The blind, apocalyptic, ‘man of my weird’ said,
“here: found poems reflecting the poet.” Great,
great, grandfather, scoffs at raising the dead with lit cigarettes.
It’s all pure poetic nonsense, a disease, a seedling of salmons on the mount in the poet as a troubled child. His inevitable epic, ‘Xolarian Book Of The Dead, is what the poet dreads.
Third world cryo-chambers create sequential sickness – turns the poet into killer and cop, statues and sex dolls, while the Prayer Poem, praying, searches for meaning as an artist.
Walking the dog at a funeral, the poet hides a body.
The poet with multiple bodies and self as poetic legion
sits on fur-niture facing a questionable crisis named
Tassel Tits: a rather disturbing woman monster.
Dear Baron La Croix – grandpa, grandma, cockroaches, elvis and a death avenger enjoys bird poop orgasms while coins, smoking in my mouth, called the Harbinger of invasion apocalypse that clogged only one toilet as it searched for wife during end times in
NONSENSORIUM: A Smart house on LSD full of family based necromantic fetish photography used for advertisements in a bizarro world where there’s probably some zen meaning to be found in soup.
“those of pron everynight will know”
Hymns For The Final Rite of Being will be sung during
crisis of creation with a dose of bad memories in existential Eunos
about the asshole doctor of Marine Terrace.
From Tijuana to Uni, mexicana food and gangsters who
might also be women in grey are seducing famous haiku mom and dad, pissing on sisters on fire then hung, dead, with a hard on. They leave behind pet delicacies and crab haikus that made someone react angrily as dinner with Hannibal involving a #labialeak made Alvin Pang cringe and declare that air dried, deep fried foreskin is delicious.
You’re not weird, man. You’re a Gesamtkunstwerk.
Everyone else is reflecting blindly as great great grandfather really celebrates the life of spirit. Ghostgasms, he calls it. And he quit smoking when he found out he had lung cancer. Stop bitch-sulting your poems. The mad find sense and safety in them, it’s medicineprose, a tree of life, a solid mount for children born ahead of their time.
Your epics are blood transfusions for the gutted,
they are welcomed, prayed for,
turning killers into kin, made whole, sexually alive,
full of art and meaning.
The dog brings breath back to earth,
sculpting gorgeous bodies,
turning monsters into maidens into majesties,
revealing thrones to multitudes of tired people who have been standing up for something for so long.
Stop perpetuating the crisis as a ‘poor thing’’ poem.
Crisis is like calcium, building strong, abled bodies of work since the hunter & gatherer age.
Call off the baron for cocks sake, enough chickens have died in music videos and eating coins that smoke aren’t going to save them.
Tell the harbinger to go home,
enough people wake up to the end of their worlds as it is.
Give them The Hamburgers instead.
Flush the fucking toilet after you shit,
stop hanging on to shit
that’s how you clog up your heart.
Let the doctor asshole be.
Fuck your chicken soup for the soul. There’s no other meaning other than a full belly.
and as for all those weird dreams of mexican food, grey women, pissing on burning sisters and erotic-aphyxiation? Plain, old mind junk that suggests you’re hungry, you’re bored, and you’re actually a dog. Also, you’re angry and alone.
your wife is not lost in some dream world, you’re just looking for a girlfriend. So do yourself a favour and post your tinder profile link in this poem. http://www.tinder.com/@irvingpaulpereira
Never give up.
your older self.