Archive for February, 2011

coming soon…

Posted in Learning About Life, love n' luck, Poetry, sex, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , on February 28, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

foreplay

she’s cooking with sugar
& heat. imaginary pictures
of late night voices lick
around the tip of a telephone line.
connection & invitation to her
24 hour daydream that’s
never gonna dry.

both our tongues wag in
anticipation of caress.
determined hardening,
beaded sweat dripping down
into the shrinking spaces between
two hips pressed tight.

skin slick with transported moisture
meets muscle infused tongues
exploring, searching, penetrating.
gliding on spit over
shoulders meeting a neck,
backs of teeth,
s-curve hips that torque
against every slight
pressure-push. all i can feel
is want.

laying side by side in
quiet moments afterward,
we discovered both of us
were descended from
similar easy-dreaming
transcendentalists. guess
it’s as good an explanation
as any other why
temptation is second nature
& sometimes first.

it all shows up as
impossibly effortless imagination
of the first lick-traced lines
laid ‘cross caramel skin.
before slipping in,
before moans & gasps leak
through lips, before bodies ache
for satisfaction, each examines
the other in leftover light.

————————————–

For someone. You were saying?

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globalization easily explained…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics with tags , , , , , , on February 27, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

reversion to the mean

in the clouds masculine
explosions rattle
once dusted mountains
amidst the groan of a green
town splayed onto the
outskirts of the middle
of nowhere. land eroded by
winds of the colonial breath
wait on lightning from a
creation dream to start
the story over. nothing will
change but we’re thinkin’
more of the same will
be much better next time.

we like our delusions to
be the size of our cocks,
which are obviously bigger
& spit more goo than
those other guys. after
rebuilding everything already
waiting to be destroyed
my cock says we can
knock it right back down
again. could it really
be that simple? i
don’t see why not.

———————————————

Inspired by Michael Ruppert & the documentary ‘Collapse.’ If you haven’t seen it, check it out. Well worth the time.

restricted number…

Posted in Cigarette, Friendship, Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, love n' luck, Poetry, thoughtful trips, TWTC, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , , on February 25, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

restricted number

i’m the man
who discovered
a chance
for lottery escapism.

i smile thinking
(to myself) you
wouldn’t have asked
about meaningless
lives back then if
you weren’t inter-
rested in meaningfull
of answers regarding
future winning numbers
in the pick six.

of course it came
restricted. lucky
me, bein’ given a
code for just such
a moment. she
asked if i drove
fast & i
waited
a while
to answer.

finally breathing
out smokestream
coincidence, i
wondered if it’d
be the same
if walls could talk
& paths crossed.

you could try me.
i’m the man
who discovered
a chance for
lottery escapism
without any need
for luck.

———————————————

Madamoiselle, voulez-vous danser? (And yes, it’s a damned song title. Have a fucking penny Mr. B.) And you…don’t ruin the moment! I ain’t sentimental but a few chances every now and again refresh even the strangest souls.

cry now & get it out of the way…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Fear, History, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , on February 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

don’t cry

it could be
72 hours ’till
an AAR nobody
will see. every
one is say
ing what was said
jumbled around &
walked into walls.
those are the
lucky ones.

sound without pictures;
a nice fat man on
BBC said all’s well
& nobody asked
why refugee camps
only get built when
everyone is doing
so well.

this isn’t slow
fanaticism at the
spur of the moment
& if you really
wanna know;
there’s nothing
to know, do,
or think. you
can watch on tv.
bullets won’t be
stopped by hands
thousands of miles
away when there’s
so much flesh to
bleed out here.

i hated truncheons
’til i learned about
Kalashnikov dynastics.
marshland uprisings
ending in slaughter &
refugee crises
ending in slaughter &
desperate poverty
ending in slaughter &
endless incursions
ending in slaughter.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have
down to hands,
heart & blood.

hopelessness can
make a vicious brew
mixed with a lil’ hunger.
of course, these days
you can buy trigger
fingers at 33 cents
on the dollar.

we’ll learn to eat
trigger finger stew.
it might mean more
than the blood sausage
we’re all about to be
served.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will remind you
to save the tears;
there’s little clean
water & you’re
gonna be thirsty
later.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have.

—————————

Lunacy to think that Malthus wasn’t wrong, just early, right? Well, right now all you theists could start backing up what you say about love thy neighbor. So I’m sure there is a good reason innocent people need to get gunned down for another week of meetings and vague pronouncements of no meaning. I’m sure that comforts the wounded & the families of the dead. This is a sick display of humanity. Just sick, without excuse.

what was that…

Posted in Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Fear, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

where’d he go?

transient obsessions dependably
move on towards whatever point
in the sky they’re bound for. let
’em go; no reason to hang around
if gravity isn’t getting involved. when
ya wrap my gifts in barbed wire &
forget the band-aids, you don’t have
to say a word.

i’ll stay still, transfixed, staring at a night
sky i can barely see from look-inn point.
a little imagination goes a long way
out here under a wannabe starry
night ripped from canvas to be pasted
overhead. before that it was a girl
who loved anne sexton poems hangin’
around but she’s somewhere in the sky
too. before that; i don’t know. doesn’t
really mean anything.

my mentality of a flesh-wound lifestyle;
nothing serious, ’cause i ain’t gonna
remember anyway. standard treatment
calls for immersion therapy as long as
it takes to convince the patient that
everything is exactly where they’re
supposed to be. i ain’t got the faith for
any of that to work on me.

time
money
identity
purpose

mission creep towards look-inn point
where i’ll rendezvous with my shadow
& be reminded how lucky i can be if i
set my mind to it. dead-set against it
but what can you say? bullets hurt.
i’m told to take credit for parenthetic
victories i know nothing about.
evidence jibes more with defeat. it
looks the same to me but i’m willing to
be convinced i’m wrong.

if it’s easy enough on you, i’m gonna
sleep on it. if it still feels right come
sunrise, all questions will be answered;
just not by me. got a cigarette?

——————————————

Dedicated to the honored dead everywhere. You gonna tell us how it got that way? Inspired by chronic delusions of reality cashing out at the casino knowing it’s time to find a new game to play.

what are we doing here?.?.?.

Posted in Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on February 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

justified pessimism

license granted to operate
as the usual entropy courses
through all the places it
isn’t supposed to go. hasty
judgment moving so fast before
anyone else knew the game is
up. now everything is working
with a rebuilt starter but i heard
nothing’ll ever break, so we’re
gonna be okay. everyone gives up
yet keeps going absent any
noticeable change.

mulligans are hard to come by
& cost a fortune; even then it’s
impossible to tell if it’s a do-
over or more theatrics. slicked
back cynics would read with a
gamblers eye news of the moment,
dictators, killers, thieves, rapists.
nothing new under the sun.
knowing all is still in good time
with nothing to change the
basic gameplan that shoulda been
tossed years ago.

wanna make love until the end
of time? wanna smash windows
into sand? how else are beaches
gonna get made? wanna run
until there’s nowhere left to run
toward or should we just do it
here? questions are for the
postmortem. easier facts easily
deluded until meaning is another
untended grave without anyone
to dance, spit, piss, shit or
fuck in remembrance.

is this a revolution? i see it on tv.

—————————————-

The boys from the home office want me to reiterate my hope that just once, someone will take the keys away from the disgruntled insane dictator prior to killing his own people. If not now, when? What the fuck does ‘Never Again’ really mean anyway? Oh, that’s right… not supposed to ask that question…

questions of a pressing nature…

Posted in Laughter, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 20, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

dinner & ink

miraculous the trouble one
tongue can create. if she knew
what i knew, i think she’d be
laughing behind my back &
in front of my back & maybe
even to the side of my back.

that’s if my chances are better
than ‘piss-poor.’ sum of knowledge
gained from past lives & former lovers.

distinction made between a kindred
spirit & a friend is close enough
to require teasing out in a conversation
we’re still waitin’ to be had. by the time
i found out it wasn’t a game, we’d
already played the first two rounds.
first was a draw; the second a loss
for the home team.

so what? i ain’t the first or last to
wonder ’bout part three; like if they’ll
be a part three. i got lousy odds, but
that’s why we play the game.

—————————————-

I know I’m screamin’ out an empty window on this one; don’t care. I’m in way too good a mood. Good dinner, LOST marathon, a whole bunch of other shit that ain’t fit to print… You know, when you’re unemployed, every night is Saturday night. What? It’s Saturday night? No shit? Huh. Who knew?