Say Hello to my Little friend and a Senator from Nevada

Three Squirrels; One Bag Of Nuts

There have always been parks in my quiet
And park benches on which I rest my noise
There have always been confrontations with squirrels
One bag of nuts for me to throw

But there is never enough to go around.......


Copyright © 1972 T.S.

Nut - The Egyptian goddess of the sky -

The woman is a nut
She is an indehiscent hard-shelled
One-loculated
One-seeded fruit of a human being
Though she has multiple personality disorders
She is still just a nut
She is a nut in search of a machined screw
Something on which to thread herself
To become permanently affixed atop or bottom
As long as it is missionary and without sexual fervor
Locked in or welded by rust or chastity
Either a bolt or threaded rod will serve
This wing nut has a need for bonding
The woman is a nut
A nut in search of a chocolate bar
Something to satisfy her cravings
And her stupendous need for love
She will demonstrate an illiterate
Propensity and strong cohesion
For her family unit
With names like Poe and Shakespeare
She salts my balls (vulgar slang for nuts)
Till my small brain and large bowel
Extricate themselves of her  
Via a long walk in the park
And a short rest on a park bench
Where I am protected from her
By a rather large family of Squirrels
Named Bukowski

2007 © T.S.

Truth to Power

Exiled to the dark wordless world

where speaking truth to power

gets you another thirty days

of solitary; with only bread and water,

I stick my strangled tongue through the bars

hoping to hang a participle.

Savoring the moment when I am released

as if it were an end to my troubles;

when in fact it will be just another day

unless the cockroaches organize

and we march on the capitol.

T.S. 2008 © 

The End is the End without Beginning

Your dirty T shirt reveals such secrets

Your tits catch me staring cross-eyed

Into the eye of your category five hurricane

My brown eyes and

Plywood secured in anticipation of strong winds

Coffin nailed shut

Canned and sealed with wax

Shutters dilated on a summer’s day

Oz is coming

The little dog has blown away

All wind and no pain secures

Nothing but

Relieves fears of drowning

I know we have extra batteries and bottled water

Stored away on the shelf next to the mummy

Have I ever told you?

That you are as beautiful now

As you were a hundred years ago….

2009©  T.S.

Choices Made Then And Now

i am too old to learn new tricks
yet too young to forget the old tricks
i am too old to care much about anything
yet i am too young to stop caring at all
i am too old to become reckless
too young to play it safe
too old to be afraid of the future
too young not to be scared by today
too old to play ball
too young to be out of the game
I am at that awkward age.____

Copyright ©2002 T.S.

I'm No Robert Frost And This Ain't The Berlin Wall

You want I should rhyme and write something lyrical
You want a poem about mending fences
And not constructing them
Preach to someone else my sweet
Of my abusive use of improper sarcasms
And aforementioned hit and slam pieces of poetry and prose
I've stared down the barrel of a loaded gun; metaphorically speaking
They're only words not bullets I fire
If you are so offended by them then don't pluck out my eyes
Try closing your own
For I try not to become defensive of what I write
When envious people as yourself take delight
In impugning my own self confessed crucifixions
You...poets of the heart and soul
Who write of rainbows and God's will
Angels who wear halos made from their own tarnished acclaim
Dually noted by the immense anger in their pain
Impute me with your white picket fence
I bleed not for you but of myself
Drink of it if you like with your vampire needs
To feel superior over even the holier than thou
It is not my foot on which you step
It is my tongue with which I slur your precious name
As you do not yet know the difference
Between a fence and a cage......

2007 © T.S.

Exile on Curmudgeon Street

Defensive over accusations he was artistically challenged and verbose; surely these opinions and his lack of brevity were to be discounted or expunged.
Impugned by their cooperative blind ego, they with the dark opened eyes and sealed envelopes, lurked behind every word he had ever penned with dictionaries opened; awaiting his last syllable before attacking with the forceful nature of hungry maggots on a dead cadaver.

As a young lad in elementary school his verse was flaccid by his own admissions, but by the time his poetry and prose reached maturity he was quite the lover of form and beauty; for within his hand he held the answer to his dreams; hard and unrestricted.

He rationalized his right to defend his words; in so much as he had felt the need to express the frustrations of having been conceived from a Petri dish of Cowper’s fluid, pre-ejaculated and donated by his own ego and written in the third person.
He admired his ability to accept his genius as an intrepid badge of courage…

2008 © T.S.

The Critic’s Society of Poetic Genius

Their poems are always about the woods and nature
Each one has an eagle or some kind of a bird mentioned
There are no elves or dwarfs as in real life
Only snow adorned trees and conifer needle covered natural paths
Along the way to a running brook filled with plastic fish
Where the circus elephants from London take a drink
Their poems are always pretentious and contrived
Like their hyphenated names and their bloated signatures
Which they scribble like scoliotic prostitutes on lines lifted
From other people’s work
Yet they critique the most educated of their peers
With a jury pool mentality developed while drinking beers
Where the loudest most boisterous voices in the pub
Take first prize for being the best bards of literary symmetrical craps
About the woods and natural things like shit….

2007 © T.S.

Ophelia the Madness

Here is where.....
Madmen write verse for their amputated lovers
with blue fountain pens and quills of clotted ink
Scribbling morbid memories yellow with old malaria
running like diseased rats through cellar thoughts
They cut themselves to see if their subjects will bleed
for their extremities are filled with a royal great pain
Morphine pumps hang from a weathered weather vain
spinning in the wind like some Blowhard's narcotic sonnet
Critics wither in their own flatulent and fowl wind
inhaling the breath of Artisans
Here is where..... language is a lost vagrant
Here is where..... everything and nothing rhymes
Here is where.....
Madmen dissect the bloated toad Shakespeare
inching closer to his truth with every stroke of genius
Verse is stolen from the cesspool of moronic poems
and published on whiskey soaked bar napkins
One in a million will find a star on which to ride
while all others will sink below the bog of verbosity
Disappearing into the darkness of obscurity
left to rot with extrapolated numbers of lifeless limbs
Here is where.....
Madmen guzzle pint by bloody pint of premium Ale
yet to render only another quart of stinking bloody piss
Where cockroach squatters count the missing legs
on the stools where hookers and whores sit eating prose
And Syphilis has been spoon feeding poor Yorick's scribe
a double dose of gambles and song to make a table roar
Horatio counts his money into a Barmaid's cum filled hand
hoping to yet land her to her lady chambers if he can___
Alas........
Here is where.....
Madmen reside within the realm of sanity......

©2007 T.S.

Ophelia Takes The Mad Poet Home To His Final Rest

Ophelia the madness.....
He writes with the conviction of an incurable social disease
His aim is to please but many points must be deducted
For all his blatant and obvious errors in grammar and tense
Due to the tertiary literary syphilis which now eats his words
Wherein those metered bars of addictive drunkenness
He staggers to leave his fingerprints and DNA on glasses
Full of the Hair Of The Dog that pissed on his leg then bit him
As he drained his epigram lizard of all its bloody piss
Expelled upon the small white institutional tiles along with
All the many vile sperm who blindly search for the most perfect of his verse
To be used later on in his afterlife
In an anthology by the Poet's Society
For all the little mutant and defective thinking offspring to read
As the mother's of the whores who gave birth
To the many incurable societal ills of all men like he
In a world which spawned no truer blowhard the likes of him
He bids his final adieu to his fans
Toasting his own madness with another hardy yell and a yank of his prick
Passing on a fart of satisfaction
He leaves behind an elongated ellipse.......

2007 © T.S.