Instructions for the aspiring poet

1. Fire up your pc
2. Open your web mail software
3. head off to your spam folder
4. Mangle up some shit from the messages
( As an optional bonus add some original thoughts from you )
5. Stop when the complacency warms you up inside and you feel all accomplished
6. Post your crap online.
7. See how no one reads it.
8. Go fuck yourself.
9. Repeat steps 4 to 9 as desired.

Examples_:

McCain and Obama use it too.
(what? a fleshlight?)
State budget was framed up
in danger of penis enlargement
going all awry
with Nigerian bankers.
Please confirm your account number.


Shame on your private video.
Turn your stick into a skyscraper
with these pills from the African bushman.


Michelle Obama is hot.
See her pictures fucking online
and dont let flu spoil your weekend.
9 inch gleaming rod package.
Time for perfection.
What is your coming time?
I'll be round for dinner, thanks.

A dry palimpsest of cumshots
in the seats of one of the rows,
marks the invisible line,
between the shitheads plain
and the people who pretend
they are not shitheads the same.

In the fog and the darkness
they fuse neonlike, furled.
Why is your stomach so fat, you twat?
This is the dirtiest lounge bar
in town, safe for a drink
only in the bar proper.
As nimble as deer,
and gazed by the entourage queer,
I seek in alcohol
the faculties of the seer
to no avail.

Like the hardest fuck,
you just don't rid of the smell
simple,
so I better get going home.

And this is how it's done.

British Still Life

fags die a drowning death
at the pit of a stale pint,
all warmed up and pisslike
like a drunk crack whore from
Middleborough chatted up
by the swearing hisslike
of some old asbo fuck.

By the pool table,
some cunts down cans,
in their shitey Majorca tans,
bellowing about some fitba rants.
But I fix my gaze
on the pool balls,
their echoes in the hall.
Who has the daring gall
to make their final call
and throw the pint and the fags
to them fucking fags faces?

Gulag mon amour

Culpables hasta de existir,
arrepentidos de respirar,
de manchar con la mirada indigna
y asustados de soñar
en la quietud de los lechos
que aún no nos han quitado
en el nombre de las más altas causas.

Encausados por existir.
Nacidos por error,
llevados en la noche,
desvalidos y aullando.
Padrecito Stalin, perdónanos.

El miedo, la sangre y
los excrementos marcan por doquier
el perímetro neurótico,
la valla invisible talada y clavada
por mil súbditos ciegos
en un archipiélago que no podría
soñar un ser humano.

La nueva era que nos iban a traer,
contempladla aquí.
Hasta se le ven las costillas
del hambre y el frío.

Sin Título

sobre el lecho,
siempre acecha el peligro
de un firmamento desnudo,
luz negra y fria
que se cierne sobre los amantes,
casuales o dedicados,
amados desde la distancia
cegadora
de los cuerpos que yacen.

Dentro de nosotros
la muralla insondable,
el foso aullador,
intraspasable,
donde cada uno es un rey
loco, asustado,
que busca no sabe qué,
incapaz de atisbar mas allá.