Dead Leaves Make Compost.

Mortal

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 16:39:00 +0000

My line is finished
Fallen into the blue storms that wither against
The infinite sphere of God's great Plaything

I can see the stepping stones that twist and fade behind me
Skulls of my mothers that dot the ground, whistling embers of a spent fire

Another is out there, a looming wraith of ticking atoms and useless emotion
Dissipating as she wrings her hands

If not for the tightly woven sinews of helpless genes or blind experience
I would happily embrace her
To the sound of sleeping planets
And falling trees

Weights

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 21:17:00 +0000

It's been too long...

Nagging Thing
Of dust and lace
Keeps you rooted
In your place

Wear a trembling
Red-rim grin
Waste without,
Scab within

Feast your eyes,
A hollow doll
Catch it quick
Before it falls

Never wrong to
Dance on skin
Swing and sway
To Monkey's din

Americo...

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 22 May 2008 05:36:00 +0000

...God of Propaganda

Heartbeats of mercury
Footsteps of ash
He lies through his teeth,
But his smile shows class

His voice may be thunder,
But his stride is slack;
Twixt godlike thighs,
A hippie-born rash

Behind the hamburger,
the flag and the lash,
The boot of opinion
Lodged deep in his ass

Yah...

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Sat, 17 May 2008 09:36:00 +0000

...God of God

Death to the burning,
And all those that languor;
Death to all friends,
Family, and strangers

Cling to their robes,
The fruits of your labor;
Hiding your face
Won't banish the danger

Take it from God;
Your minds are your cages
Keeping you cool
While the lifestorm rages

Eating their words,
Shit of the sages
Won't ever soothe
The Crotch Rot of Ages

Eee...

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 15 May 2008 07:35:00 +0000

...Goddess of Youth

Rise from refuse
Shake the sleep
Wipe the crust
From eyes set deep

Purr beneath
My bony hands
Shattered teeth
Saliva glands

Host of hours
Westward bound
Lingers late
Beneath ground

Love its heat
Through ancient scars
Sleep as embers
Under stars

Don't You Fret!

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Fri, 02 May 2008 02:59:00 +0000

Wash our clothes
In the kitchen sink
If any's left
It's just red ink

If they saw her
Never fear
Most are sure
We're raging queers

If she stinks
We'll crank the fan
Stow her deep
In desert sand

Drive through pitch
As Vegas snores
Don't you fret
She's just a whore

Day Showers

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:50:00 +0000

Sprawling over dawning stars
Rolling clouds that have your form
Watch the rain pour out your limbs
Green lands swell beneath your storm
Watch the cycle, day to night
Listen as cicadas swarm
Clouds are still, shriveled dry
Evening trickle is no more

***

I need a date.

Corp

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 22:01:00 +0000

Raise my feet, bring them down
Ram rooftops into the ground
Old worlds' blood upon my lips
Black gems gleam upon my crown

Spread my arms and crack the sky
Clamor of six billion cries
Float as gems, a new abyss
In blister-laden clouds I fly

Viscous seas of starlit milk
Empty kingdoms choked with silt
Crown drifts soft through silent storms
Naked scalp is left to wilt

New star pulls me to its fringe
Wrap my arms around my shins
Close my eyes against the Vast
Sleep until new life begins

***

Fuck oil.

Cupcakes

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 08:12:00 +0000

Please, take a cupcake;
They're free and they're sweet.
The icing will knock you
Right off your feet.

Tastes quite unfriendly,
Though surely, it's sweet -
Something like swallowing
Undercooked meat!

I fear for my mood -
T'was never this sweet!
I fear for my health -
My brain's sprung a leak!

Fear not for your mood;
Won't always be sweet -
Ask every hour
Deprived of its sleep.

Fear not for your health;
Knowledge sweet -
Worth every drop
Of youth you secrete.

***

Watch Strangers With Candy.
It's one of the Best Shows Ever.
Those few unfortunate souls who don't enjoy it
just
don't
get it.
Therefore, they are to be considered lame,
and very much pitied.

Through the Wall

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 11:14:00 +0000

Hear the bison as they fall
Tumbling hooves heard through the wall
Pride in every muffled blow
Mangled heap is red and raw

Hear the silence as they thaw
Ecstasy heard through the wall
Air is wet, morning dim
Laughter lost within the maw

(If the neighbors are going to insist on shouting matches during the wee hours of the morning,
the very least they can do is not be so fucking happy the next day.
Or ever.)

Empty Man

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 03:42:00 +0000

When the day’s long hours
Fall to ruin, fall to ash,
And the sky spits purple
‘Cross the night so vast,

A light can be seen
On the ridge above the hills;
Thin and empty, rusting,
Tall and dark and still

The sun never touches
Where his wild garden grows
He's there, amidst the riddles
Of a stranger's healthy glow

Climb the crags until you strike
The summit, where he waits.
He’ll hold you close, hold you down;
He smells of dust, of fate

The heart crashes softly;
Within his mouth, it shines
The sky becomes a void,
And loneliness divine

They’ll find you there, frozen stiff,
Forgotten and alone.
They’ll stow the husk beneath the earth
While women weep and moan.

Yet when the twilight blooms again
And grief has had its fill,
They’ll see your light, burning bright,
On the ridge above the hills.

Modification

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 20:29:00 +0000

Though my opinion
May earn me a kick,
Personally,
It makes me quite sick.
Is it a woman
Who once had a prick?
Nope, just a man
With a mutilated dick.

Ants

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 22:38:00 +0000

Trying month.
Better now.

Self Image

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 05:06:00 +0000

It slithers over rolls of fat,
Wet worm that's lithe and wry.
It smells of water, rock and scat,
And chicken, when deep fried.
No matter how you twist or slap,
It coils round your head,
Sinks its teeth deep in your fat,
And snuggles till you're dead.

STYRAC! ASAURUS!

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 00:23:00 +0000

Look-See

A good resource for extinct critters,
particularly those whose name you can't quite place.

I used to be obsessed with dinosaurs Back In The Day.
They are still some of the Coolest Things Ever.
No, really.
If you can't see the awesomeness of extinct mega fauna,
then we can never be friends.
Sorry.

Fuck Adderall

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 00:19:00 +0000

All water has left me
Through the hole in my crotch;
It seeks better things
Than internal dry rot
You can see it in my eyes,
My skin and my snot
Hydrated and happy
Is something I'm not

Baboohoo

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 23:02:00 +0000

Knuckles front, knees behind
Of silver, gold, and stars it shines
Of homeland dirt and diamonds fine -
May as well be a cantaloupe rind

V-Day

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 00:45:00 +0000

Happy V-Day.

Personally,
I'm gonna pay some toothless vagrant to blow me in a parking lot.
Perhaps then I'll feel something more than
terminal apathy for the corporate circle jerk
that is St. Valentine's sad, flaccid legacy.

...also, Venereal Disease.
Think on that.

Cunnilingus

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 15:38:00 +0000

Though generations of radiation exposure had long since
mutated his family's genes beyond repair,
James, the prettiest of his brood,
found ample use for his talents in the pornography industry,
earning him the title of "Best Newcomer"
at the 2234 AVN Awards.

Despite numerous "cold sores,"
he is still the hero of countless perverts, mutants, and
mutant perverts.

***

( This image is a rather embellished photo study. )

Billy

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 06:04:00 +0000

Who knows?
I do.
Doesn't mean you ever will.

Locrich

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 22:05:00 +0000

Ling Ling,
one of the few successes among Dr. Rhinehart's experiments,
was the most graceful creature in the pens.
Swift and lithe, she could practically glide on air.

Sadly, she was hit by a truck,
prompting Dr. Rhinehart's team to invest in higher fencing.

WBC. A Short Rant.

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 00:06:00 +0000

Look-See

That made me giggle.
Stupid fucking monkeys.

The End (is a title of a short poemic)

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 02:27:00 +0000

We all know it's coming.

I, for one, plan on being in the ancestral lands of the Hopi people before it even begins.

I'll bring some beer.

Highway to Mars

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 16:41:00 +0000

Don't ever get distracted while driving.

Ciga-Milk

noreply@blogger.com (Matt Richardson) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 00:58:00 +0000

From this article

"Could it involve a measure of psychology rather than just the physical addiction per se? Desmond Morris, the British anthropologist, likens the smoking experience to a need for reassurance. He attributes his theory to one of comfort and, figuratively speaking, aligns the cigarette with the "symbolic nipple". He associates to the relationship we had with the breast and our respective mothers."