Improved Toppypock

Untitled 16
Snow falls from
the sky lazily and
all I see is white
doors with bright
red markings. These
houses are stained
and by midnight
Death’s motorcycle
will roar down the street,
stopping door-to-door
to claim the most recent
born son
or daughter, whichever
comes first. He’ll grab
them by the toes and
toss them into a
basket. They’ll be deposited
into a casket and shot onto
Mars, where they’ll create
a new society. It will be
better than ours. It will be
brighter than ours. It will be
greater than ours could ever
be. Every day they call upon
their self-appointed
parliament for changes
and they will happen.
Because apparently the only
people that really listen
are babies; they’ll listen
to all your bullshit
and nod.

Untitled 15
Your eyes have the ability
to relax the most agitated
soul. They roll away when
ever I say something that
causes the reaction. Your neck,
soft velvet. You’re as beautiful
today as the day I met you.
It was cloudy and rainy but
this did not impede our stride.
Our interests matched up
but then life started to mash up.
As a catalyst would, motions
were started, the gears started
grinding and now we are
here.
I never meant for this to happen
but now I strive to make
the best of it. I’m nervous
again and you can always tell.
I’m being corny again
and then I get the reaction.
It is too soon to tell what
will happen next but I believe
you have all the cards laid out
and I’m ready to hear my
future. Am I to remain in this
space or am I destined to
kick down the door and
run free? It’s not up to me,
rather it is up to destiny,
no, free will. I left that box
unchecked for a reason.
This season on Life we finally
arrive at a conclusion,
a solution, to the wandering
mind. I introduce you as
the next. I realize I’m getting
too bold but I can’t help how I
feel. Wasn’t it a professor that
said it?

Desire-less Dante
Have you met
Desire-less Dante?
He wants to do
nothing; he wants not
to get out of bed. His
actions speak volumes
when he chooses not
to speak. He lies in wait,
rest, in a sort of
self-induced oblivion.
He wants not to
deal with petty human
interaction. He deems
people weak, yet this
only reflects his
self worth. Nothing
gets done when Dante
transforms into this
pitiful soul. It takes a toll
on all around him,
he dabbles not in sin
but would gladly be
better off left alone.
His mind is a
minefield and if you
try to catch him,
he will spew a
fireball of malice
in your direction.
What is Dante afraid of?
Rejection? We’ve felt more
of this indiscretion
after the breakup of the
seven. He knows
all he wants
but not all he needs,
no method to achieve
a disconnect between
the goals and the means.
There is, however,
a glimmer of hope.
Maybe Dante can break free
unless he fucks it up.

Untitled 14
‘Tis a lovely day
to squander our
chances at sheer
balderdash. You
are all hickory;
I feel like kindling
and less of a match,
one spark to ignite
all you see before
you. Before you
decide, think about
the firestorm that
could ensue, use
the wind as
guidance. It’s time
that we embrace
and wonder why
our world is
beautiful at best.
At worst, two planes
of existence – our
existences – will not
mesh but still
catch fire. All my
hope rests in your
eyes
as they roll away
from my gaze.
I am nervous again,
wondering what
thoughts are
swirling around
inside of your
mind; it’s high
time I asked you
all my transient
questions.
All that you need,
want to tell me
I learn in your
silence.

Dead by Winter
Angels gloss ice
cold areas of
hands, nose, soul-
less, we are not;
full of love are
our hearts but
lack direction,
prey for focus.
Time, time is an
old friend with
a hearty “hello”
and a hug for
security’s sake.
Without time,
it seems that
our lifetime
is a moment,
an instant in
the cold winter
night. Staring
at the sky, thinking
of nothing in
particular until
the snow stops
falling.

The Horrors of Mankind
I.

trapped, chambers of gas
explosions sought innocence
lost in the kickback of an AK – 47
2,860 days of life
lost in a hail of gunfire
childhood soldier with record
triple homicide, gross vehicular
manslaughter of your brother and daughter
last birthday, the cake decays
but relays what horror is
bombs, radioactive skeletons
with eyes that may not see
warning signs

II.

death, depth,
detoxify, edify,
destroy, prediction,
mutilate, relation,
retaliation, fuck
mediation, guns,
youngster, murder,
electric chair blues,
popping popcorn.

III.

They found him, behind closed doors,
naked, shouting mad demanding
remorse,
mercy, mercy,
mercy for his crimes against his brothers
and sisters, mothers and lovers.
But, it was too late.
His hate ate all he loved,
murdered, pools of blood
soaked through sheets.
He was weak but
gun made him strong
like man who pulls trigger
takes what he wants.
All that is left, delusional God,
last cigarette, firing squad.

Untitled 13
I’m pissed, shaking,
miserable, and dying
hot from consuming
gin, my only friend
in this despondent end.
I could scream from
the tops of
the smallest piles of
garbage. Filthy, I
reject these
outcomes. This bottle…
it is dead and what
can possibly come from
endless possibilities?
I say nothing. I say
the death of time
and space is compact
within these four
edges. Focus,
I will never know.
Come on strong and
reject this dejected
piece of nothingness
what is in the leftist?
I don’t think she’s
coming back this time.
She could but what
do you know? You fucked
this whole thing up.
How does it feel
to not let anyone
stay, stay, stay?
Let them go!
What are they worth?
Their weight in gold, no,
I refuse to let them be
refuge on the side
of the road.
I accept you with
all your flaws.
I have said my piece
and I will say no more.

Untitled 12
When it comes time
to make decisions, I
can’t help but
panic. What can
I do other than
brace myself
for failure? I have
done nothing
but fail,
and fail, and fail,
and now,
redemption.
A shot at
taking a chance
on the unknown.
Being awake is
a burden on
the senses;
I sense that
this conversation
could end this
restless tension.
It is not
the actual conclusion
that worries me.
It is the time in
between the act
and the decision.
I care to hear
what you have to
say. My impatience
is being patient
and now we’re waiting
as the calm. Either way,
there is a storm
heading into town.
And I know
I can’t board up
these windows
alone.

Glut
Poison is poi, son,
for the company lieu.
Meat from the bones,
blood, to wash away
alcohol, sober to the
weakened stomach.
The lining is gone
with ulcer growing.
Retribution may be
no solution,
call doctor.
PhD in gastroenterology.
Too late, maybe, too
early. Brother, call the
medics, my high time
is neigh.
I have eaten all that has hurt you.

Untitled 10
Miserable without the burning
I cause the ground to shake
These hands are not clean
Burn them with chemicals
I drag you through the mud
Bracelet of thorns
Bring me to the dawn of man
Slay them with an open palm

Tell Catherine I don’t want it anymore

Thought
That young doctor, the nihilist,
cares not for your cherry
-flavored cough syrup vomit.
He has to, not wants to,
save the little bastard
children with your
bone marrow. Forget your
sorrow. You’ll be as dead
as Dillinger at dawn.
Let’s not hack riblets:
this hospital sucks.
The food tastes like
rotten cement mix
and all the nurses suck,
turning tricks for
extra stirring sticks.
The doctors, what pricks!
They overprescribe
Demerol so we can
overdose before the
organ harvest. They use
sickles of sickle-cell
anemia to cause
cancer, cancer, cancer,
among other things.
Little eight year old
girls wearing slings,
asking too many questions.
“Where is Mommy?”
Under the floorboards,
wrapped in cords. Don’t cry.
I don’t want to hear it.
There’s a smorgasbord of
toys at the morgue with
your name on them.

Untitled 9
Clip clip clip…
…no, no calvary to speak of.
But there is this feeling of rejection.
What does that feel like?
It feels like another day in the life,
not a fistfucking day of gnomes.

August 23rd
It’s Sunday morning.
It’s Sunday morning and I’m staring
at the clock,
10:03.
Turning toward your picture, I’m torn.
We aren’t going to work.
We turned into an abortion of love
unborn.
It’s sad to me when numbers get in the way,
caught up in broken vernacular and
digital digits L.E.D. lit sunshine
flower-picking frenzy
your thoughts: he loves me…
he loves me not…
The truth is I don’t love you.
I could love you.
But the clock’s hands move one minute at a time
and don’t want to give me any extra.
It’s Sunday morning.
It’s Sunday morning and I decide beauty is gone
but only when you have left.
The way you are is not the way you’ll be
and to me, the way you’ll be won’t be for me.
By then Love’s trap will ensnarl me in her glorious form
making the sun shine a little bit brighter
while the bee’s pick the pollen off the flower
in your hand. I’ll be someone else
and you’ll just be plain.
It’s Sunday morning.
It’s Sunday morning and I’m lying here,
staring at the clock,
still thinking of you.

Untitled 8
Time is supposed to heal but
has made me bitter. I don’t
care for your static lies,
bloodshot eyes and deadly lullabies.
Sing me to sleep, pretend that
you do care for our past which
passed by like a millennia of
spilt milk. Who do we blame
when our future looks bleak?
I point my finger and shake it
at you but it could break and
I’ll have no one to blame except
myself.

You want to be saved…
…well then, Ishmael, I suggest we get a bigger boat.
I can’t handle all your problems and mine,
we’ve got a weight limit and your baggage is far too
vast to deal with. It’s not the story of the sundress,
it’s the meaning of regress and disapproval. Maybe stress.
The sea ebbs and flows, trailing to whoever knows,
following whatever comes today instead of
come what may. Does that mean we lost the war?
I doubt it, my lovely Ishmael, we are bound to set layers
and hold each other back but I’ll break free,
riding these waves until they crash near the shore
or a lighthouse. That bright light means we’re going home
so put on your lifejacket and hop in the water.
We can destroy the other lighthouse with our weight
in issues. Give me a tissue, this may take awhile.

Done
When will I see you again?
Friend, you make me want to hurt
the bastions of children in your absence,
the absence of your skin and color,
your eyes that have seen darkness and still crave light.
Where would I be without your assistance,
your guidance, your nose that knows best
and without your presence-

this is not about me and my inability to commit
this is not about you and sexual preference confusion
It is you and me and us not really knowing what we’re doing
Are we merely pawns on the chessboard of love?
We’ve played the game and know its outcome
When the king or queen is taken,
the game is over.

And the game is indeed over.

This is the cleaning up of said game,
“damage control” as it’s called
so without your guidance and guilt
I am forced to pick up the pieces
and wonder what really happened between
then and now.
It's sunny day cancer agents that caused this.

Unsolved Miseries (Part Two)
Playing detective has never been this much fun: someone is dead on the floor near a gun and whored magazine of some sort and a bottle of shitty port wine. I’m standing in line, ready to solve this mystery with little misery. And that’s business, Sarah, with your life full of shun while I make my silly puns and lackluster yet blockbuster rhymes. I demand we smash a clock but not the watch; we gotta save a little time. I assume the killer is Sarah but I haven’t a clue… what’s Natastilie been up to? Stomping out babies that were blue? Nah, that ain’t true but I am a nut with a vein to pop. And speaking of pop, did we ever figure out who tapped Franny’s fanny or was that Kendy bending time and space? I recall this place and Franny’s fanny escaped unscathed and it was Kendy’s that was the one in question and now that I mention… was Colleen really in a cast or was she sitting around letting time pass? Is that other girl eighteen yet?! Back on track, Colleen’s at home writing a revenge poem for her leg-breaking friend and Natastilie is figuring out all the latest girl trends (OMG SHOES) and Franny’s searching the couch for change to spend and where’s the Nut- fuck – I mean Kendra…Ephedra-free, that’s the way to be. I don’t even know what that is but was she there when the mystery victim was in a coma with massive head trauma, fucking karma, works too freaking fast, head to mass, that’s where we’re nautical. Who committed this killing for a shilling and pent-up anger cause we’re all in danger and demand answers?!

P.S. Everybody loves the Pie.

Unsolved Miseries (Part One)
Have you ever felt like you were being watched by the underdeveloped eyes of one million unborn fetuses? If so, this poem is not meant for you. If not, please continue. There’s a feeling that the masses are restless lazy asses, passing off pamphlets to get donations to their churches and that’s wrong, totally wrong. Cocktail personality disorder says you tell me what I want to hear and what I want to hear is what is being planned as this week’s murder mystery. Was it Kayla in the bathroom with the rusty, less-trusty razor blades or was Colleen lurking in the shadows, configuring charades with parades of pill-flicky fun for the whole family? In fact, this sort of attack can only be plotted by a Nut, fuck, that’s just my gut, assuming she was still mad I tapped her on the… fanny several years past. No wait, Colleen was in a cast, sitting at home, having a blast. It must have been Franny who tapped the Nut on the fanny and it was a cover-up all along! No no no, this isn’t some song we can just block out of our minds. There must be more witnesses with info to spill so why not grill Liz and see what she knows on the biz. Oh yeah, Liz is on vacation to Zanzibar which is kinda far to reach for tap or a feel, let the Jell-o congeal so we can get our shots. Tap’s like Tab and tastes delicious going down and I meant the soda, not her. So who’s dead in the bathroom this time? Finish the rhyme, shit’s getting old.

You cannot finish what you did not begin
To summer, to ash
to dusk for dusk
and days when days
are not enough
I blame the sun
for my problems
and figure out
how to never solve them.
I hunt to hunt
to kill for kills
and hurt the sky
a crystal knife
I know there’s hope
but lost in lies
I wait under the tree
for my life…
to start.
I beg for Death
to hold my hand
I must get home
and end this static.

Depression
No beauty in the sky
No color in the flowers
Eyes see gray shades
No more of this static

All the trees are dead
The grass is dead
I hear a flower scream
It will soon die too

Eyes of a million fetuses
Stare at me as I pass
My wallet on the counter
It is full of blood

Sick of this machine
And my lack of dreams
Your matted dirty hair
Your rotten eyes stare

Spiders in the milk
I said no more static
You did this to us
Not the other way around

One day these eyes red
Nothing will stop me now
Pull open the heartstrings
Tear them until they’re out

Stop staring at me

I always hated you

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