The road less travelled

Sometimes poems need to be obscene, and while they don’t have to be on display on your coffee table, they should likely not be missed.

“Wanna hear my Shitty Poem?”

You look like shit
This smells like shit
That tastes like shit
That’s a shitty thing to do
What kind of shit are you trying to say?

I just picked up a lot of shit
It doesn’t really look like much
Brown to black
Ovals and tubes
Large and small
3 dogs

That’s the shit.
Yes it smells.
Haven’t tasted it since I was three; bad
Can’t recall the flavor
Can’t recall the moment

A whole shitty day?
You’d have to be a professional poop-gather
One visits my neighbor every Thursday
That’s a shitty day
Every day

Little between lovers 

“Author in search of a sonnet – ‘a sonnet might be made of it.’”

Odor of a man and woman aroused
Pine tree, cedar and birch peelings laid down
Sweet suckle, sticky bedding moistened now.
Sweet smell of aromatic chemistry
Somewhere between decay and rebirth finds
Entwined lovers, vines over pines, growth/de-
struction. Mother nature at her finest.
Aromatic response to passionate
desires. Embraced sweating stench produced
by so much wanting, that it strangles out
that last sweet drop of bee nectar, the mead
of needs, wants and cravings. Suckle-ing still
at the taste, longing still to breathe in deep,
Odors of Ardor, inhaled. Last sweet air for us to keep.

A sonnetic response to WCW “Sonnet in search of an author.”