Posts Tagged ‘Chris Butler’

H_NGM_N

This poem is killing me.

 

By the twenty-sixth incorrect guess,

I’ve tallied up my

head, torso, arms, legs, fingers, toes

and gallows,

but since my vowels were disemboweled,

 

I’m dead.

 

 

Hope is a Hot Air Balloon Flying by the Power Lines

Hope is a hot air balloon flying by the power lines,

 

so don’t fly too high

or you’ll fry,

zap, crackle, pop!

 

But if you go too low

you might knock off

the hanging kitty

dangling by one

paw’s single claw

on the high wire

without a net.

 

It would be

a pity for it

to let go.

 

 

Red Rose

I gave her

the final rose

on the bush

 

but she let

each petal

wilt away…

 

…she loves me,

she loves me not,

she loves me,

she loves me not…

 

Before the first

frost of winter,

the beheaded stem

regenerated one

more flower…

 

…she loves me,

she loves me not.

 

 

This Poem is a Metaphor (Because She Never Smiles for Similes)

This poem is a metaphor

for more than this world’s

vocabulary of words,

 

or the girl that pours

out of my fountain pen

into caricature letters

of her curvature figure

of speech, standing

as a silent silhouette

before the peephole

of the soul,

 

but my mind’s eye is blind

when viewing my sentence

in the imprisonment

of punctuations,

 

as we are locked in a trance

of transference through

the broken window of

a glass home.

This poem is a metaphor

because she never smiles for similes.

 

 

Vampires Suck

I don’t care

if she makes me

cum or bleed,

as long as she

sucks all of

the life out

of me.

CONSTIPATION

Shit
is written
in one minute.

Classics
are composed
on the toilet.

This
was inspired
by constipation.

FIRST KISS GOODBYE

I’ve fucked
every girl
that I’ve
ever kissed,

so does this
make me a
whore,

or just a
goddamn good
kisser?

HIPPIE

I was born
a flower child,
but grew up
in the life of pesticides,

dying in the dirt
that once gave birth,
succumbing to the sun
that once nurtured nature,

but what happens
when the fire of
napalm pollinates palm trees
to create life?

 
lmfao

I don’t speak text,
yet I can talk to you
in your foreign language

through the carpel tunnel dialing
of our cellular dismemberment,
 
but what will we say
when there are no
electronics between us?

I’m on silent.

 
OLD AGE

Age
is merely a measurement
of how many
times
one
has been spun
around the sun,
 
and how old
one
is all depends
on how dizzy
one
feels
as they fall
down
to earth
or
how long it
takes to
pick themselves
up
again
towards the sky.