Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets. Millions sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites, and vacuum-laden forums making hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast through a dispassionate, torpid ether, or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables emitting lard laden signals that slow down and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying this vacuous data to burned out screens just to display sent, read,...

Self Promotion

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I am higher on the evolutionary scale. I will not ask you to shave my back. My cutting-edge smooth cheeks will not scratch you when we nuzzle. My highly developed hairless chest will not scrape your nipples when I am doing the missionary, while you are being converted. But if we go camping inside your tent I cannot promise not to howl.

Peggy

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had a tooth missing in front, and when she talked, it made a whistle. Peggy Whistle was 43, loved Scotch, and worked nights at the D&J Diner. she also loved her little dog, Blue. Blue came to work with her and slept on a ratty old pillow in the back, lifting his head up every time the door opened and the bell above it rang. Peggy never whistled any tunes, although you can’t say she didn’t...
I stood in a parking lot and I breathed evenly through my nose as the sky passed slowly over head and the nauseating machines pumped juice out of the ground and I had my arms spread like Christ against a fence. "I really can't stand this place," said a voice in my brain like a...

POET-ALLS

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all these poems with attitude a big huge middle finger raised in the second stanza I don't really care about what you're so upset about read a psalm that's the other thing they're always pickin' on Jesus still pickin on Him just like at Golgotha I'm happy just to order a pizza wait for the mail...
suicide was a gorgeous woman I desired she was like bubblegum that got stuck to the bottom of my shoe I peeled her off with a knife
I just got a rejection I checked the status of my submission and it said "rejected" I had been checking and checking the status and it had kept saying "in review" I like "rejected" better than "in review" I don't like the feeling of being unsure now I can say they don't know what they're talking about

bukowski

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back in the 70s back in LA I knew of him as the uncouth Christ of the drunk-again alcoholics the naked emperor of young trendy-cafe chefs and of the intellectual and the pseudo-intellectual trust-fund kids who wished to be like him by living in decrepit houses the lawns of which they littered with rusting appliances somewhere in the unorthodox mix of the booze and the sorting...
I need to fall asleep to the thought of a pretty girl the world is gross and doesn't care the TV mutilates my vomit comes out before I can get to the toilet it's always time for my pills people get out of their cars like assassins but the pretty girl brings toasted English muffins...

The Exxon Poems

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I came there because nothing was happening so did everybody else and this is what transpired... seeds praying somewhere in the hard gravel of Exxon like quicksand ex cons they got away with most of their shit the cops could never figure you out which one did what because they had the same name The fuzz would show up at...

after

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the publication of my latest book, i looked at the short stack of poems that remained in a pile on my desk. i threw them out. free, at last, i turned to the keyboard and smiled.

Dark Chocolate

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Mary's brother, Ethan, is intrigue through a secret splinter. I gawk at him sketching his hands while his ears pour wire. He would taste me. But I'm in love with the raw pink under his blistered fingers, the tap dancing callouses chipping away at their dusty recycled plane. I only want to be the genius in the dark chocolate...

in the park

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no one takes any notice of me, if I speak my truth it’s just a junkie garbling nonsense a disease carrying scum chasing tracks another fuckin’ wino, soiling his pants, watching clouds roll by hear what I’m saying cos you could be me like I was you before a couple of wrong turns, barely a misstep at first it happens slowly then you watch it...
I sent Bukowski some poems, one of which was “Twisted Living” (a 3-pager that later appeared in Hung). He re-wrote “Twisted Living” and titled it “I Know What Love Is” and sent it back to me. He didn’t add anything; he just subtracted. —Douglas Goodwin   I worried about the woman who...

absence

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sometimes strikes like a bat slicing through the dark with its wings cunning and weightless cutting through like a blade tearing the flesh apart exposing the bones this terrible void staring from the closet lying there, between the clothes slowly sucking at everything like a vacuum whispers that a voice a mere voice could restore order and you reach for the sparrow and the butterfly knowing they will...

Blackout Sex

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you could break a bone you can’t see I decide it’s worth the risk after hours of blackout boredom maybe the candlelight has gotten her in the mood too but how to go about asking hey I’m really bored so you wanna have sex with me? the neighbors will probably hear! don't knock the candle over!! I...
another fucking boring night of light blue ripples of poolwater dumb white lights over steam haze black night snooze and what's left of the cheap beer my wife's been passed out for three hours I drank the good wine in the sun of the afternoon that feels like a thousand days ago I'm listening to some lounge chair...

one of my first

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publishers is retired and living in France. he’s on his second wife and lives on a farm in the country. every now and then he sends me these long, long e-mails talking about the wine, the food, the people and how much he loves his life since he ditched the first wife, gave up writing and moved away. in relative terms he’s on the near side of rich... i...

Big Jake

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Big Jake’s jamoke is almost bigger than he is, & it’s smarter, too, or so goes the standing joke. & the oft repeated story, his winky has a tear tattoo dripping from its eye. Deloris, his ex-old lady, says Big Jake’s problem is that he passes out at the sight of a vertical smile & she’s pissed that he thinks a French withered...
My genitalia are exposed, outside of my body, dangling. Don’t ask me to be vulnerable. How do you think I feel? My private parts are not inside my body, like yours, protected by sinew & fat.

Poems of Germany

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In 1984, I went to Germany for the first time. Not knowing much German, I became homesick quite soon and, largely bereft of companionship, settled in with my notebook and resigned myself to composing the following poems. Thanks, Germany I have not yet had a poem accepted by The American Poetry Review, but...

Regrets

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Those who say they have no regrets are fucking liars & the people who believe them are fucking stupid. Regret free, fucking liars lie to themselves because they are so fucked up they can’t tell themselves the truth— that they are in fucking denial about being pretentious liars & fucking cowards afraid to admit they regret their fucking actions & for being so stupid. Do I have regrets? I could go...

Ambition

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The directions on the shampoo bottle: “Wet hair thoroughly before applying.” Someone got paid for that? Why not me? Here’s my resume. Published Poet. Will work for food.