Poesy more than poetry

for me;

it shows and doesn't tell,

if it can't rhyme well,

don't rhyme it,

it can get too shallow!

it makes rhythm in podic feet,

the lines feel awful, pouty,

smiling,

and sleek,

hopefully slippery sleek;

like morning love.

It may not have stanzas,

or any kind of repetition

or punctuation

or commendations in discretionary tones,

but it may have warm hands holding a face,

or an emotional ax of anxiety crushing out

some sordid life

or pukey, drunken anecdotes from some

old atheist born in Andernach, Germany;

they may have bump

and bash, zing and slash

#%$^&*, and crash

cause :> , :^( , !!!!, :::]]]

and make us cry from some

maudlin, sentimentality

that few of us want;

but mostly I like the ones where

I see myself a giant flying beast;

not feathered or smelly like a bat,

but
much more dangerous

than the demons

we made too many of,

soaring like a satiated lover,

with a birds eye view

of my

ever

changing

mindscape...

©1998 mhumunculero

YOU'LL GET THE CREEPS IN HELL

What happened in the gaser war?

Who fought with me against the anarchists?

Who bought the farm defending ignoble piles of shit

from bits of terrible clarity?

Slower death bites like silky, entropic Runes

upon the dying in the need fire of the thorn,

stopped in the heart by iciest no returns.

He fucks her now and she dreams of us

she wanes like the crumbled moon

like the old leather witch elf's shoes left

for rabble in another dusty corner.

Night flies us at the morning

 planning the third night,

while the second happens now;

she pleads for death and we give life torturous plodding,

We eat the skies again with Thunderbird maw

Heyoke guffaw, buttlaughs and no flirt flatulence,

coldest night turns warmed;

the blue pie itches like cat's hairs in their eyes,

small loads squirt and the stupid girls blurt instead of flirt

 and the dutch guy burps some other God form's come.

We writhe in vegengeful success,

She moans from the inept caresses

of knucklehead excesses 

left in an ageing schizoid's affected depression.

We feel like gold on the gallows,

like the smiling dead;

There's no feeding safely anymore.

Graveyard Dreams

Now that it seems said and done,
And you think you have "moved on",
The main part has gone and he's just another ugly, nutso, fatso,
dishonest toad waiting for trial.

So the main fix went in, you didn't even warn yourself against this wounded bear, you took counsel from the incompetent and your own lame psyche,

and from that friend who you castrated so well,
who vied for your affections while I swelled up on the couch and on the chair watching that beautiful white cat walk by,

Festering like an old war wound, laying in the cut like an assassin,

walking as if and moving out broken hearted and seemingly paralyzed.

Knowing I can't blame anyone for the pain which had to come in the game of when,

Knowing that reality gives the best get evens and that your insanity will kill you inside in the end,

The slow, cold Saturnine dance of entropy I have embraced like a lover,
like Kali with Shiva,
like Apook the destroyer,
like Chronos with his scythe.

I see the purple sunset and the inky,

blackened moonless night,

I feel the cold wind soothing the heat of my flesh even in desert summer,

I rail inside while I see the disintegration of your bones and see Oya and Papa Ghede in the graveyard passing you up to kiss babies,

I see the work that my Seidhr Witch has done, unknowing the doom she unleashes;

The best part just begins and the outlaws die painfully alone while their women wallow in sorrow soaking up the come in their assholes from some other lovers they choose to help lessen the pain.

No it doesn't work like it never will and never has,

It seems all about the pain and the abandonment of your reflections in the mirror, only there for your vanities with those sagging bags under your eyes and the darkness of your suicide wishes,

They come upon you like moaning voices fresh from your insomnia,
They bore while you try to intimidate those you dislike,
I pull the trigger at your photo again and again…


©mhumunculero
05-07-07

HERMES OTHER CHILD

In darkened day 

these cowards wait 

for 

their god to come 

and revenge their hate.