This Imposing, Foolish Dog

I could lay in bed and make love all day-
my love, I really could.
"I love to make love," she says,
but I knew I could mean it more.

We can make it if we try,
try to climax at once.
When the morning came
she was a sweaty passion,
a juicy lust, a moist want.

And I want!
So I took (and I take)
a woman's keeper,
the forgotten young virgin.
A young man's loins
are nothing to be trifled with.

Don't play with me woman.
Make a lust towards me and
come here.
Sluff off your shiver
and come and make love to me.

The Unowned Thrones

We are regaled by them for many hours
by men who come and go,
so when they come they scream
“sorry I am late!”
and when we go they shriek
“wait, I’m not done yet!”

And there we are left with our faces hanging open-
gaping maws drooling on a piles or recyclable paper
too heavy for even the most qualified of janitors to persuade

And there are our germs left clinging to our thrones,
the ones that no one seems to own
but our lazy, ragged bones.

Paper Money

How much do you lie to yourself?
Does it sting when your pen won't swing?
Do you wallow when your lead is hollow?
Do you scratch and itch
when the tone and pitch
won't cut it for the punks or rich?

I am sure
(but what is my worth)
this all will be solved by paper.
Whether it be cash or print,
my life-long goal
will be in either stint!

Fluorescent Nothing Junk in Dumb Lib

these illiterate bombs of flesh

insist on pretending to read-

if you close your eyes

you can hear them exploding.

if they pressed their noses to the carpet

I'm sure they would find what they're looking for-

a cocaine truck on a bridge to their brain's.

New Year's Eve inside a library,

letting the wind chill me

through a shattered window-

a plated visual.

they came with intent, they came with purpose,

but they all flop down and start clicking and humming

and they feed off the strong avec vulture-like beaks.

I wake up on a grayish,

freckled carpet, hard staples

like clinging to my teeth cheek-

fluorescent sleep for a week.

I saw some Asians surfing on a database,

Indians fire-watching on a calculator-

why do they insist on being cannibals?

If I let my sleep fall under a four-legged table,

I'm sure they'd all scramble like eggs just to wallow.

With wool socks, I could chase these vultures

and catch them in my broken, shattered teeth-

what a literary, (explative) feast!

will they have fresh coffee?

stale doughnuts and tea?

If I sleep in too late

you'll be sorry for free

The Spot Where It Used To Be

I left her with my ring round her finger,
kept her tiger's eye chain,
but it choked me while it lingered.
I could only leave it there awhile-
the weight of an anvil is far too much to bare.
What is this taste I make so vile?

I love you woman.
I said I loved you wretch!
But I heeded to an omen
from an old gray man in a moustache.
What is to bare now
but a bottle of wine and my stash.

I had dreams about you
and yet ones I still sleep around.
Did you think I was a shrew?
I treated your love with flaw
like a child born still-
Now this heart is just a gaping maw.

The Pitiful, Honourable Envy

I caught death's eye,
his occular rampart
out the corner of mine own.
I quivered in his cool majesty-
I cried under the steel weight,
and when I thought it was over,
he plucked me from my purgatous stew.

A story-telling Spartan,
one with no right eye
had a greater fortune of dodging the devil
I suppose.
At the very least he had a shield.

I have two blinking eyelids.

I'm the Green Machine

Sail,

you to me,
on your broken leg in the open sea.
See a whale while he's gazing there
and wond'ring what's in the air.
He ponders over it
while we twitch and gnit

like ratta-tats out a thinking gun,
or water drops on a broken drum.

I know where you stand
so I'll shake you with my broken hand.
But I won't shake you hard
cause you're just a baby, not a guard,
and that would just be mean.

I'm the green machine,
woman. Play me with your girlish
and I do the things you wish.

Onilopocation

What if I were the dead gladiator
walking still at the end?
Watch and see, I am the few that wins to live.
Watch closely. I will watch a ball darting 'round my eye.
I will be your spectate.

Those were the glorious days,
when I sat in the high chair-
when I sat in the shadow
of any tree I liked.
And what about the senate?
(And what about the senate?!)

None whatsoever anymore.
No one tires to be a bore,
everyone lives to be a whore-
with a nice disposition.

Tight Rope

I cannot see the world
in the footsteps of giants,
or in the tunnels of mice;
on either pole of ice.

I cannot swim the seas
within a frozen ease
nor in a fleshy lake
(nor in a salty, broken wake).

I cannot breathe the sky
by sniffing at the ground
nor fishing in a cave
for a rotted, slapping sound.

I can feel some earth downtown-
soil below me slung.
My feet, they seem just fine
for balancing 'pon twine.

Put Me Back To Bed

I can sail into the dream-time,

paint pictures on sails of pirates

and let the wind blow through their teeth

like a dagger or a toothpick.
I'm cosy in bleeding gums.

The freedom of down and mutton
yanked round the throat by an alarm
sets me off down a watery trail
through my sheets.
I felt her their beside me.

Sherlock Holmes just finished up
by the time I got to the laundromat
and his clothes smelled like opium;
an elementary observation to say the least.
I sleep the most.

Naked Gin

I am the sigh baron;
the count of deep breaths,
a vintage of deep breathing-
the father sleeps quest.

But english rooftops seep seep,
then spew a waking spile
after pissing in the night
off a poor girl's smile.

I could swear I heard a peep
from the senate in the back;
It's the courage shy the gin-
without it they would lack.

"Braay!" He shouts,

"My vest has come off!
My vest has come off!"
Point Him to the way
and He'd drink from a trough.

Something to do with the Congo

perhaps He chanced
to spy on a virgin dance,
but His heart was held
hostage in America

He was left to see her divinity
being swallowed by a man made of clay.
He tore her down to her rosary
and fell for a line from dismay

He had forgiven if May came with flowers,
but it was yet June and the bugs had
started biting and burrowing deep
and his phalice was a swollen creek

It was a shame, really,
to watch these two
share a moment inside a shrew.
Who knew?

Verona circa 2007

Space jets and vaginas

a monocle screams "ass!"

lined up like cute bums

a pay-toll in Catholic mass

Shouting Shakespeare!
it had stabbed within a mole
in blindness and speechless
it had died inside a hole

The wonderfully wonderful
explained into a scream
what toll is to be won
driven on highway's dream

But can't a beautifully beautiful
contain to a paperback net
Am I to be, or am I not?
Within Verona, I scarcely met

Dirty Dirt and the Naked Messy

Imagine me as prison,
could you hear me knock your door?
My arm cannot reach that far
but you saw me naked in a dream;
was it my dream, or yours?

Do not contemplate me,
do not complement me,
I will not take both
(I will take neither)
and burn you like a moth in my lampshade.

Take heed, take shade,
stab me with your spade, woman,
shape me with what you made.

Sir Sergei McGrundy

Our captain, Sir Sergei McGrundy
lost us in the Bay of Fundy.
All the fish from coast to coast
only knew what he would boast.

A harpoon here, a lobster there,
Sergei went where none would dare.
More than detested, he hated land-
one eye; one hook; one hand.

Much respected and very feared
McGrundy's presence was quite revered,
but drunk one night upon the deck
he simply tripped, and broke his neck.

Red Wine Jet Pack

Let's take a red wine jet pack
and screw all the renaissance painters
at once,
make a big red stain
on all their art.

That would be funny
but I'm sure someone
(I don't know who)
would just make such a fuss
and far too much of one.

So their detergent
can be a deterrent
against a wounded,
quivering beast.
What a bitch, what a feast.

I Wish I Could Speak Like He Did

If I could speak
I wish I could speak like he did-
he spoke on highways and
in tall grasses that our
teachers couldn't even see in.

He could grab a naked audience
and dress them in his words-
he'd clothe them in anecdotes
and commas and jewelery
then tell all the jewish mothers in
town that he was better than their
sons. And oh,
did they cry,

But boo-hoo,
any mutt still cries
bow-wow to any bitch
that passes by.
Hello. Just say,
hi.

My Death and My Lady

My lady can mourn
upon a blackened veil,
or if it be in spring,
upon a gloomy sail.

I have seen a beating
and contimplated in strife,
but jabbing in jest
I was gutted by a knife.

The only gift I'll offer,
upon my word is told;
love your lady forever
and never be too bold.

IIVII

cr ashing s ticks on c rumbl ed br ick s
m y ma son's ma de of s tone
a bi g r ed ho use on m y ba rn d oor
c reak ing hi nges on a ro tti ng f l oor

Agatta

Honky-tonk spit girls swing skirts ruffled for miles
while I see hidden treasures tucked away in sleeves
like the heel toe boot shot stuck between their teeth.

Rotten tabacco luck
shinning off rubber skin-
layers of sweat dosed with sand
chilled straight to a
long shit dog bone mile.

Come.

Hidin' Out in the Big (Fuckin') City

Pt. 1

If its brown its wood,
if its green its good;
you can take it, you can break it,
you can pudding and pie,
you can lie in bed all day
and watch your life pass by.

Pt. 2

The Kirrujong of Carrapace
was disgraced upon his face,
but the man forever in black
could never bravely attack.
So begone his broken gun,
all together his hope had run.

Warhead Sour

The darkness can scare me
and kid me in the night,
a robin will turn a nest
then petrify in fright.

A widow fled, she wept,
then cried around a tear;
the end is nigh, it will never come,
but soon the end is here.

Or is the near so back, simply,
that someone cried their own,
or did that person in vain
simply die alone?

Ringo Tongue

Too rude to be
or not tube.

Two bees.
Bzz.

Greek

Questing rivals forcing spear embankments
through rusting juts of tin-iron armour,
reddish bearing china-men
fluttering flags through frumious fields, forged by farmers.
Now bare soil lays acid with dead clay
since men and women trudge day-by-day,
but only women forge silver and golden children
out rainforests and jungles of fertility
once brotherhooded by stringish cloaks.
Now riff'd by saws and chains and quadr-o-peds
that maim and rip and roar and tear and scream through
inglorious vines all seething in playgrounds of
dreamless thought once pursued by nightmares of love
but now just impressured by an emotion
lacking in such things as
overdrawn, unremaining, irregardless, remissing
bliss.

Gama Patre.

Mr. Know-It-All

My methodical way of vocation
is to disseminate past parables.
Destitution is not one with my lexicon,
for you see, filled with erudition I am.
Thus, utter not what abides my way,
for benightedness
is not one of my attributes.
Word.

A Breaker Female

She breaks the female,
in the rolling foam that crashes;
in the burning amber flashes

She breaks the female,
in the darkened veils that shatter;
in the sand and earthly matter

She breaks the female,
in the empty swollen fields;
in the sky that never yields

She breaks the female,
in the broken mountain pass;
in the hollow of a rotting ash

She breaks the female,
in the heart of a mossy stone;
in a soul she does not own

Polar Wear

There's a polar bear in a hawaiian shirt
who wished he were on a beach.
Now living in the Arctic
wasn't a smart pick
since there's none around he can reach.

The sad part is for the polar bear
the distance between is quite a rift,
and the only way
he could ever stray
is by continental drift.

Revelance

she is beautiful
her lips
her hands
(touch her hair)
her words
she says
she's never bare
but I can see
everywhen
I stare.

Zacharia

There once was a man named Zach
Who lived in a tiny tin shack.
He was there forever
And now he's no clever,
So he walks with the blades on his back.

Alone one night he decided to do,
"I'll put my head on top of my shoe!"
So when people passed
To take a glance
He could say, "I am just like you!"

Was or Wasn't

So oft man thought there was
That never he thought there wasn't.
But when he found out wasn't was,
And was wasn't,
He wasn't as he was.

The Prisoner

A man sits chained
Facing a wall
And no one else is there
No one at all.

He sits at the end
Of an unlit cave
Separating himslef;
Somewhat of a knave.

And he says to himself,
"Those are real"
As shadows pass by
From the cave mouth's reel.

He is chained at the wrist-
Self inflicted, no one knows,
But the scar underneath
Ever bleeding always shows.

Then one day
Like any other
A boy came in
Simply to bother.

"Why is it, man,
Freedom you block,
Shut up tight
With a cold, hard, iron lock?"

The man turned to speak
But he could only squint,
A lifetime passed by
Burnt out like a flint.

He cannot see the light
So he will turn away
Like Judas from Jesus,
Always leading himself astray.

A man sits chained
Facing a wall
And no one else is there,
And that is all.

A Woman

A red-haired seductress
Presented at my feet,
So willingly spared
And spread open to greet.

Like a thorn in my side
She bites it the same,
Promiscuously flirting
Not hiding her shame.

The whole night we fumbled
But climaxed together;
Dripping from heat
And soaking in pleasure.

In late the morning
She leaves half-dressed,
And turning her head
She asks, "Impressed?"

Born in the Ground

What if I were born in the ground,
Would I make a noise-
Could I hear a sound?
Maybe I should smile with glee,
Plant my seed
And make a tree.
Maybe I might bust a leak,
Spew like a fountain
And make a creek.
Maybe I'll just laze around,
Just sit in my grave
If I were born in the ground.

Why I'm here, man

My name is William Shea and I present to you my blog of poetry and writings. I am simply setting up this blog to get creative feedback from any readers out there. Any critisism is good critisism so please feel free to comment on anything. Thanks and good reading!