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Best Poems Written by Arthur Flockwhimsy

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Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

Oral sex, much?


 
Separate Fate scratching Chance so that it may be secure.

Offerings Pile up, Circumstances of Dismantled monotony and softly licking dance.

Undiminished cheekbones flushed with Hope,

Slide up and Down,

Autoerotic, Hanging me,  with vivid--tight nerves, Chaining throat to soul.

As an oddly subtle sound escapes my Lips…

One of those Godly Utterances that a conscious tongue Ignores. 

Like An Awakened Coma, screamed, in Paralyzing yearn.

 The air is Quiet, lonesome fingers tangled in heat.

An Eye Tilted, A Pierce of Angels, Coiled green and Thick.

Warm hands harvesting Ankles bruised by cold rain only hours before,

It is the Gentlest of comforts and For some reason, Struck hard and deep

 into my mind.

“Forever is Easy”
                                     I Say.

As softly, Fevered and Wanton,

He is stuns the Dust of this House into Noise

-thend-


Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008



Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

Get Off The Cross, We Need The Wood

Scarcely the Dropper-- a roach antennae Felt,

Some Maudling exterminator of nakedly inhuman hands.

Boiled renunciation falling sick With life itself,

For Libido has and Always Will Be…. the most Impersonal of instrument.

Stepping out and through a purple sunset laying Slow across a grape country.

The inflexibly dead palms of time are Callous and Infirm.

They Cannot Hold Me.

At the corner of toothless and filthy over-alls

Fallen ones fat in the lack-need To Sell a Slim Body,

Torsos Glistening in the Neon Anti-Night,

I Have a Need as well

But in this dirt my need Shines Fresh and Sweet as Spring Grass.

{Of Which I However am Not newly Cut.}

I Smoke Obsolete Health Brimmed full with Paper and Dead.

It is a Methodical Brutality of Air.

I Watch car Lights polish my eyes

A Hundred Reflections a Million Fold,

For These corner Streets are Thick in Shame Greased Glass,

The Moon above, little more then a shining round opal of Lubricant.

The Night is Heavy here, under a myriad fluorescent glow,

Thick, Fibrous, a pink black Fuzz Explosion.   Like leather, Hard, across the Ass.

Flesh Overflowing with silent clinging insistence,

I Can Smell the sex in the Air.

I Smoke just a little bit more, Till the Balls and Spunk leave My hair, 

Beat back by the Modest Goodness of Cancer.

The Future is little more than incipient burning unconscious pieces, 

Tomorrow is a Concussion, 

Today the Tonight Is not Real.

Can You Feel Life Coughing?

Coughing Meaningless 

Coughing Resignation

A Sea of Hammers and Endless Air.

I look to my Side

Rotting Metal nodding absently, “Yes…. Always….”

The lights in this place are Like sulfur hemorrhoids,

And needless to say they irritate my eyes.

(Sound of running Water)

A Dozen Shots of Nameless and Burn

Going

Sigh-twinge-hiss

 down the throat.

(I Am Now Drunk)

The Back-ground Screeching with a hundred tightly packed 

Motion-Gyrate----hydraulic Machinery. 

(But You, However, Might call Them People)

This Is Star Wars! There Are Laser Beams in the Air!

(I Am Now Drunk)

For Tonight God’s Slogan,

Hell,

All the Angels Themselves…

One Long Heavenly Chorus, 

All, 

“Suck, Slurp…. Bugger.”

But the end…

It Justifies my Means.

I look to my Side,

Rotting Metal nodding Absently, “Yes… Always….”

Green Eyes Gristle, Expressionless

“Can we Go now?”

-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

The day is not the same. the day is gone.




Over a yellow River of {Drunken} Smiles,
 
A Dove, faded by erasures and weeks
 
suffocating Crashing rotten Joy--- orgasm Smell of Arrested Motion
 
Coming swift without Warranty or Return Policy
 
Almost invisible Dusty Distance
 
Crossed in the Span of Half past a Width,
 
The Corner of Oblivion, Bliss 
 
And some terrible cockney Face 
 
Cat Calling
 
Agony.
 
(Who {btw} Doesn’t respond)
 
Suddenly Leering, Voices at our Side---
 
----   “Just the Thing to Clean a Mans Blood”
 
{Pause.}
{Blank Stare.}
 
--------Looking down at Himself
 
              “Damn! That pissing croakers really certified…”
 
{Walking Away}
 
Glad as
 
The Street drowns the Voice like Kittens or Babies
 
(Unwanted)
 
And the Cold finds me, for Some reason
 
{Newly Refreshing}
 
The Hand behind, takes, Fingers Warm
 
And Softer then they aught to Be.
 
Eyes Shining, with Cold elastic Birds dwelling within.
 
Drunk {Sss} miles Leering, from the Shadows, I glance over, 
 
He laughs, (I have no Idea why)
 
And I watch as Erasures, Weeks, Years, Take another swipe of him Away.
 
Just a Memory…
 
Something, 
 
As if Spilling:
 
Some Thin strand
 
 Effete 
 
            Green eye
 
And Silvery, Persistent Honey.
 
 
The Swallow
 
   That even Sleeping, Flying, Lives on my Eyes.
 
{+} or {='s}
 
Decisions bursting Forth, some nocturnal voice, with a shout.
 
{a Dead Dove, With a Number!}
 
I Dial the china Blue Sky and Drifting clouds, fear flickering In and out of my Eyes.
 
(Click) (Words that would, --------then 
 
}go Here)
 
Your voice ripples when I touch it, like a River…
 
No Longer a Bird, I Realize…
 
Nothing but a Sad voice… Rotted by Time.
 
(I Hang Up the Phone)

And then
 
Life... just…
 
 Continues on…
 
-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

Hand me a Feather, I'll fan you Warm

Sipping connoisseur of street-light eyes,

(Spaced and Every Twenty Feet)
 
The Shadows are Empty, the Sliding Internal.
 
Angels Take’in their Time,
 
Yeah,
 
Drawing your Final Breath,
 
Pencil in the Air…

But
 
Care? Bear?
 
Oh the Burden of hair
 
---Speaking, Rabbit, of course
 
(Not the Dead things growing out of your Head)
 
{Yeah{ Your Head is a  Cemetery}
 
{And There’s Ghosts in There} Probably Even a Few}
 
But… whose counting anyway…
 
A Tongue like Head-Lights, straight into my Eye.
 
(Or was it my Throat?)
 
To Busy, and Oh Well,
 
Drinking 100 Proof Tears in the place All Light comes
 
Nothing but 
Dope-Fiends ____'n in The Streets.
                     ...

(yeah)

(supple tommorrow, touching hours of moan into gone)



Come to me, Milk-Nose. I Need a  Loan of the Quick.
 



-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

Love is the Old illegal, Love is the new City Wide Ban.



Magical Malediction of Exasperated Want,

Passion Fruit splayed Eyes of the World

Are Cumming

For Christmas Charcoals

And Incinerated House Hold Pets

(Under Trees.)

Have you Gotten your Ticket Yet?

Don’t want to be left out 

In the cold cold Ugliness,

Now Would’ ya?

Fragile, So Don’t try and Get away,

I’m Quite sure your legs and Arms and Dainty Bits

Would Chip like Glass and Bullets Dance  

Or Truth be Told

And Told in Crass,

You’d m()uck

And m()uck

Your Last ‘n Chance.

“Boys jacking off in school toilets, by sight, know each other as agents of Galaxy X.”

But do you know? And know it slow? Oh Honey face.

Snapped room and strangely Flat,

Mangled inhuman Waiters of poison Smut.

Gather Round

Serving part and rest-stopTrays,     Of,       Larceny as

The New Citizen.

Violation of the Sanitary Code,

Squealing Certified doorways

Lead to Crack

(But not the Crack you Might think I’m talking of)

The Kind that Hides and Peaks,

The Kind that Speaks and Speaks,

Oh, Of! and About!

Those Long and Magical Maledictions

Of Exasperated Want.

Like Subtle brown Hairs, Revealed in harsh and Unforgiving Fluorescent Light,

And in short,

As you mother might say,
       
-I am The Hero-

   -You Hate-



-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008



Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

The sky made me do it.

﷯﷯


Like the tongue of a wet dream, there is something over the sky.

Soaked red wings, the dampness of drowned naked day.

He looks over sighing

“The Wind has Penetrated me, Does that count as Fornication?”

I Sip pomegranate tea and stare blankly.

It is a dance, this.

Only Red and Lusty Syllables know it,

It is Nothing,

It is Shadow.

The Sky itself is scarcely moist.

I am waiting on words to come--- Divine, Violet and Brutal.

Action Adjective Sounds stirred with Verb Color.

Words to Swell Sheets, Close Curtains and send teeth biting into Wrists and Arms.

It is Raining Invisible Water, The Sunset Wildly Drunk on Itself.

Clouds Bite Deliriously into Soft-Hued Blue-Orange chunks,

The Moon Fights for its Place, impregnating stars with reckless abandon. 

I Look over, sip,

“The Sky is a Whorehouse tonight”

Fingers in belt loop, a sudden reply,

“Well then…”

Green eyes Glisten--- Holy Holy Holy, Eye-Lashes licking my soul,

“Should we…  leave the curtains open and really give ‘m a show?”

I look up, the rain tasting my tongue,

Flick out a cigarette, Immolate

And Send my Ashes to the Sky.


-thend-
 

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.

…

Death is in the Folding of Sheets.

… 

The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.

…

I Don’t Want to Accept That.

But… 

Tomorrows been coming just the Same.

…

Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.


You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…


Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.


Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.


From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.





-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.

…

Death is in the Folding of Sheets.

… 

The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.

…

I Don’t Want to Accept That.

But… 

Tomorrows been coming just the Same.

…

Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.


You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…


Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.


Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.


From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.





-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

Tongues Like Dragons, have no Speach.

Gray Sky modeled, a Leaf on its Falling,

And thus tenaciously wounded, a slow and Bitter Abandon

Crashes,

Past Churches among Coals

And Faces lined, tunneled by ants, cicadas

The mouths of Sad dead Men.

Gray Sky tears Into Dirt,

Cars and Old Women Flying,

My legs Wobbling, Noodle Like

Churning Air and Dirt into Butter.

Gasping relaxed Depravity,   Eyes of Bulging broken Connections,

Tasting tongues of insulated Iron

Rising higher, Higher, Still

Red—Slim, Long to the   Sky

Fifty Feet, A Hundred,

The Nothing of Where Sky, Was,

Filled in by a Forest of Red Bloomed Licks.

My Mouth Closed Tightly, Holding Leviathan Inside.

I Stumble Back, Truck Bound, but Falter, Finding Telephone Pole,

Penetrating it, Sodomy like, Through the Rear. 

Hands Writhe, Grasping, Reaching, I Clasp my Mouth and Break Free.

The Voices rising From Mouths no longer their Own…

I Cannot Describe…

Newborn Violet? The Desperate Thirst of a thousand harlot Bedrooms?

Vowels Drowned in Starving Mackerel congealed Eyes?

This, All of this, Is beyond me.

Simply infinite Air, Spearing Life and Earth,

Struck,

Dense and with Cold Constancy.

Today …The Day

Has Died.



The Knife of half-destroyed Churches

Bite Deep,

Each leaf, Hunger, Phosphor’ ant Fire-Fly Eye of Darkness---

----As They Fall.

I However, Let them Take me from Within.

Forsaken interrupted Hands Growing,

Source-less Laments Turning Shadows to Anti-Life.

The World, now, some measureless Dream,

One long Abandoned Funeral Voyage to Nowhere.

Great Pale Cows of Tomorrow

Rain Black Milk

While they Float to the nothing of the now ground-speared  Sky.

Exasperated Winter,

Oh, Dark Color of Sinfully used Blankets .

Filthy Lightening Bolts and Dung Covered Clouds,

The Horizon reeks of an Oil Field.

Spark, Spark, Lighting a Match,

To keep God warm, That mewling 

Majestic Infant of the Sky.

(Ssssscrush)

              (Whooosh)

And one Long Holy

(Kaboom!)



-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

Details | Arthur Flockwhimsy Poem

No more then a day without hours.

Noah will go First, soaring out of the Desert,Up and throughThe Surrounded  Horizon ----of curt 
Offstage Smiles, Indigo children who are Rain from the Sun.Wings of Alabaster Sin. {Death, in 
your Arms}The affect is most disturbing and my smile Is Immediate.Giggling the flames grow 
Higher,Oxycodone Soul 15mg EthSitting here sipping Hot Chocolate----Sacrament of the Risen 
Christ Monster.Paregoric Babies of the World Unite,We have nothing to lose but our 
Pushers,And to be Frank, every soul Needs them,If just to get Forward.(Would you want to Love 
a soul never Burned?)(Never Stumbled?)How many years threaded together onMesc, K-Holes, 
Gods hiding inside Mushrooms?Morphine, Oxy, the Thousand of Pills Sacrificed on an Altar of 
thick red TongueTo numbing ThingsThat I No Longer Remember.I used to tell myself--- they 
bought this beautiful Oak desk.The very Music playing (Bat for Lashes) in my Ears.But that’s 
just an excuse for an Addiction.An Addiction to mere Altered States.No Specific Drug has ever 
held my Attention…Its Just To Feel-----  Other.…I am on Fire.My tongue Is frozen to the 
Past.But really... I never Should of Licked it to Begin With.(Sudden)Spouting--- honeycomb--- 
Bright JoyStrolling by,               its tail in the Fog.I Sink into my Bed like Kisses at the Bottom of 
Stones.Searching,In this Slow Mattress, in these Black Sheets,What vital rapid Wings of a Lost 
angel Dreams…Scarcely, with my Reason, with my FingersAnd its Disorderly Scissors sticking 
into my Chest.I Will Find you Again.And This TimeI Will Hold On…Even If Its all Just one long 
Ride to Hell,There Between your Thighs. The Waves of Hope are Crashing, Smashing 
themselves to Death.I Am the JunkyThat No One Knows.Nobody on the Way to Nowhere…And 
My Dear…My DearNowhere's a Hell of a Place…(yes)The Devil isn’t Dread,He’s just Away. In a 
Round about Way(Like, So--- Buy the Dead Child a Sandwich)---------------Sniffing Lashing, 
smile of Cheekbone to Chin,The Butterfly Kisses are Wanton.-Clapping, Balloons who Above all 
Things, Hate Confusion.-Teeth which have No BiteAngels lacking the Fingers of Flight.Love me 
Tonight.And Tomorrow                      …Burn the Remains.-thend-

Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008

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