensate for the short

ness of human life.

I'm done when I am dead.

Till then, I will be here 

to veer nearest to approximation 

to happy without vocation or limit

and in the spirit 

I'll feel it and don't it

feel great? for a bit?

Leave me alone, I am Flibflub

a new hermit.

The Puppy Struggle outside the Interior Human

A general delusion of time
We're trapped in a confusion of paths
in a process, primarilly
to mechanize utility from body
a mechanization which destroys
the puppy exterior

So, where lies evidence of this puppyhood?

We are bore
interconnected
yet, there in lies existing misunderstanding
of our humanity
that has been taken and used, abused, dismantled, distraught, reassembled
and brought back

In that duration the UPHILL challenge is to recover our puppy in the human

that we live in :)

Shhalong -

A word comprised from the amalgamation of the phrase, "Shit, that's loooonnggg!"

Merkwelt

And he continued on forever
he never saw the end
of the universe; his memories and time
and space did blend!

Oh, what a thing to see!
with no ending in sight,
the stars start to go out
like candlelights in the night!

"but how did i get here?" He speculatively befudded
"It must be this gizmo! Frozen and crudded!"
He said this, awakening from slumber in space,
The last living thing from the Earthian race!

"I remember when I was but only a sprout,
the amazing things that science and logic brought out.
But even then, I was too young to see
that one day life would equip me -
- with a completely -
-cybernetic, super powered, deep-space robot body!"

The crazed space monkey from the tiny dirt speck
continued to monologue 'cause his brain was a wreck.
Who was this crazed meat-tube from out his skull?
None other than the non-poet, DOGGEREL.

Disheveled Leaves

Disarrayed and disheveled
a display shelf is leveled
beveled, embossed, contains no Alex Cross
The Emperor of Maladies
juxtaposed to World Mythology
MAUS below these
and atop the books, Matt Ridley's
Red Queen
and Introducing
Evolution and an unopened - by me,
a borrowed copy of House of Leaves
by Danielewski
Don't see much poetry
between the leaves of these
books but there's some
if you look deep,
you don't see doggerel
there are somethings here that are beautiful

Doggerel by Doggerel

It's doggerel this bloggerel
phenomenal this scoundre-el
the son of Jor-El, hell, he may as well
tell the rest of them
to stay a spell
dry martini's and cocktail weenies
in deepspace cold or the sunheat, i wear a beenie
and i'm not a poet
but who can tell the good shit from the "this is it?"
that day job, don't quit
but i'm funemployed
new clothes and you can't tell the difference
it's splendiferous
magnificus this slackersaurus smokerous
he smokes-a-saurus boris leaving it flibberflapped
fanoodled
we're going into may, a blue poodle doodle
due in may
a term paper due
six things due by may nineteenth
twenty days
i grind my teeth. however,
people don't work whatever.
let me get into my shit
doggerel, fuck it.