Joseph James Cawein is a young poet from southeastern pennsylvania.
play with fire syndrome
After all, it’s not as though i am a person with thoughts and feelings. No, then things would be… peculiar. I am merely a man with urges. A roach reveling in the tremulous shine of my own laughing dada. Others may disagree, but who are they? And why must they be so banal? If there was another sun, one less bright, i would call it the moon, and i would weep for its glory. Perversion. What a sorry bunch. But then, They are the master and i am the fool.
If god made man in his image than god has a dirty brown spot between his buttocks. What an asshole. Dirty like a menthol cigarette. Don’t corrupt the thing. Dirty on the inside.
I tire of you and you tire of me but still we are together for murder is illegal. Don’t diddle your kids or they’ll never let you inside an elementary school again. Catastrophe.
But i tire of such distractions. May i massage your left tit? The right one repulses me.
Today a woman with a beard stood in line with a pack of razors. She gave me exact change and i squealed with delight. Shouldv’e bought ’em yesterday, eh missy?
Continuing would be unbearable and stopping would be death and death becomes us all. This is why i must use punctuation. I can feel it growing inside me.
is not something you do but something that does you. If you tire, bang your head on the wall. The grass continues to ask questions i cannot answer. It is something like taking a hot shower in october or a cold one in july. You feel it, but what is feeling? If i endeavored to masturbate every time my cock twitched i’d be sterile in a week. This is not a metaphor but a simple rolling truth. Answer it, like you must answer all things. With a roll of the eye and a wag of the tail and distrust boiling in your bowels. Anything less would be, magnificent. Swift and never ending. Hehe. Orgasm. About as fair as i expected.
If it rained i would laugh at the clouds for being so generous and people for kicking Gift Horse in his crotch. i’d make a sweater and feast on flesh. Do you photosynthesize?
Keep me warm with salty tears and tear yr flummox in two. Two haves are different than a hole. Rigor has proven some things and moistened some snatches but never bared the brunt of the intrepid. The sea is vast and never ending. See the sky? Hardly an object. Clit, or us? I cannot decide.
Cleavage is everywhere. Tits and division. Of labor and of minds. Tax yr dermis to oil the machine. Fault ‘er if there’s smoke, but not the good kind. With regard to mice, with regard to hubris, i cannot say. Dyslexia of the lung. I wrote a poem but kept it secret. I fucked a nun but the conception was not immaculate. I lived a life, and tried and tried, butter inklings were too much.