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In Memory of Howl - Poetry Group

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In Memory of Howl
By Lord Kristoffer Martin

Silent revelry spilling coldly out of wandering eyes, beer goggles bobbling the heads and cocks of boys and men; the arrogance captured rudely, thrusting its self in and out of our minds, fucking the mental memories of long past lives and long past hopes. Dreams of evertude, carrying caressing want, hidden behind shrewish voices politicizing the secret simplicity we so embrace; ballads of sanctity fading in and out like whores of the night, crying out for their woeful bosoms. Weeping mothers, angels, Howls of cold reality fazzed by hazy hallucinations and smoke filed vials of economic promise.

Veiled virulence vaguely valued venerated virtuosity virtuoso, singing songs of dreaming heads dancing bouncing in tune unaware of the darker shades of sex and sales loosely manipulating the weak and whelmed. Gayly homosexual selves decloseted, declothed, disclosed, coiled by the invisible madmen we entrust so deeply to head our heads of thought and control. Virtuoso, singing songs, nightmarish songs fucking the tumultuous lies of misunderstanding abroad and broached; a laugher, lying laughter, witless witness mittness. A gaggle of ignorance bared by dimwitted reprieve black mirrors of soulless rhetoric. Beliefs and believing bewilderment boldly embolden bastards belching bullied ballads briefly basking in virtual truth.

A truth held so dear by so many, so unclear the reality before them the actuality bent to factless faith and forceful inevitable lays of straight laced girls legs spread apart in attempts of corrected Bents. Capturing snatches like butterflies, pinned to boards, valued for their simple release and nothing else. A war of duality, plurality, liberality, a war of intoxication, power justification, from assumed pedestal heights of moral superiority; a judgment, pictured judgment, passed wavingly along and ignored except for media matters and fact checking orgs, ogling the landslide sidelines limping between neither-realities. Crashing into barricades like cars on a Mobius high way leading sideways and no ways into the same ways of backward forward wording.

Amabagrams twisting and speaking the same mouthfuls of hate staged on the eyes of millions, blaming defaming, for power gaming. What stinks on crumbling streets and cracking buildings, leaking value money Moses fleeting a flea of mindless people to be free. Black caged fleas sucking the life from the world around by minds of so few so tall so high unable to see the colorful array beneath their shadows. Impossible shadows weighing down the world . Towering eyes watchful of their little minions working toiling in deathly smogs created by monster fuckers freaking fowl across seas and expecting rewards for their demonic achievements; mad houses run by money men madly moaning for more and more, their green drug pumped in drained from the deep veins of all those around them. A Matrix of sullied wilds and hoped for raises.

For I feel strange, my shadow stretching into infinite depths of darkness. I’m with you my burning man, the fire emerging as a light from your dry charred soul. I’m with you, raising up above the cold darkness, the fascist failures held so dear by political populace, stars carry me above the walls of human stupidity, and for brief moments I see the world as it could be, below me in a wash of blue and white clouds free. Clouds of people opinion stored in vast networks of pseudo-reality, a cache of outward reaching hands sharing lives openly and without remorse. Seeking their mental meals and loving burning screens. Yet the hand of god, if such a being exists, seems to reach through the so anointed ones, the ones who claim to see this being of otherness and through their hands we are strangled into boundless belief or loss of all faith. Captured in a dire discourse arguing for freedom of thought without oppppppppression. What is holy, what is accepted to be above the secular body. The soul is secular, sex is secular, the mind, the hand, the foot, the keyboard the computer screen the pot the buggering boys by twelve are secular, the cocks the vaginae the tits and tongues the asses and holes are secular. What holiness is there if we separate ourselves and our oppressors? Is Sanctity a cowards hope or a cowards demand?
Holy minds holey buckets batman…we seek a secular sanctity, severed from several sophistry sopping and saudit, soldiered south in sexual sensationalism. Through ads and arrowed de-oiling beauty, caked on in white and pink and black and brown, we seek a solitude or sanctum saturated in soulless surrealism. Scientific sovereignty and supple sucklers seal our saviors sins. In reality our saving has no salvation to supply and in the end we are merely on a road of endless separation and lonely delapitude. Deserters, baring the camouflage of communal wars, pink scarfs or scars covering our tears. Glossy or matte, high heels or flats, patterned or polka dotted doting in our mirrors. A video game of sim-ulated lusting. Controllers controlling from behind a screen, both computerized and publicized, cameras capturing capers and cruel casualties. Yet we calmly callously cease caring, cautiously carousing corners careening away.

In the end we all are couch surfers, potatoes never quite ready to fry, wilting and molding, bruising and spawning, never thinking of the end results we want to see. Air-con on, cold blasting away the real heat, outside our little holes…homes…what a difference an L can make whole societies filled with whores, fairing failing, it is all the same.
I speak of a man, observing the hills and dales or doubting bails bound by wire. A man sexless and sexualized soulless and spirited, Bob or Blob or Rob or Rod we can never tell, his bountiful manhood bouncing betwixt his boulder like legs, thrusting forward in and out of anus after anus. Forceful creeping cum crawls down a leg, dripping towards the earth to seed the cracks in boards of floors. Our hero, a man of sexual release, an man of sexless release, can it be this white liquid salivates the tongues and pussies and asses of so many, lubricating lactations and eternal emissions. Can this beastial ceremony represent the carnal love of our lowly selves, the sanctity of marriage barred to so many and possessed by churchly ramifications. Or are we boldly, no cowardly, raising our hopeful mentors to higher realms than are truly reachable. Dividing our wanting innards to a greater high than pot or heroin or crack can provide. In simple truth this division of humanities does nothing but break our bonds, the chains that connect us. This man, blazing a path of cock and nudeness connects more than the thoughts of taught diction and division of political prowess. Bipartisan, try sex-artisan, the Midwestern karma sutra, cow tipping and rear entrances, barn yard trysts, and supposed innocent piss. Fellatio over chicken coups, and the value of a milker maid in the wee mornings before the misses arises. What happens in dawn stays in dawn. Even these simple pleasures are made out to be the undoing of the world, twisting our minds with radical blinders. Witness to fights staged and true, arenas of stages, roped rings or ringed by audience tethers. Springer truths are sprung, Raphael sheds her tears, and worlds of wrestlers lie in obvious blow by blow prank falls.

My ass hurts, after a long pounding of the Midwest karma sutra type, his cum splattered over my ass, mine on my stomach. What forceful powerful sweat inducing release, my ass hurts, a good hurt, like the world revolves around each twinge, the thrum of my heart pounding heavily into the veins of my stretched sphincter. He doesn’t love me, and I know I don’t love him, still the feeling lingers, that hope lingers, like the linger embers of a burning effigy in the wilds. What rises up more often than a hard warm cock, grasped between my fingers, wrapped around by my lips. Hitting the back of my throat with each thrust, and a promise of ejaculatory prize, sweet and salty, tangy and tart.

Anticipation, of the world we want, the world we seek, the world we imagine as our reality. Maybe we say, maybe we will have it one day, a day that is so far away and out of reach. We push, we strive, we hate and drive, embracing tools to net that future day. In the end we waste our lives for that ideal missing on all the other things that could have been.


Amazing and overpowering, and thank you for the great illiteration, I love that shit. People always complain about when I do it but I think it drives home the point very nicely.




wow a very interesting poem, you have it all in this poem social commentary as seen through you eyes. social struggles, and also an introspective look within your self and if I understand also how you think the world may see you very well written