Carlos Santana
Wears a bandana
Eats a banana
Named his daughter Anna
poem
Slippery slip slip
I found a condom on my window sill. This is a poem.
How safe is the universe?
Why do pigeons stare?
I saw two pigeons fighting for a single condom
The battle for the rubber, to be safer than the other
Why are condoms thrown away?
Why are they airborne?
Alas! they are thin, lightweight and never torn
lest they break, the moon will shake
forgive me , says the balloon maker
I am sensible, I am sick
Nostradamus does’t need a toothpick
The rubber will not endure a fall
I see time pass by
I count the needles in the eye
and suddenly, the poem goes off topic
into a land unknown, with folded arms I sit on the throne
tiny little milk packets
Now now, it’s getting grose
read the poem, angry nose
Aah fuck just end it
The one that got away
This is a re-telling of a traumatic experience
If you are faint of heart, please stop here
I don’t want to hurt you
“Golden Delight”
I lost a pizza to ants. She was a medium, topped with corn and chicken. I left her a little too late, out by the gate. By the time I got to her, she was covered in black. The harmless kind of ants, which is ironic because, they never hurt anyone but me. The whole bunch of them gathered around my toasted bread. I even got a discount on her. Wasted coupon, wasted dreams. Into the darkness I threw her, because I knew she was better off left for dead. I’m going to stop referring to the pizza as ‘her’. I think it’s getting weird, and I’m remembering scenes from the American Pie. So I left it there, for the ants and rats to consume to their satisfaction. With a heavy heart, I went back inside, and ate a home-cooked meal. Why? There is no why. There’s only butts. Big, round white butts.
Visitors from nowhere
What if there is no origin?
Why does the mind get restless at the thought of it?
A staggering, vast unknown
I am very very small
I feel very very small
Yet my mind is able to see
All of it
My mind wants to see
All of it
I wonder if there is free will, but I am certain there are glitches
Why else would WordPress choose to ruin a wonderful editing experience with “updates”?
Wet
My tablet fell in the toilet today. Here’s a poem.
You slipped from my arms, there was nothing I could do
You leapt without faith, I should have caught you
I saw you fall down, but there was no frown
I still don’t regret, maybe this is for the best
Did I mention that time I thought I lost you
The girl at ASUS said “there was nothing I could do”
But then you came back, to a life without fear
What happens at repair centers is now pretty clear
But this time I know not, if you will survive
You are neither IP rated nor used to deep dives
I dare not plug you in, nor can I cry
All I can do now is wait for the shit water to dry
Paragraph poetry
Every night, when I lock the front door, I feel a stream of cold air on my toes, from the gap beneath the door. As my crippling OCD makes repeated requests to check and re-check the locks, I hear people in the hallway revel in conversation. Lucky are those who enjoy partaking in human-to-human interactions, for man is after all, a social animal. Here I am, writing to myself. Every line, a little gayer than the last. Is it a poem? Is it prose? What is prose, anyway? I mean really, what the fuck is it?
Backlight
Remember that light?
Yellow and black reflections dancing in the eye
Remember that awe and wonder? Remember that smile?
Who was that stranger? Where did they go?
Maybe they’re here. Maybe we don’t know.
Is the vacuum growing? Are we losing the climb?
Maybe a quest is the answer, not through space, but through time
To find an unbroken spirit, a mirror
Say hello, stranger
Wave to yourself
Spend some time there
You and your imagination
Rekindle that flame
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=pphkDoRQgEU&feature=share
A song for winter
I did not have to iron clothes
Winter, I miss you already
I am not afraid of Pneumonia
but I am, of unemployment
I know not where you come from
They say it’s about revolution
I think you are sadness, frozen
Not in time, but in emotion
Now, as this poem gets gayer by the line
I would just like to say
I am a beast with feathers
My wings, are dirty
So I tread on uphill
As I feel the thrust
Of a penis, in my butt
I’m heading to the clouds
I hope for beauty, but eyes are shut
Engine noise is carefully curated music
A glow on my face is happiness from the Sun
Things need not make sense as the lines get longer
Because this is a random-thought-beam, aimed at a canvas
The moon is smiling
Pause for 4 seconds
In the event of an unexpected disaster, the moon will still shine
Those two are unrelated
I don’t like to call it a heaven
I like to call it the unknown
And in the unknown, there is a familiar face
A moon, who is smiling
Random Thought Beam 