Here came a whole new year

Here came,
All covered by a love snow,
All new,
All clean,
With the best wishes
Of delire and disorder
For all the dirty
For all the evil
Looking at you like
We study ants in a box.
Happy new year.

words and efforts.

last night I gave a guy my poems to read.
and he did read.
He criticized indeed.
He analyzed in his trippy vision my words.
He wasn't sure I were the author.
last night I heard
the best possible comment
to any of my poems.
He hanged around the crowd,
with my paper-heart in his hands.
He looked actually dumb or drunk.
Probably another time
would have brought him the name of wise.
He hanged around the crowd,
with my paper-heart in his hands.
I believe he was serious.
He didn't trust me.
He thought those poems were not of mine.
He remembered me when I was like him.
Lost because all was too big.
Lost because I was afraid
of people always losing
the big picture,
in spite of producing
something for others, for free.
Last night I was sad for a person
I didn't know a buck about.
sad because I saw a guy unsure of everything.
draining life as a sponge,
confusing poetry with the song of the Big Mama Earth,
spreading passion everywhere
like a hot air balloon dripping nerve gas
lacking
needed power to overwhelm all these feelings,
we should mangle a day, somehow.
Last night I was sad and happy.
he, the dumb wise guy,
with his distorted doubts,
he made me proud of my words.
I'd like to save all of you.
I'd like to feed all of you.
I'd like to take
I'd like to help.
As I helped me.
As this helps me.

Mushroom mushroom!

Rebirth

Dying I'd like to become comet,
and travel,
travel till the remotest edges of universe.
I'd like to become comet
and pass by
the earth
greeting human beings,
and joke them,
as they stand there still
missin' delight of infinite sky,
but I,
I merge back myself with the sky.
peace.

PITA (pain in the ass)

ehr, remember to thrive.

ehr, ehr, ain't you supposed to thrive?

I said you to do a job. thrive. damn.

I ordered you to go click, check, report, disappear.

It's a minority report.

Go, drain, analyze, interpret as you like,

Maybe throwin' your soul to its ol' same couch it's not a great idea.

Maybe you should go out and find a better place to perform new games.

Delightful new toys, think about it.

past is so comfortable.

past is a big mother with a waste, warm uterus always ready for you, the child.

past is boring.

Go, drain, analyze, interpret as you like,

looping through that cellophane love facsimile

you don't deserve this flapping around this cool

fool

crappy

heart-bleeding desire, delight, defeat.

peace.

Soul slaught

maybe for a deal,
maybe just for fun,
maybe just for glamor,
or just because one's bad.
I find awful discovering that opening the gates of Unreality
to unprepared wills is bad, too.
I wouldn't ever thought I weren't happy the day
I finally crashed a seat onto a moron's back several times.
something like losing virginity without an orgasm.
peace.

sometimes google design is so cool