Archive for the ‘William Merricle’ Category

By William Merricle

I’d forgotten fantasizing
about swimming 3 miles
into your blooming arms
whilst chained to an iron bed
on which Romiette and Julio
were pushin’ bony couplets
and simultaneously cheering
my progress with megaphones
strapped to their heads

Read Full Post »

mean / while

By William Merricle

one handful of
keep your distance,
swallowed bees,

little dreams,
death row insoles,

fun, fun, fun,
turn, turn, turn,
turtles all the way,

tail of the universe,
twist of perfection,
bag of cold,

fallow year,
memory graft,
digital infestation,

hairstyles, grocery aisles,
meanwhile, slurp,
rend asunder,

the boo-hoo skies,
joint began to shake,
in the highest limbs,

some called it a miracle,
snick, snick, snick,
all we had to do was reach

Read Full Post »

By William Merricle

Surgery once started must be completed.
The probability is 97.73% of playing into the devil’s hands.
Unresolved is not so terrible.
The autopsy showed top management potential.
The time machine’s been discontinued for lack of interest.

Serenity is the diameter of a single breath.
You’d think we’d have been punished by now.
The perfect world must die to be perfect.
Morning rubs her half-opened thighs.
We’re lined up; each of us has to tell a joke, and I don’t have one.

Read Full Post »

All Poems Are Failures

By William Merricle

Just one of your pussy atoms
Could make god stupid.
Don’t think of this as goodbye.

I once read a proverb that said
Everyone has three hearts.
Someone else must have six.

I have no idea
How to fill this space.

Read Full Post »

By William Merricle

He’d been snorting plant fertilizer
and ground up lightbulbs
again, and his head looked like
a scrofulant cantaloupe,
but when Tommy licked his
dried-up chops and belched,
“Write this shit down,”
I knew it was time to drop my dildo
and fire up the notebook.
“Versify this motherfucker,” he croaked.

You know
more than you think.
Yes, that is snow
at the gates of hell.

I lost my lava lamp
and the next morning
there was a cake
of pumice soap
under my pillow.

Hope’s ass
wriggles like a shrimp
in a moray eel’s mouth.

Her legs are erector sets,
but I’m too tired to care.

I feel my lids falling,
but there’s a clock in the sky
that delivers a left to the mind
and a right to the third eye

In earth’s infancy,
clouds formed for protection.
Now, they take shape out of shame.

A smirk lurked
in Moses’ soul.
He ended up working
in the entropy mines,
digging alternative rock
salt too cool to melt.

The idea
of an idea
can be expressed
only metaphorically.

When it’s time
to come up
with the answer,
the best thing to do
is forget the question.

I once
decapitated a fly
with the snap of a towel.
We both just kept on walking.

Cynicism gurgles
like a van full of plasma
infected from
the beginning of time.

Despair smacks
his lips, sighs of love,
and dreams of fistulas.

If the cold deepens,
we can always
set each other on fire.

Innocence threw itself
across the barbed wire
on the beaches of Bethlehem.

You can still see
the scars encircling
its spindly spine.

My next tattoo
is gonna be a snake, a raven,
the Pluto symbol,

“Never Explain, Never Complain”
in Sanskrit, an Ankh,
the infinity symbol, a cat,
the Ace of Cups,

and “Semper Fi” in goth script.
And a rose done William Blake style.

And a howler monkey
in clown shoes
wielding a caulk gun full of cheese.

Read Full Post »

By William Merricle

Evidence piles up with great cruelty.
Anarchy raises its stern hand.
Stupid is as stupid does.

Nothing can replace the romance of being
Alternately limp with exhaustion
And rigid with rage.

Once we snuck into a walled garden
And communed and moaned
And laughed illegally.

Now the smile on your face is a feast
But my inner reverend/nutritionist
Will not permit me to partake.

Someone yells, “Way to go, dumbshit!”
We turn and see the face of god
Contemplating suicide

Read Full Post »

Be My Baby

By William Merricle

The governor’s head is swollen
From hiking the Appalachian Trail
It’s the same shade as that big purple fetus
Painted on the side of the barn along Route 65
Whose umbilical cord looks like
The scythe of the Grim Reaper

Read Full Post »

By William Merricle

Philosophy teaches you that right
now, your heart is doing pushups
on its fingertips, in a puddle of piss,
a-sinnin’ and a-grinnin’.

Grace took me on a tour of hell
to see how much it had changed
since the last time I’d been there.
It hadn’t.

Read Full Post »

By William Merricle

Chris hunkers
over the crustable,
reads acapella his
Manifesto Pour Lovers
Avec Baseball Bats,
holds his cupless coffee
between his thighs,
mutters how
the slurry of the abyss is
garnished with baby’s breath,
the stars are united
by rusty chains and runny noses,
and the shattered lord is
amongst us right here, right
now in this Kafkaesque
white castle of death.
Finished, he resumes
nuzzling the donut
he has named

Read Full Post »