but aren't they all random?



A Pocketful of Poesy was a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog* up until the great derail of 2013. The impossibly-high standard of quality proved impractical to keep up, without a book deal. But don't take my word for it: click RANDOM and judge for yourself! And feel free to offer your critique.
*based on poem rate for calendar years 2009-2012. Also, kidding about the book deal.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

"These Pep Talks Of Ours"

Eat a dick, pip-squeak! Thank you,
I'll be here all week, my arms
so tired. How's the leg?
You had me at "don't make me
beg," but take my life - please, oh,
please do. I'm using only ten percent
of what my brain thinks of my mind
in time and money, well, unspent -
unsung, unhung, unrung, bells on
with blinkers off, with ill-intent
and hangers-on from stern to prow,
all furrowed brows - unbowed, unbent,
their pink and pretty penises all in a
row, so innocent we row, all row - together, now! -
what floats such boats as these we've seen,
and rigged and sent out oe'r such waves,
though these four score and seven seas? So stormily!
So fierce of mine! O Captain! My Captain! Oh -wait.
That's me up there. I stand and spin, with pink
and idle hand, my paper-plate
halo: all painted gold, cocked rakishly, and well-bestowed
upon one brand-new devil horn - and sneer, with air of cold command
turned warm, like welcome-mats worn out. I'm on a boat.
The boss - as you'll no doubt
observe. Oh, you will pay
your obeisance, or I will know
the reason why not, sir.

A rakish angel, I have been -
and raked over the coals for it.
Was innocence not grand? Not bliss?
Not ignorance? Not Risk? Not sin?
Not Stratego? Not consequence?
Not self-defense? Insanity?
Nor mortal combat - finish him!
Don't copy me on these e-mails
no more - not blind, nor openly,
nor printed out for later. Sure,
okay - one more, then take these either/ors of yours
and row yourself back out to sea.
For we are up a crick, old cock! You take the fifth,
and I'll drink yours
and plead insanity - total.
From teetotal, to two toed tree
complete with sloths, so prideful in
their sinful lusts and gluttonies
and well-turned wraths. And envious
of all the petty jealousies, and covetous
of tiny points of difference that lie between
their pointed toes. The sloth drops off, into abyss
- and you tell me: "Stop sending these!" but hey

I worked real hard on this

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