HAPTIC ON A HALF DAMN
(Poem contains graphic terms)
Haptic On A Half Damn,
From Here To Auf Wiedersehen,
Between Ice On The Rocks In My Hard Place,
Ballin’ At A Steady Pace.
Between Caverns And Its Interlight
Dark Crawling Crawlers In The Coven Fight
To Rise Above And Croach Each Latent ‘Fant
In Crinked Claws And In Bowéd Chant.
Spindle Wheel In A Web Spun Sky
Between Light Enpussed And In Shadow Lie
Across The Scralls Of Each Place And Man
A Tempest Fire Chasing Stake At Hand.
Cuts Of Beef And Flank From Another Cow
In Sweater Weather To A Slaughter Heffer Now
Nice Cool Breeze But In Greater Danger
Wish At Hand By The Maiden’s Manger.
Fortune Cookie And A Phalic Mace
Touching Down In A Wilting Space
Fuck Fuck Fuck On A Pennied Dime
Riggin Chakra On The Wicked Slime.
Tingle Tingle On The Head And Wrinkle
While They Fuck It On Their Tiny Dingle
Port To Port Docks The Wretched Birds
Who Watch From Heaven While They Plump Their Girds.
Poppin’ Eyes With Passed In Power Tools
Poppin’ Eye Candy Therein Like Its Cool
Watchin’ Oer’ Like A Deity
In Vain And Honest And In False Beauty.
His And Her In Foul And Duel Genetic
Man To Man In A Place Phoenetic
Auto Rifle On The Set To Stun
With Each Pelting Pellet In The Abdomen.
Shoot To Kill On The Off Switch
Flint And Steel Is The Bitter Witch
Poppin’ Caps Just To Tease The Casket
Cap In Tact Blows A Steampunk Gasket.
Take It Easy On The Quarter Minute
Minute Men On The Hour Fín It
Ultrasonic Blows In A Fast Second
Long Coming Dose Of A Past Segment.
Redact The Fray In A Quarter Damn
Color Haptic And A Ramming Cannon:
A One Bullet Bet In A Rushed Roulette
Head In The Game Wherein Foul Had It.
Ancient Woes In An Evil Common
Overlooked And Beyond A Problem
Careless Take In A Fail To Shelter
Overrun By The Damnéd Feller.
Close In Kinship Of Another Kind
Poised And Poison In A Field Entwined
In Shadowed Light At The Same Time
Grows New Evil Of A Different Kind.
Lie In Bed While Tongues Lick The Plasma
By My Ribs And The Fetus Jam There
Suck My Brains Out In An Acid Ooze
Tingle Tingle And You’re Done And Snooze.
That’s The Life For A Half Wit
Waste Of A Space And In Total Useless
The Booty Gents Are A Present Tense
But Not If You’re A Glad Redaction Agent.
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Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to MoFarrelly on Pixabay
