Haste at Night
Nighttime! Oh,
A chill runs down my spine
As I find nowhere hide
From the appalling truth
That I have to win to soothe
My aching bones
And as I think of that wicked one
At the time after the set of sun
I think my Lord is watching me
Sit and not write poetry
When they is writing it so fast
I cannot catch a lead that lasts
If I do not start writing more
And sprawling scribbles on the floor
With God as my witness I
Shall write a list
Three hundred meters high
Of my thoughtful poems
Or surely
Surely I must die
Everything now
Is a cow
To milk the words
And milk the sound
Capture all the good right nows
But everything will be okay
If I can think faster today
I will write what's in my soul
Soul shall be stretched to a
Pleasant parachute to break
My fall
I'll fall into my own demise
Down my wall
Three hundred meters high
If I don't write my soul down fast
My memories shall never last
No dreams tonight
No screams tonight
Go faster, faster
Lust wickedly
And kill the lust
With ash to ash and
Dust to dust
Destroy it all and I shall fall
Down my wall
Three hundred meters high
And break
My fall there shall be to
A piece of writing that I rue
For it shall not exist
No it shall all be there to break
My fall
My Lord I know is watching me
Sit and not write poetry
I must write just as much
As the pussy that the mouth would touch
If such were truth and mine intention
But no time will arise
To revise
Cat
Astrophie
Is waiting for me
Dead eyes staring back at me
Sick of being drowned by darkness
Hark at everything surrounding
Colours murdered by the night
Things feasted by my horrid fright
Lions, crocodiles
Try it all
Crying, dying
Hear my call
With God as my witness
In my home
I shall write a list
Of poems
Three hundred meters high
To be seen by His flaming eye
If I do not make it greater
Than the avid masturbator
Then surely
I can be sure that I must die
All the same
It's all okay
Nothing is okay
None of it is real
All of it I'll steal
Someone has to pay
It will all turn out the same
All the same
All okay
It's over now
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Toilet: A Lovely Little Satire
PoetryHas anyone done this yet? Probably, but here I go anyways. If I try searching for some poetry gems written after about 1950, what do I find? I'll call them word-turds. They are what they sound. So, in order to keep me from going insane, I wrote this...
