Poetry Has No Rules

Poetry has no rules.

It is a tool to create boxes

Swirling with jellyfish and opium dreams.

It is a tune whistled out of an ear

Slipping into fear and unknown syndromes

Edited by time’s computer

Servers on fire with holy wars and race oblation.

This poem is a melted plastic timepiece

An abomination crying out to God like a damaged lamb

The throat of a bird splayed open, playing tinny music

For devils heaving coal upon dolls

Wandering the corridors of my heart

Looking for nooks to store their coins

Their wind-up mechanisms broken

Like my ability to create their futures.

So they topple over the lip of the wound

And are gobbled up by the girls

Who have spent the last thousand years

Eating placentas conceived without sperm.

Over-Reliance on Interior Monologue.

I can’t fucking write for shit balls dog the big band is a creature that can’t tell its own anus from a frog constant shit the dong knell wrapped insane bread too true the sun can’t one the onus like breeze captain Flanders mountain the sanguine sun toon the house down the crate ramble cacti marching timbre coup one by one down the river like goat cheese crabapple sunshine marijuana campsite farm fun fresh band Jesus on a unicycle pogoing band happy all time fun soar the sky make May like June in crypts open and black yawning peril about the short stack weasel forest moon of Endor focused crab awakened lines shit all over by terrorist poison mind accelerate the bad writing nabbed in the night by goblin sausage the interior monologue of doom parsnipped in half by a claw mine gold tampon evacuation of caves and fortress parasites murdered and never again allowed to begin like 2020 forced down throat opened slow and sand pictured in a vase that never was aced the whole way through cake hole rain Tim and cancer vacuoles vacated handsomely downward like nipples licked in sunlight shade crime vanquish the abalone daytime and sing songs of boring nutjob pea shelling zones habitable by nuns and bread bakers a zillion times the man my dad ate on his way to the fair to be or not the one is a Simba lion coat scraper like owned in Dallas 1943 when Tim Curry got his comeuppance and Caladrius stole the pinched olive from course and ate his cake with a palace and several gypsies to water his wand.