Stay tuned for the insanity

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Chapbook for Sale!

Here’s a copy of: “Splatter Plunk!: A Chap” By “jamie.” A chapbook is a small collection of poems from a poet. This book is written, designed, printed, collated and bound by “jamie.” She worked really hard to get the pages to be in the right order!

Check out a cross-section of a poem entitled “the curse of Salvador Dali” :

…i am living in your open hand,                                                                                                                                  i am circling in your wet dreams                                                                                                                               of The Weaning of Furniture-Nutrition

the cutouts in my back expose the   ocean                                                                                                          and can be neatly fit  into

over and over                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          and over again

my feet never reach the water,                                                                                                                                the boats never go anywhere…

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Random Poetry Corner

 

hooded eyes and tweed jacket, you call to me           
and say...

“my wife?”

….”she’s…aged”

i look back,                                                                                                                                                                                             can’t help but see the old professor                                                                                                                                                    looking back at me

i feel his corduroy panted leg                                                                                                                                                      pushing up against my leg                                                                                                                                                                 with precision and intent

i do not start at this

“…you have this…oh, i don’t know…

you seem harmonious”

all of a sudden i notice the slight                                                                                                                                                        smirk twitch across his lips                                                                                                                                                                  almost painfully—shyly…contrived

suddenly, your mouth, so, still youthful,                                                                                                                                           so, almost attractive                                                                                                                                                                             the lips remind me of those of a younger man

i push my stockinged leg back into yours                                                                                                                                      with precision and intent look ahead,                                                                                                                                         laugh wildly in my head—roar out                                                                                                                                                   and then, with a composed elegance

ask a second time for your wife…

my dreams are now the only poetry

and after saint anthony was displaced
from the window to the garden
i felt the pangs of change beside me

the brown had disintegrated down
down
down
into the ledge
down
down
into the garden

had left saint anthony a pale,
baby holder
with regret in the garden–not the window
down
down
with the cat shit

as if that wasn’t bad enough
i had this awful feeling
after realizing the
entirety of my poetry
was pure shit
and concluded
where i
didn’t
truly
know
what
nihilism
meant
that clearly
i was a
nihilist
because
things just stopped
meaning.
at a time
my words meant
but then they stopped meaning
and the idea that i should even waste my time to get out of bed
when our whole life revolves around the process of eating
and my zealous artfulness was a waste

and the more i noticed, the more things
meant less.
more to me
and less
and the
enumeration
made them all
fall
down
down
to shit

Enter:               the artist
translator of the universe
into even more undecipherable crap
nothing clearer just maybe pretty, maybe.

so should i,
intellectual?
to decipher
much clearer
and write more to be
deciphered?

to add a particular
self
importance,
or just,
self,
to the self,
in the act of touching
all.

Enter:             the mystic
waster of time
waster
wasting
down
down
into deep
primordial platter
and fabrics
and denseless, timeless-spaceless-continuum for ad lib for we already know,
tell us what we already know.

ha ha ha the joker
laughing and the worker working
we’re all laughing and working at ourselves
because we know
it’s funny
we know
we are
the
infinite.

so we do,
self-impose
for fun
even cruel jokes, are felt less
just like the brown paint
running down the ledge
into the garden
and the displacement
of saint anthony
later that day.

i am a fruit that yields no tree

i can be found in the spaces between your teeth,
dripping down your face,
my skin curled beneath your nails.

my seeds litter digestive tracts
of esteemed persons,
but then, they don’t take shits.

i am the swelling of a bulb
hidden amongst the tubular flower;
all sexual organ propaganda.

that flower twists at it’s very ends,
i become cupped like a breast
and coveted by men.

and they reach for me,
i shrink away at the sight of their
gritty palms.

my cheeks become bruised;
purples raised high like ink
against the white and felt shroud of skin.

and you twist my lips,
rip away at my protective outer;
i fill your throat with sweet.

it drains down into you,
funnels its way down,
breaks loose in each vein.

it expands and then relaxes
and now you could move again
with heaviness fundamental.

sometimes in the place of sleep we regress

i thought perhaps the image was clear:
there you were gazing into me as a child,
as child i cried.

like child i was unheard,
remember when child went unheard?

i don’t think i ever grew past child,
despite my vocabulary;
child falls through the hands,

cracks open on the floor
revealing yolk and scattered shell.

ah, but you could pluck the white porcelain
out and fry
breakfast is served!

i thought i could feed you,
but you did not sustain
and so i remain between your teeth

as undigested matter
i waste, waste, waste away
and spoil your perfect smile.

in love with a dead man 

i was crouching low
between the lines of
Samson Agonistes
when it came to me:

Eyeless in Gaza

it’s when i realized that
i was reading a text that his eyes touched
and i wept at the image
of our eyes simultaneously touching something