Anal Screams, Drag Queens
Damerica
Girls Gone Wild, porno scenes
Damerica
Hollywood dreams, girls giving head
Damerica
Girly magazines–underneath the bed
Damerica
Runaways from a small town
Damerica
Memories scream without a sound
Damerica
Strawberry condoms taste so sweet
Alabama
Sex crazed thugs out on the street
Damerica
Revelation, the faithless prey
Mexicana
Another dies on this summer day
Damerica
Striking-out with three men on
Damerica
Gorilla boys are all hellbound
Damerica
Guilty scenes of pleasure
Damerica
The peer pressure
Damerica
A fat girl–so willing to please
Damerica
Processing this American Cheese
Those Clowns scream and
the comic spiral bop in hue.
The comic horrors. The comedic
blues. A combination of maddening
improvisation, laughter, bullshit, sight
gags and reel, mixed with silly string
and ice cold fire, over an open flame.
Magnetized upon the pure
Televised blackface, with mirrors
turned to the wall. Nothingness
a silent scream
Layered in prehistoric
memories, like a broken penis.
The son of a bitch from
the old city is selling
broken dreams and used hexes
of my dead pan mind.
Reject all in it's infantile
state of disobedience.
Those happy children
disturb not their dream.
Yeah, how I can dig your
nightmarish memories of your
yesterday and today
And yes, we thanked you for
These dreams. It gets my
bowels moving.
The little maggot
with his dancing monkey
Here comes the drag fag queens
ALIVE! He cried
Lustful faggots
Time for an escape, get
drunk, visions of madness
"I've been thru Hell
and back!"
These women are so obese.
"Wine and Dine. Feed that girl!"
We impregnate wine-soaked women with
lies and nightmares and
new, screaming babies
You dig it dawg?
This is the life they lead.
"Take my wife... please!"
Take my life!
About the Creator
Joe King
"Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities." - Jim Morrison
These poems are from my book An American Parody, which is a tribute to the writings and poetry of Jim Morrison.
Gossamer
"Murray! Wake up!" He loved that period between waking and dreaming. To him, it was like entering another dimension; more of a dreamscape than dreaming itself. There was an otherness to it that he wanted to grasp and yet deeply respected the fact that it could never be his totally. This is what gossamer was; flighty and light, a wisp of smokiness, an idea suggested but not fully revealed, a slit in cloth, a copse in the wood.
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
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