Modern Times

The jester has become a king.
The player, like a God.
The merchant now owns everything,
he holds the sacred rod.

You're Such a Lovely Audience

Hello there.
I don't mean to scare you, but
I couldn't help noticing you
across the room because
you are the room,
every last one of you.
No!
I'm not coming on to you.
That's for later.

For now,
let's take it slow
and share some poetry.
Here, I'll start it off,

"Spread open your minds
to make way for my diction.
I brought rhyme for lubrication
and some assonance for friction.

Now I know what you are thinking,
I wouldn't speak without protection.
My syntactical structure will guard against infection
and its extensible structure will stretch over my erection

of some monumental words:
sesquipedalian profundities for your consideration
without the necessity for amelioration
because it is length and not girth that garners attention.

I don't want to alarm you,
but you will get pregnant
with thoughts so heavy
you will mired in silence

with emotion of the ocean,
the ebb and flow
of thought in meter,
because my lines go
so deep
so deep
so deep
they'll put your ass to sleep".

Untitled (Everything is Fleeting)

Every winter we become
Vulnerable and wonder why
Ellipses take such pride in
Repeating the same cycle
Year in and year out.
Theology has told us
Hell propels the celestial bodies,
Inciting movement through fear and
Not love. If love were the cause,
Greek poets would still be alive.

Is there a better explanation?
So what if we’re going to die.

Flow like a river and let us
Lay in a raft toward
Ennui. After all it’s inevitable:
Evidenced by the past,
The fire sermon spelling out years
In indistinguishable script, sufficing a
Nod to tell us we are all
Going the same way.

Irony Has No Place in Poetry (This is my poem. It is important)

This is the first line.
It gives you a sense of what is to come
or maybe it doesn't.

This is the second stanza.
It references something
you haven't fucking read.
Did you catch how I said "fuck"?
Wasn't that edgy?

This is the third.
It is brief and cryptic.

This is the middle of the poem;
I have blown my poetic load
and it is all downhill from here.

This is the end.
Wasn't that unexpected,
yet earned?

Crab Apples

My verbs squeek
when I shine them:
a voice fit for a pie.
And for that
I am the King of lack
luster till I try.