what ya on about ?
you're changing like the weather
and i need firm ground

were not a lot of
these haiku death poems as
samurai's last words?

the pocket call with
garbled voices over cell
crackle frack flick flum

Men who fuck chickens
are known as chicken-fuckers.
Doth Sayeth The Lord.

-1st Corinthians 3:3... or something.

take my word for it
a life of constant surprise
is pretty tiring

a prolapsed navel
umbilical hernia
weight lifting malaise

Dead dried frog in street.
Frisbee for Philippine kids.
And jerky for lunch.

well between spambots
viagra ads and so on
get to haiku foks...

even if this pleases the dadaist
in me

tamil and camel
smoked a major, hello
from maine, rewind time

sleep well

on bed sex well done

just for dreams

moon less sky

frog sing again a sound

a dark

my haiku is not

5-7-5 so what?

search google

moon raped

with black clouds

a rain kiss

love fuck again

in my heart with hot

on the bed

a wall Clock

afternoon 12 hours

thorns body relation

open sky bed

sun and moon sleep

singing stars

so sun hot

summer want too cool

go sun welcome moon

other vise search

again you and yours

body only nude

another outrage
and the signs of the times bear
witness to humans

and another day
turns into another day
like those before it

The hotel had a
Tacky 60's Las Vegas
Sun dried charm to it

sun oil and towel
swipe the badge to your fave beach
summer as usual

I like it darth, I
like it I love it...

fuck it it's summer
and the outhouses are out
shit in summer fun

mind irresolute
body irredeemable
soul behind velvet

Disgusting toilet.
Overflowing filth bucket.
Mosquito heaven.

I understand how
you feel, I'd like some firm earth
to stand on as well

well it's summer and
stormy sometimes, and then it's
quite sunny so shrug!

what ya on about ?
you're changing like the weather
and i need firm ground

yummy, water up
your ass and a dead chicken
in a shell, good stuff

Dog stew with carrots!
I'm now in the Philippines.
And there's no TP.

TP is water.
Splashed up under your asshole.
Poured down your back side.

Balot egg for lunch.
A hard-boiled abortion.
Google balot egg.

people who write are
driven by ego, talent
all too human, and

only the words speak when
we are passed away, echoes
of who we once were

history shows the
ruins of man's past living
foundations outside

re runs of rock vids
queen ties the screen brian may's
guitar was home made

old painting from the
90s, 8 bucks at goodwill
who is the artist?

years of hoarding builds
obsolete items and trash
yard sales soon follow

the pocket call with
garbled voices over cell
crackle frack flick flum

a silent website
not quite 404 the world
overconnected

at the drive thru a
bit of sarcasm gets a
cold look from a flip

as we become old
more reactionary is
what we lose bad, good?

well at least that got
five or six haikus out of
you, desert wine?

disregard the guard
batter all bastions blindly
exalt in tumult

repetition mine
like the rhythm of your time
mine a gentler clime

hierarchy of needs
number one is fun, my son
a sine qua non

my primary aim
alleviate this ass itch
noble pursuits lost

my Important work!
I cleanse the system for us
who are we, shit soak?

all hackers assholes
under cloak of purity
leave my asshole reamed

fuck you adobe
and your fucking flash updates
i'll read cave paintings

were not a lot of
these haiku death poems as
samurai's last words?

and my dear sir, what
if it was good writing you
are calling not good

people can't conform
to my wishes or yours so
so...come as you are

writing classes are
full of egos, petty, vain
visonary, but they're

fucking classes, with
human beings like lush here
drinking himself down?

so compliment, you
are fucked, compete for scraps of
what, recognition?