Horse With One Big Ass Smile Plastered All Over Its Purple Petaled Pucker

by Darryl Price

Tired, so tired of it all, but oh we'll always go on, still carrying on about the love love love we shared, again and again. Ooh the oozing life blood is slowly, slowly,slowly,slowly going to shit I say, practically thawing and slipping and
sliding like a faraway saw into my fizzing ear canals right now and drizzling like chocolate wax into my world weary and worried eyes-- you can feel it carrying on inside your crazy disappearing shoe steps yourself if you listen, and

that means something is shaking it up all over the known weary world under the pretty sweaty covers tonight, shake it up, baby,
like there's no tomorrow anywhere in sight, somewhere though, maybe not right now in the act of these typing fingers.Yeah I know. Don't worry.I'll emerge eventually, probably

we all will until there's simply nothing left to crawl
out from under. Even that sounds way too fatalistic for the likes of me and my brain drain

to swallow down whole.I don't want to be in like with
a perfect goddess on somebody's holy fur-lined wall.That only leads

to jealousy and envy and false notions of granted immortality.
Someone will pull the trigger again and you'll all go down to

the river to rinse. I want to know right now,
whatever happened to our beautiful young friend named John , where'd he head off to? Where the heck's he gotten himself off to at this

very late moment in the roving night time's criminal visit? And I don't mean heaven or hell either. What
really happened to him? If love is just the physical

sensation then what's the use of dreaming? I know how
dumb that sounds. But what is this thing that's got

us all tangled up in its dick wad drama like
some kind of bowling ball made out of wire after crazy wrapped wire

after crazy wire wire wire wire?We're tightly packed in like centuries
of farming.We only grow what we are taught to

expect might grow and find as we wind our way on down the oncoming hill slide of the
next ride home. We fight but we don't ever get out

into the bright lights like our little begging insect hearts want us
to. We make due with every mistake we can think of and still

go nowhere new together like kings and queens of the
one and only earthly paradise should.There are great green moments in the viewing I guess.

There are real persons too who do lift their sunken heads and
say go ahead and take a good long look, it won't kill you. Go

ahead and dance around if you feel like it. Go
ahead and act crazier than shit if you must. You

just might get the attention of the next great big nothing. Sooner
or later we all rock and roll back over and go sound to sleep.

The blankets are a good enough reason to go to world
war III.But first let us feast our hoarded hopes on our fabulously laid out sweetly golden slumbers

another few hundred years or so. Whatever this is it can wait to happen to us again. And
if it won't then we'll tear the whole damned thing down

with our bare fingers, until what is left is only the
awful bloody stench of the last silence left on earth and then we'll start it up all over again like nothing ever happened in the first place. That's the scenario they

love to write into their awful droll movie scripts. But whenever I think
of your perfectly smooth foot curled up to the newest hour against my frozen leg I

know there's every good reason to get up and start
to heat whatever I can in the belly of the
nearest hatch-ling day. Of course they laugh their asses off and
say that's a good one,Darryl, you always could make us
laugh, but seriously you need to get out and get yourself
a real job.All I need to do is look

in no particular direction and jump, jump right in. I'll do
it, John. Me and my girl. Just like two gifts from the most ancient of gods themselves might, if they weren't so busy winking at each other with real and delirious delight. 

Bonus poems: looking at a rosebud

I Don't Know

how many more
times I can

see her without
falling in love.



There is nothing


here you could not expect anyone looking at it not

to see coming. Cold skinny trees

with their once proud leaves

only a wind polished buried memory

away from pure nakedness. Wish I could go

out into the street like that myself and

just blow away.

Maybe I will. I could you know. Anyone can.

Don't know. It's so hard to muster

anything more than a string of paper

skeletons these days. When I think of

all my few minutes I've got 

left to go, there's no better gift

I can think of that you haven't

already rejected right out of

hand. I can't

help it. The

lonesome poems still

jump out of my frayed pockets like

loose change through a hole, but I no longer care

what they might add up to

some day down the line. I say let them spill and 

roll. Let them eventually sink through

the ground like rotten old rubber toys.

Say you think it

feels cold in here? Oh yeah I almost

forgot you're standing

on the other 

safe and sound end

of these obviously pretentious letters I've mine.

You've made it to the

hillside without me. That's cool.You're cool.We're good.Good as gold.