chris (drtynumbanglboy) wrote,
chris
drtynumbanglboy

hey wait, i am good at what i do.

cigar chewin charly

ah it's stupid how the lights look when its sprinkled out that way
sneezes over and over from the bike tired clunk with its missed spoke
the stuttered weaving and labored breathing to keep from the bus path
night tugging my beard

but least it stayed clear through the whole ride
not a hint or sniff of rain
only stunted shit and mixed death smell at the islais inlet
gagged for two blocks

and nobody chucked handfuls of gravel
stayed damn silent most of the way
tires sucking and spraying
at jamestown i stood up with legs burning





last lines are the poor mans titles

when it comes around to lights
shot down on pool halls
and a round won off of a
proud methadone habit
i'd rather fill in her
whites with a pen that
spills off stuttering in blue
spelling out in slow prose
explaining exactly what it is i would do
if she laid her sloped hips
on the soft grassy hill overseeing

this fucking view




death writes bad poetry

It would be funny to say that death opened his epic poem with the timorous squeak of a trapped mouse, but it was, in truth, the knell of every creatures end which opened deaths belabored poetic invective. Every screech, scream and rattle into one, as if drawing breath from the lungs of all the deceased multitudes to prepare for the recitation. And then, pausing for only a second, he began.

The minds and useless eyes of those chosen to spectate the underground debacle of deaths poetry reading reeled in the first few minutes, the images flew fast and thick, a necks arterial channel seeming to cover those in the front rows with the ponderous weight of spurious adjectives and sentence fragments. For several minutes those beholden to deaths diatribe shifted in their seats uncomfortably, wondering when the next poet would have a go, when this parade of dilettantish wordplay would finally end. Death, sticking to his guns, was unswayed by human entreaties, indeed, death only trumpteted louder his painful rhyme schemes and heavy handed preachiness into the hundredth stanza and onward as the morass grew deeper. The throng gathered winced further as the five and six hundredth stanza plodded past. The more foolhardy amongst them began to heckle, yet death remained imperturbable, mispronouncing not a one of his badly situated two dollar words.

The truth began to dawn as the first wails and gnashing of teeth was heard, at this death cocked his head and an eponymous smile fractured his morbid countenance from ear to ear.
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