Poetry



Tuesday, July 6th, 2010


weezy lead head
evan lee ward


Has been digging
Failed in business
Low deep weezing
All day sleeping
Tongue done tasted
copper teeth jaded
Life falsified
declared unsatisfied
Clinches teeth
Closes eyes
Squeezes out
a messy goodbye
When he goes
he will sing out
through his holes
what he knows
Thats his head
full of lead
No more said
Tenets call for help
Medics sell their response
Decried as his head
falls apart
So they leave him
on his knees then
wave bye out the door

 

*****

 

The head is closer to the sun than the foot
evan lee ward


Survive to die
Die to survive
Beings of all collaspse and grow anew.
Seasonal changes bear the burden of witness
within the curfew, junctioned to be.
Now knows not knew.
The mountains stand,
the rivers flow,
bellies are empty,
bowls are full.
This is our inheritance;
to stand as the bull with his horns of power,
confined in the pen of his master.
Reflections present the infinite loop,
uncovering the fruit we so desire to place back upon the tree.
Deliver us from knowledge oh tormentous memory!
We have suffered so much to strive for so little!

 

*****

 

Tuesday, May 18th, 2010


drippings from the inner beat heat
evan lee ward


nightime thumbs catch attention.
with a glance over, tires grate against the curb.
an armani wearing yuppie and his whore to be
climb onto the dark leather seat just cleaned.
off toward the upper east side sailing between lanes,
riding high whilst a sigh floats through the night in waves.
fast paces between acceleration and slowing momentum they play
the suit and his lay, the driver with his pay.
babbling lunatics begin to grunt in unison,
paranoia filaments seep within thoughts of desire.
each one, the same, searching for that moment
as they slowly descend further into the night.
one master, two serfs.
within thought the driver therfs:
"null is fair in the occidental pursuit of hegemony.
this lust is a paradigm
of the self-imposed sanctions against transcendence,
but who needs enlightenment when you have pheromones to inhale."
the driver lowers the rear view with one hand
rubs his cock with the other.
moaning besieges all three
echoing from one another.
the whore screams over them further:
"the eye peers in every direction, into every orifice.
fill me until i am full of this."
she points at two fingers
slowly serparting them revealing a string of precum.
the suit proclaims:
"This is my power, this is my meal, on through the night upon your squeal."
climatic lights take hold of the passengers.
as if from some divine cue, all three release together.
a stop, a farewell, to forswear this smell;
the yuppie pushes 2 benjamins into the seedy seat.
quickly gone as quickly came
the driver reaches in the back
claims his aim,
wipes away the verity
and pockets the memory.
this money, this smell
this smell of decent
this smell of perpetual perdition.
the driver knows no difference.
onwards he shall heave no omission.

 

*****

evan lee ward is a vessel used to interact with whatever the hell all of this is, through means such as: servitude, acknowledgment, instructing, destructing, creating, co-mingling diorama, fornicating, defecating, linguistical interpretation, constant masturbation, and the haves, have nots and so forth. He often identifies himself as a continuation of Priapus, minus the size. He didn't pursue writing until realizing at an extremely young age that he couldn't smite people for pissing him off while avoiding the penal system, so he uses this medium among others to vent elation, anger, lust, bewilderment, jealously, lethargy, vulnerability and the other emotions/states that plague or benefit humanity. His son Corvan, continues to serve him as a proud inspiration to transcend the common nonsense of everyday life. He doesn't wish to add his ventures, successes, and failures in this bio; for doing so would only lower him to a status with other morons who through their insatiable appetite for an out of control ego promote such ludicrous feats.

*****

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