Blog Archives

Spelling with Spittle

White and blank…

Until now.


Now, scuffs

On top



Scuffs drip




Drip like slobber

From mouth of





Slurp back






Falls floor.)  

from scuff – to fluff

Getting Physical

He led me to a room.

Behind he closed the door.

He asked if I take off my shirt,

And bring my pants down to the floor.


He looked me up and down,

And brought his hands upon my chest.

He told me to bend over,

And then to take a breath.

(It was then I knew I had no escape;

I was trapped inside his nest)


My eyes bounced nervously around the room

And landed on his toys.

He picked one up and got behind me

Making an unfamiliar noise.


I stood up straight and dropped my drawers.

He placed his hand where light gets lost.

I did exactly what he said

And turned my head and coughed…


I tried writing a quick poem under five minutes with whatever came to my head first. I was sort-of inspired by Gertrude Stein’s stream-of-consciousness style and Ginsberg’s “first thought, best thought”, although this misses the mark of those poetic prophets.


If it doesn’t burn

You should have no problem

Interrupting erupting embers

With your cold touch,

Shift with clutch,

Don’t take much of such

With a grain of salt… halt.


Give it a break

For time-breach sake,

Don’t make – if you can’t relate


Come back around,

With walls of sound,

Beat to the ground.

Compound and compensate

For what you can’t make;

Two hands will shake

To seal one’s fate.


Ambiguity spawns ingenuity,

Embellished with stupidity

Cuz I don’t have this planed



Make the consonants crack

By loosening slack

Between word rhythms.

It’s culinary for your soul kitchen.



It don’t take enough

To pull a diamond from the rough

So either keep pressing on

Or call my bluff.

The Shitiest Poem I Could Come Up With

I usually don’t have a complete lack of maturity, but today is not usual. Today I’m acting a fool… for the stool.

My Shitty Poem

Ode to the commode

That carries my poo

And keeps me from disease,

Parasites and the flu.

Ode to this seat

Where I do so much reading.

The brown bombs of bowel movements

Are the effects of my eating.

The commode, it gleams

With stinky sediment steam,

Yet I can’t do without it

It would very much seem.

I wish I could shit

In the yard like a dog;

No worry of overflow,

No worry of clog.

But the commode is now broken

And will not flush my pee,

So now this ode

Will be an elegy.