Poetry by John Bryan
The Anti Wife
Those were our centesimal picnics of controversy
Of the empress's moods in you
What I should've written about
The very instant
I felt inspired
To do so.

Girl as growth hormone:
Girlsubelicious,
The initial dosage
Will more than suffice.
Girlsubelicious,
You ripen me
Beyond comparison
In directions simultaneous
By every meat n' greet fly allured.
Girlsubelicious,
Upon a drool there is
Your pursed lips.

What I should've written about
As a love poem in thirty seconds flat:
you're such a beautiful person
you must even have good-looking internal organs
pen as rusty coathanger
ekeing out abortions for poems
love note so timeless they are
i am writing to you cause i
have nothings to say
banged up insecurities
for the sake of speeds'
empty womb
breasts two dollops
the shape of sloppy tears
thirty seconds flat as the paper they are written on.

Girlsubelicious as growth whore moan.
Girdl
Hee haw

guilt complex garments
shameless flesh

Your circumference
Leaves me sore, pounding
Against the base of
My cock, love bite, new type

shameless flesh prowling fields

Hee haw


Where - abouts unknown,
The clue is in the fur.

Stromlo forest.
A gothic prop, cardboard trees,
Maintained with wooden planks
From behind. A coven of bagged faces
The heads grown over til the flowers render them
Gnomish.
Wind. Carbon dioxide delivered
From wherever you are:
The plan to stop breathing.
Desperately,
I shall hug a tree instead, with
Itching claws.

Hee haw
Hee haw

prowling fields pieces found
butchered screams when word of mouth


I face the day
With my head caved in
After putting my paw
Through the mirror
Because something
Trampled over
My refl
ect
io
n

when word of mouth eats descriptions leaving only letters

Hee haw
Hee haw


Crying until the Kraken can't breathe
Summer heads for autumn a leafy ark
Last supper twice during and after
Snot a sweaty octopus
Free fallen nose propulsions
And in the chalice fill up to the brim
For the hot thirst or to be thrown
At a face your one eye open
In sleep, helter welters,
Discontent dries, showered
Onto someone else
It's not what makes us tick
It's what makes you cry
Until you breathe like a proto cephalopod

only letters, the bones of every heart

Hee haw
Hee haw
Hee haw - lways talks like that
Spook
You've never liked
Being alone in my house
Once I've gone to catch the
Remaining days for another empty jar

While I'm collecting my
Said glittering junk, I walk past everyone
With no desire to fuck. Alone, when I wank
I think only of you.

When I wank
I pretend I am someone
Better than me fucking you.

When I get back
My home's lid on tight
And the air finite
Your possessions dropped
In an obvious hurry

An array that seems
Disorientated and confused
Regarding their owners' flight

Not gilded of mind, just persona
Music by Steve Kane
:: top ::
 
Nut-Head Productions
Please report any problems with this site to the Webmaestress