toga poem number 2

fresh meat

you're a rotting fruit
and the flies have stayed away.
but no more.
let your odors
permeate.
get your ripe flesh eaten 'til there's only core.
keep growing up,
grow chin hair,
grow a beard.
grow a cock,
rock with it out.
wait. love yourself for who
and what you are. wait.
be demure and powerful,
don't act like a stone anymore.

that tends to happen
when you're grown and your eyelids are tired
from flapping like clamshells.

wake up. grow a poker face.

don't masturbate with the same hand you pick the sleep out of your eyes with.
learn some courtesy
fatass.

tear up a vase with your new fangs
rip out a heart with shiny gold talons
squeeze,
feel the tension and the pressure and the release.
get out of your cave.
grow up.
fuck up
big time.

toga poem number 1

chewing

i wore the smoke like a spiderweb
in my hair until the stickiness wore off.
even then i felt it in my mouth
like chains where teeth go.
rusty, ineffective chains
more nuisance than anything else.

but my mouth is like a canyon
which is like an empty stomach
and it howls for company,
which at this point I will allow to be in the form
of harmful area 51 escapees,
enemies that sting long
after the fire is gone.

for me, for now,
still,
a cigar can just be a cigar,
a straw is a cigar,
and ice, gum, and nails.

while my eyes are in my tongue
they will always be searching.

so this is for poetry

but I guess I can use it for useless rambling or whatever about my life....
not now though. too tired.

stay unattractive!
-BSip