j.p.undercroft

You're distracting me from you

2 notes

The Cryptic Communicay

The nymphs of the

crow’s garden

don’t remember how

to get out

- i don’t really either -

so they dance

and play

- maybe a couple of them are -

pretending to be

forbidden lovers

or spies

stowing poems with

poorly hidden messages

under

the loose patio brick.

Mr. Brick feels

violated

getting picked up

and set back in

wrong way round

- but thanks -

the gods because

he finally has a

- friend -

Filed under poem message in a bottle nymphs the secret garden crow communicay yes it's for you

0 notes

Think, and breathe

Think for a few moments,

before you hit “post”

"reply"

"send."

Think and fucking

b r e a t h e

because maybe

you don’t want to say that.

Maybe you misread what

she said.

And if you’re not sure,

just assume that Bambi’s

mother was right.

So take a breath.

Sniff a sniff,

smell a smell,

think a think,

and hit delete. Or at least

fix your typos.

2 notes

My House is So Full!

In my house there is leftover pizza

and cold beer.

In my house there aren’t many people

in the grey morning,

but many more come when it gets a little dark.

In my house you can be who you would like.

In my house everyone is welcome,

we even have a mat that says so.

In my house young men talk

about quarks and

about becoming famous

someday.

In my house there are

always cups and cans and crusts

lying about

the feet of sofas.

In my house we worship women

and wine

and dead writers

and ourselves

and a big poster of James Dean.

In my house I have a walk-in closet

that I walk through

to a secret realm

- a magical place -

where I have

my very own kingdom.

In my house I could keep you safe.

In my house I could feed you

homemade salsa

and dinosaur foot pancakes.

In my house we could be warm

and sweat

and put ice cubes on our heads

in the summer.

In my house we don’t like

anger

but we like to go on jolly rants.

We’re the jolly ranters.

In my house we a pro-happiness,

but if you need to sit

and have a good long cry

no one will stop you.

In my house I think someday we’ll

have a dog.

In my house we share a lot of things.

In my house there is love to spare.

In my house -

you are not in my house,

darling.

My house is very empty.

Filed under poetry poem personal

0 notes

Bobby, the boy branded best butt biter, bore a brown beard. Bobby beat a band of bastard brothers boasting being better butt biters. The brothers both bit blue bonneted Bonnie’s beautiful bum. Bonny Bonnie bled badly, but before blushing Bonnie’s blood brushed Bonnie’s boyfriend’s boner, Bobby bested both brothers by biting a big black bear’s bare bottom - breaking bits of bone.

1 note

seanharrahy:

I first blackened my teeth in the communion line.

A priest administered the first drop on my virgin tongue.

Now I strive to get closer to christ,

and replace my blood with wine.

They could never find the grail, 

the real holy chalice is a bottle of cheap red.

There is a tree in my garden that had grown

in a graveyard for a century. The bodies piled up,

so they uprooted it to make room for fresh dead.

There is no new way to talk about death. 

We first invented language to say

goodbye.

My blood alcohol content gets Me closer to god

than any Sundays.

 The Pope hasn’t gulpd this much blood. 

It takes me three days to rise from my hangover. 

By my hand there is light “clap on

clap clap, clap off.”

-Sean Harrahy

My roommate wrote this. Follow him.