DIONYSUS DECREED:
THE DRUNK POEMS
In which Maitreya debunks that he's anything other than a foul mouthed fool raised by priests…
After a night of Venezuelan Rum
Let's write some!
§
In Japan
I met a man
who could walk on water
but would fall through sand
which I thought at first
quite strange
until I saw
that he'd been adored
by his ma
and this alone extended
his range
§
What Venus understands:
sometimes in order
for mars to be mars
he's got to hit the bars
to scrape the blues
from his shoes
and even out
the pressure in his loins
or risk internal wars
his conversation
never bores
until he runs out
of coins
§
The price of loving a God
is that they do not recognize
laws
only necessity
§
Why did I get drunk
in the morning?
To recognize my spirit
instead of mourning
§
Even the sickest bitch
bleeds the man
who cannot switch
between alpha
and the pain he feels
I'm delta now
so you must pay
for the exploding tears
of yesterday
I know you're sick
and I know you're swimming
in the assumptions that
go with being a woman
I too hate men and their
aftershave
now give me the keys
to the love you've saved
to rescue your faith
in sex
to continue the race
and remove the hex
and unleash from shallow
graves
the lies that obscure
a superior,
next!
§
My mohair rejected all my sins
and instead chose to worship him
who promotes my sorrow
and always borrows
just when I collect
fresh rain for my barrels
once I coveted oil
now I covet carols
that smoothes the way
of certain death
I loved a girl once
from San Diego
who now smokes
crystal meth
I attend her in her dreams
as she metabolizes
what she inhales
and tell her fabulous
enchanting tales
and that I love her
regardless of how crazy
her barren life seems
though the stitches have
worn out between
her gingham and
her calico
oops, there I go
I tried to force
a pun
but my grace
will lick her flavour
when her wandering days
are done
§
You
abandoned at birth
by a moth afraid to love
unless she offended
her patron flame
I even forgot his name
if he had any mercy
he would do the same
I used to shoot at pigeons
because my enemy
shot my doves
expressing their deepest joy
at being innocent
and able to fly
bird droppings
on believers
and laughing silly :
bull's eye
now trapped in French kitchens
about to feel the knife
the irony?
he favours Italian
but such is life
§
I hope my step father is ashamed of me
(oh please be!)
so that I can get on with my living
there are more bruises in the afterthought
than the memory, once forgiving
can hold on to without the slice of blade
which attends to all analysis
and fondles the bells of innocence
after which paralysis
melts into the central nerve
which governs the tiny legions
I am forced to go outside the law
since I've already rhymed
with pigeons
I piss on them from a great height
and the apologists for their
religions
§
If continued coughing
precedes my death
then let it find its rhythm
I'll know after I spew my bile
if the cost exceeds my toil
the blood I swallow
was made to boil
I should hope it inspires
a good fight
face it:
I am more than just a singer
I am the impulse of
your dancing middle finger
§
Who's afraid to die
who wasn't loved to their satisfaction
so I'm no Edna St Vincent Millay
though I'd tongue her if
she were here today
though with my aim I'd miss
as she was gay
and coveted nothing more
than the chance to unhinge
Dorothy Parker
the stockings in her crooked
are seams
(oh God, have I binged!)
though I'd make her swing
because my moods
are darker
§
Doc!
Come quick!
My dick is sick!
§
There is no repentance
for one who knows the law
must carry many paragraphs
explaining that our flaws
are really facets of a judgement that
trades its brains for a strangled hat
and tightens up the jaws
§
If it were really
my bother
then the price of the ransom
would be smaller
instead, the highest bidder
had his pick of the litter
your lie has been quite
pathetic
I am Alexander's Pope
let in on the joke
the punch line is that my genetics
never once passed through
its collar
talk to me once
the bones are taller
then we'll lengthen the rope
though it might weaken the dollar
§
……after going through my checks
In the bureau
Thank God we're trading
In Euro
§
She lay there in a pile of clothes
waiting to be torn away
violently, emphatically
my sweaty stench
clandestine men wait to lynch
assaulting her nose and fingering
her entire wish list
and twisting her with my wrench
sucking in my belly as I pose
between the edges of the emptying light
and plant on her lips a sloppy kish
she's blurring
though I am only slurring
old ethics and the Queen's English
§
So I'm drunk
and can only debunk
that these are the weeds
of my deepest funk
§
He has no greater opponent
than the left hand
which would let
the right hand own it
§
When Gabriel stops
trumpeting his own triumphs
then it's time to split
because when he runs
out of breath
all that's left
is spit
I write so that Gabby
stays in tune
and his other angels dance
otherwise for fun
they hunt down cupid
and make him confess
his wardrobe is stupid
and ankles him with his pants
and snigger that love was made for fools
and that only the timid
need moist toweletts
to wipe the guilt from their hands
before school
so
I must hurry
and write more text
'cause if I fall behind
my ass is next!
§
There are those who pad their nests
with other people's feathers
they sit on their butts
demanding bigger cuts
though I'm happy I'm not paying
by the ounce
for the fat they accumulate
once deep in the count
of another household's ledger
lazy bottoms grow
by the figures they measure
hands deep in the pocket
of a working man's treasure
a cock is never more vain
than when crowing victory
in someone else's name
and all that you've stolen
in time
will crush your fingers
once the last dime
upon your greedy palm
mounts
who are you?
what have you done?
except polish the spit
on my rod
the taxes will come
and then only God
will care whether you live
or die
once the last check is signed
good-bye
you've contributed this to life:
to destroy the lives of Lords
who once were sharp
and shiny nails
now hammered
beneath the boards
§
That blood
is mine
hardcore head
dashed against the bricks
a loose tongued half moor
or less depending on how many kicks
my hips have tasted
how futile are the punches wasted
as if I'd ever drop my sticks
I'm drumming the marches
of my war
not officer's stripes but scars
I bore
for passing the ball
and setting picks
the axis turned with every swipe
I now lay low like hedgerow
(and visualize fondling J-Lo)
and will be the worm in your apple
when the time is ripe
§
ALL PRAISES BE TO THE NAME OF YOUR GODS AND ANCESTORS!
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA – MILANO 1st MARCH 2005
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED