Wednesday, March 2, 2011

"I Didn't Know"


I didn't know when I strangled you
that you couldn't take a joke,
swollen tongue drooling
over my teak wood coffee table
imported from Asia,
eyes bulging unattractively,
staring at the ceiling,
you used to be pretty,
now your wasted life for having known me
is soiling my carpeting.

-King Wenclas 2011

Saturday, May 23, 2009

adam MEORA , Three crazy wisdom from philly's poetry wise-guy

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Shamanic Paper Cuts

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homeless derelict calling down the alien s ons

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Chip away bones mentalists push me to edge dis {appear} across family trees

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Novels written about me will be torn up to find my anus in a bowl of cherries

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Beauty of sundial con scious necessary become six hour holy man

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Risk is close to life without living death its due thought death is risk without loss

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I fall into blood soars before blood idol soars swill swine pushed stomach outward

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Ethiopia female cage tiny rice pellets stark sand crystals sand paper cut lips = mothers

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We are not one we are not one us naked is different tone ]d eath starve uterus spermshaped

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Future has chance ….one psychotic….one famished…make mah eat poetry

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For all the countries with my children

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Boom BOOM MY nuclear weapons have names like my children

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Succulent memorable tributes to my ancestors First middle last ways to split us into oblivion

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One we haven’t seen since the BIG BANG

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Notice my bold over pronunciation

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Let my kids become less ….one thousand heads of little rug smashing babies

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Crushed with borscht and apple pie sandwiches

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I will make them bow to headless reason of blowing up glaciers

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So more slushies can drip for our canyons of dooM

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mention me and get a coupon to the poet’s hall of fame

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wait I must blow up these consonants as to create more green fuel for my

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egolasting slice of the BIG BaNG PIE

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I have cum again to ensure that you will be pregnant forever with impermanence

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Hide your impermanence hide your definitive articles

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I have zero tolerance for eating on the fly

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But my children must die ….all of our children must die

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Don’t play dea Big BanG

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I am an island in this poem leave me be and spread my nuclear love song

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Spread my nuclear love song

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I fear suicide I fear nukes I fear shaving my legs and wearng daisy dukes

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I fear diapers and cleaning on poops

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I am a magic poet I am a magic poet wait I don’t even like magic or poetry or poets who use magic or magicians that steal poetry I like to steal plane and simple

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I will steal your answer to this poem I will steal your response

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I will steal your nonchalance

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Proliferation referendum dumbski missle strike I love lesbian dike patrols

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Swallowing half sized childish trolls

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Bust open warhead tolls

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Pay me to be the god of universal bullshit

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Pay me to the god of hooterversal warspit

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My children have names like marmalade xlposive meora

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Or Meltingfeshy ginsberg meora jam jam

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I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song

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I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song

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I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song

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I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song

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I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song

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I am a man who is scared easily; wet behind orifices when they fall away

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Sand crabs tunnel skin

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I do not fear human extinction; animals, plants, insects hold much more

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must we not sacrifice ourselves as we sacrifice our globe our globe

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How selfish our footprints magnified through human brains

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How selfish our suffering human remains

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Must we mark all things let wolves eat our carcasses, ferns grow

From our mouths

Swans fly from our bellies

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Beetle moths crawl out from



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Shivers portly do not die I’ll give you me to live, sweet river; no more water for me

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Make rain from my eyes solid spectra of cow milk

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Heartbeats for sigh lent creatures

Monday, March 30, 2009






Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Post- Apocalyptic Thunderbolt from Jimmy "Bones" Nasti


>thank you for the encouragement. I wrote it in 5 minutes and pushedsend. An act of spontaneous madness inspired by your always presentpoetic vision. Any feedback is encouraged. This is a bio....attached is apict enjoy....jimmy Jimmy Bones is Single Present Moment Thinking Only! He lives in thethird time cycle of the forth Kalpa and is guided graciously by histeacher Dzogchen Khenpo Choga Rinpoche. He admires the sun and theunspeakable gentleness upon which this melodrama unfolds. His heartfeltaspiration is to watch all beings fall from the hidden crags of isolationinto the ocean of timelessness. He will remain until that happens. He writes two to five poems per year and is a slack-ass playwrite withseveral incomplete works gathering dust.

> For Frank Walsh
> I'll drown in the oh yes,
> and bow down deep before the last day...
> Kindly be reminded of the secret incomplete.
> A mirror without it's image.
> Hope without fear.
> A dream lost by belief.

> A dew drop volcanic
> captures the sun that dries the leaf
> that hosts the cosmos upon its crumbling corse...
> The gem plucked largely without
> regards fire--tried and true--songs for the crucified.

> "Oh, what could have been thy love."
> The spin sinks the liquid down!
> The hope, lost in joy!
> The pain, mere rind upon freedom!
> Beams from moon orphaned by craving and time.
> Sinister seams delux;
Garments torn by space
> to forget the sad rhymes that sing on the face.
> With lines and lines that wait...

Until the farce turn ripe,
> this veil is thin; the costume tight


> persuade the flame to light a way
> rather than burn it through.

> For you and I
> payment is never due!
> payment is never due!

from an email March 22nd

>It shall be changed to corse thank you for the suggestion. where is
anita staying? the loss of the peacock is a heartbreaker.
life is agony smote in the bliss of love. In such a place our only
crime is resistance. The very source of suffering is resistance to
energies arisen (songs flung like comets from the inner cosmos). All
is god, esspecially the pain. Like they say in tantra: the more fuel,
the hotter the fire. May all become liberation right now! May the
madness of freedom devour the madness of sanity!

Monday, February 16, 2009

MORE JOHN G.HALL! more CALI CLARK'S supra-realistic "aut"



John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.

Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.

Wet Cement Poem No:6 (a bankers tale)

The throne room of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole
and a diamond collared dog lapping at the pool of his master's blood,

while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously
combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel onto the flag.


Wet Cement Poem N:5

we stake the world on youth and beauty

surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin

surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears

surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams

surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones

surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels

surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people

surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind

surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull

surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree

surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned

surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poor

surely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices

surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice

surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.

jgh© 2008

Wet Cement Poem No:4

I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,

the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo

I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world

and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood

afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road

the human traffic burns through the metal rain

absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink

bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,

I have heard what the talkers were talking, and

vowed to write up and down these boulevards,

I will sing the song of companionship, of the

opposition of each heart to the murder of love,

to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,

all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,

I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn and sing.


*Every other line is from Walt Whitman

Wet Cement Poem No:3

they reckon birth may hurt babies
they say life is worth every penny

they believe the working class do not exist
they tell this to shop workers and nurses

they take the proof of our silent witness
they stare through the television screen into us
they trace each thought back to its owner

they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure
they laugh at the poor behind their backs

they pin down the butterfly inside you
they pull the wings from your genius

they find starving people then feed them war
they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth
they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.


Wet Cement Poem No:2

the road pours me into the city machine

the fire damaged man sells me his bad news

the live wires suit themselves in culture cafes

the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs

the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor

the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly

and the city machine passes me like a hot beer-shit.



Wet Cement Poem No:1

from crashing waves find your answers

burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues

be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings

carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle

touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes

leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered

hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,

find undiscovered lands, burn the maps, pray not to be found.


The Overcrowded Mind (for those who hate Myspace)

too many fingers in your pie
too many strangers in your mind,
too many cooks to your broth
too many second hand opinions,
too many shame faced shamans
too many spies on your secrets,
too many tongues in your cheek
too many guests at your feast,
too many double agents
too many doppelgangers,
too many sugars in your tea
too many spoons stirring you,
too many waiters in your cafe
too many fingers in your till,
too many beans in the coffee
too many crumbs of comfort,
too many unbelievers
too many unfaithful,
too many demi-lovers
too many semi-sisters,
too many baby brothers
too many mother fuckers,
too many fingers in your pie
too many baring you in mind,
too many non-special offers
too many basement bargains,
too many nosey neighbours
too many twitching curtains
too many keeping notes
too many stealing souls,
too many half cocked Buddha's
too many prying myspace eyes,
too many certain they are certain
too many truths told not be lies
too many fingers in your pie.

john g.hall©2008

Childish Thought

You don’t find no answer with your mind
only the mind trying to find the mind,
the vital answer has no vital question
it’s never been asked by mortal being,
there is no wise domain to live inside
only strange lands demanding maps,
the self can lie as well as any other
no sense can tell the truth all ways,
some people sit tight in the storm
some people move to Coney Island,
some people forget that words can fail them
some people remember all the ways to forget,
I think the universe is bigger than that
I think I’ll boldly go as far as flesh can,
my death will place me one day into an ivory box
my mind a fossilized collection of dead thoughts,
yet if I see a drowning friend in a rough sea
I do not wait for them to learn how to swim,
I throw them the happy ending of my long tether
show them the way I learned my crazy free style,
then sit eating my own Coney Island candy floss
while they swim out on their own sweet milky way.


This is my diatribe

This is my diatribe making my space the only place of community
This is my diatribe making American war thought walk my streets
This is my diatribe making paper educated guesses into prejudices
This is my diatribe making Yankee gangster rappers poor people's masters
This is my diatribe making the drug of guns turn our children into toy soldiers
This is my diatribe taking Hollywood's unholy words as their new electro gospels
This is my diatribe making children without wings, making love without peace.
This is my diatribe against old powers making our new imprisonment invisible
This is my diatribe against the cash card manacles of money's all consuming madness
This is my diatribe against the doomed search for human power through violence.

This is my diatribe against the hopelessness of fear and shame and the thirty pieces
of silver dollars jingling in my dead soldier boys pockets and the I-pod god hanging
from my red neck and the fascist wolf whistles raping my girl friends angelic ear lobes
and the evil preacher men preaching against men loving men or women loving women
or any body loving any body and the rich bashing the ragged of the race and the
squeezing of our bones for our marrow and the rich lips sucking out our sweet souls
and replacing it with bloody warehouses of bloody things that no true human being
ever needs and the white war against the black world going on and on without end.

This is my diatribe and I love them.

John G.Hall©2007

The poor love as well as the rich

my brain is nervous with the night, my animal spirits are hunting
prey in my William Morris wallpaper forests, the black optics of fantasy
spilling into both our dreams, you hold in the dark practicing alchemy
and though I know you will never ask me, my manic touch questions
your flesh, my fingers ticking every correct answer, you wet me with
your soft corrections, we scream through the bedrooms brickwork,
two ruddy ghosts full of Easter's Catholic purple, our mouths slipped
with cinnamon, two sensitive bloods damned up by the gentle tourniquet
of love, my fingers caress your fine fur, you become a painted pony, and
while you tattoo my bones with your salmon tongue, and while the black
reins of your hair slip from my fingers, my demon heart pounds to a stop,
my blue eyes blush and the eiderdown's casual galaxy spirals around us.

John G.Hall©2007

Friday, January 30, 2009


The frost has frozen my heart
winter conquering without stop
fitting the mood of this broken city,
shattered pieces, collapsing factories, endless misery;
Even sunshine would bring relief
from winter's slaughter,
the endless deep-freeze.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Wenclas poem previous post here lights a fire under ULA's FDW inexcusable funk...

... happy Birthday Martin Luther KING simultaneously the 2ooth anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's orphaned nativity, January 19, 2009...

When without a doubt
as the imagination can be
critical never doubtful in flight
the bleat of a dark sheep
beneath my hovel's distressed facade
coming through definite
from an otherwise at
that time of night empty
street with my name
some place under it's breath
someone or something
spelling somebody else wish to death.

Nope, I wasn't in fact stone dead
asleep three and a half
under that side of the AM
I was up actually reclined
to cold cock names of power despite
no moving water in evidence
above or lower the grail
of a wan headway moon instead
skimmed lost rivers
only glance my upper window sash
ushering in Saturn against each House,

then again while I pondered
Edgar Allan Poe besides
myself but most the mad girl down
Spring Garden Avenue prey to night
mares venting steam grates
on disembodied fears
jacked up the broken battlements
of tenement squares
relieved by palsy white
blotched vortex of the blood
sucking autonomic,
the neon-liberal gentrified right.

Life is better every time
than say car exhaust this way or
that just being driven away from it all
went out swinging head held
high as the eyes of Poe in that
Federalist daguerreotype period
all up and over the pitfalls
rude boy dogged the take
upon verily condemned masonry
second sands fell as he was
being born to wood awake,
come to the surface and make
us a demon in your image
beneath the mirror of the gutter
black ice sharply focuses vengeance.