Author Archives: Chado

Ezra Pounded

While my hair was still dyed purple and cut way too short
Played I about the front gate, pulling peonies.
You zipped by on a unicycle, playing Mah-jong in drag,
You admired my seat, playing with my blue plums.
And Googled images of the village Chokan:
Two small people, wearing Mussolini hats.
At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being oriental.
Lowering my hoodie I looked at some porn.
Clicked a thousand times, I never looked up.
At fifteen I started howling,
I desired my bean-curd to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the hell out?
At sixteen you farted,
You blew into fat Ku-to-yen, by the rivers of Eddie Van Halen,
And you have been gone five minutes.
By the gate now, the guitar solo is over,
Too deep to blow their noses!
The leaves fall early in autumn, book weekday flight
Paired butterflies are already high
smoking legal marijuana in the West Garden;
They hurt me. I grow a third ear.
If you are bloating through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please row hard, Ezra,
And I will swim out to bludgeon you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa
With some Ma-po-tofu.

 

Inspired by RIHAKU !

Breaking Poetry News Update !!!


URGENT NEWS  for my 5 regular readers:

I am guilty of taking the easy way out of poetry-blogging.

Yes, lyrical brothers and sisters, I have committed online crimes. I have posted any random video found to be amusing or relevant instead of being TRUE to my VERSE.
BitChutes and YouTubes have been impulsively embedded here at ConnectHook, instead of opening the splendorous portals of Poetry for my loyal readers to enter. I have not self-promoted sufficiently. Instead, I have veered off into culture warring, esthetic/political provocation, and endless agit-prop. Oh sweet muse, long suffering mentor, matrix and moonbeam-milker, FORGIVE ME. Withdraw not the sweet rivulets and gushing springs of your lyric inspiration. Pour out upon my readers, from the crystal pitcher of your pure poetic sources, a life-giving stream of living waters. Cast out the demons of boring modernist free-verse and incoherent identity-politics drivel. Long-suffering muse of mine, restore us one and all back to POETRY— the only reason to live and to love, the only antidote to an unfunny clownworld hell-bent on self-destruction. Remember not my poetic sins, oh faithful lover of my soul— be merciful unto me, dear lady of lyrical laughter and light.

SPRAY THEM with poetry oh muse;
MOW them DOWN with the Gatling-gun of your golden graces.

…cause itz ALL about tha POETRY, y’all.