I wrote this and have not edited it. I have not posted much even though I have hundreds of poems unpublished here. I suppose you could say that I've been busy but I guess it's more unwell. I liked this poem even though it's all out of whack. Anyway, let me know what you think if you decide to read it.
I Am the People Simulator
Emulating humanity and fooling myself to sanity,
Thinking I was a sympathetic soul when I'm
Phrenetic, just soiled, roiled up, empathetic—
Like some sympathy sickness, all fidgety
Waiting for the other shoe to wear
But when I'm clad, in your clothes, I’m glad—
Even if you are sad there is sense in your
Sense such that I will drink in like a potion,
A concoction of antitoxin, my blood breathes
In your veins as I take the reigns—you
Sustain me and I can't help but drain the
Meaning, the dreaming, from your mind, kind
Of theming my thoughts into little snapshots:
Purpose, joy, love, hatred, until I have an inflated
Sense of you, a cognitive dissonance of
Undeniable resonance, a personal irrelevance
That is justified evidence that I am not who I should be—
But when I am you, and I've stolen your view,
Your valor, and your value, this I shall use
As the basis of my baseless homeostasis—
A sad sack of flesh fleshing you out,
Empathetic, sympathy sick, sucking out
The blood until I flood my veins with you,
Until I am drunk and you are dead or have shrunk
Back from yourself and lack the legitimacy of
Emotional intimacy because it belongs to both of
Us, the whole of us, the goal of us—you and me—
Will be completely one because I will have already won,
No longer sick and mixed up but fixed up—fixed on you.
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Verse Poem 24
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Verse Poem 23
This morning there was a regime change. This year is the 2026 Midterm Election in United States of America. In the spirit of democracy and absolute insanity, here’s a poem to inaugurate 2026. Anyway, let me know what you think if you decide to read it.
This is an Election Year
And you’ve gone crazy, forgetting
saints and forgiving demons,
resurrecting legions of liars
then watching frothing mouths
start stampedes in Gadsden
while bucking the flag—those
asses and elephants make
flagrant faux-pas as they rule
and rue our days, turning us
unto ourselves as Brutus;
our Ides of March are the march of
idles worshiping idols—
we are the greatest of all
American assassinations,
the theatrically suicidal
society stabbing itself
and claiming victory while
bleeding red white and blue—
this is an election year,
and honesty’s taboo, riots
aren’t new, we don’t know what’s
true, yet the Republic rests
on you.
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Verse Poem 22
To hell with sequence, I say! My wife had surgery recently and it tore me apart–she is totally fine but my OCD was absolutely insane, hence the delay. So, I wrote this poem while in a very strange mood and it doesn’t sound like anything typical. I will try to post something more “typical” next week, but, as I said, to hell with sequence!, so who knows? Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem if you decide to read it.
I Crave a Nest in the Wall
Burrowed within the softest fiberglass,
Surrounded by newspaper, yarn scraps,
And twigs as fine as string, nestled as a
Singing bowl of my silence, echoing
Only the ringing in my ears, what’s left
Of conversations in the past life:
Piercing, stinging, prodding—just
A background buzzing reminder
That my life remains, yet, subdued,
Warmed, cocooned, now close to you.
I would watch you stare at our wall, alone,
Comforted by mutual loneliness—
The fact of our lives, intertwined and
Untouchable—my feeling for you will remain
Ethereal, even as you demystify yourself
In the mundane, becoming naked and
More beautiful than I have words for,
And when you dress, I will have nothing
But the lies you give to your friends,
And family, whatever is left of them.
When you are gone, I will collect
The fragments of your soul, trinkets
You will have forgotten, been unmarried to;
Ribbons, flecks of food, flaxen locks,
While whispering my warding mantra
I will take selfishly but selflessly enough
That I was never there, just invisible feet which
Cannot wake the dog; I undisturb your
Dwelling, telling the echoing walls all
The secrets you've hidden from yourself.
I will know when you return from work
And will be excited not to kiss you
But love you all the more as you undress,
Destress, and express an honesty which
We both were ignorant of before this day—
I will chitter in the walls with excitement
But I know you'll call an exterminator
If you were to find me, so I lay upon my nest
Of your unmissed things and watch,
Waiting for you to forget about me—
So that we can both co-exist in peace.
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Verse Poem 21
I’m breaking sequence again but I had this sort revelation of perception recently. I’ve known this is true for sometime but something just sort of clicked during this conversation about the many perceptions of life and how different it can be with versus without mental illness. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem if you decide to read it.
Good News!
Have you been informed that not everyone
Cries for 4 hours at a time, that it is somewhat atypical
To be paralyzed in the prone position for 13 hours,
To fall asleep, spend another 14 hours fetally, feebly,
And weepily grinding your soul to its core through
Death threats (as suicidal ideation and idealization),
To feel the affirmation of guilt that all you’ve built, loved, and
Been loved by will cry, if you were to die, so you don’t die,
But hope that’s somehow a lie and stay lying down until
You go to work on Monday and smile and laugh,
Love and desire, feel empathy, and aspire, all while
You conspire to hide how desperately depressed you are--
That it’s actually not normal to not accept sympathy because you
Seem a symphony of perfection and production, not self-
Destruction, but a modicum of a man, coworker, boss, friend,
Yet feel a fiend and later scream out your self-esteem until
Your throat is numb, driving and barely deciding not to hear
The call of the void chiding you, confiding in you, dividing you,
Yet you take the exit not the tree at 124 mph knowing that
The same sweat-soaked, yellowed sheet and mattress
Will be the same ones you cry yourself to sleep in
Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, forever--
Did you know that not everyone does that?
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Verse Poem 19
Hello all,
This is the next of the sequence of 5 poems I like. I wrote this after getting too drunk but, luckily, I did not suffer quite as terribly as the subject of this–quite intense–poem. Anyway, let me know what you think if you decide to read it.
Best,
JCO
B.A.C or Blood Alcohol Conflict
I’m a puddle of blood scabbed pale,
An erected defect of dogpiling flesh,
Muscle, and bone--a biology of bile,
Spit, and shit laying in the aisle, leaking sex
And fumigating pheromones wet to the touch;
I’m a moistened madness of heavy breasts,
Dark desire—feverish, with a fire inside,
A fading red-hot coal lump barrumping on,
Thumping, humping, hoping to fill ethylated veins
Feigning life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,
Pumping a sappy mess through spidered flesh
Which bursts as boils fresh on a face pocked by
Pustules picked and plucked--totally fucked--
A metabolic cholic frolics about my gut,
Discharging discharge in a deluge—
My drunken delusion this was some sort of
Solution is now my dissolution,
As saturated blood is supersaturated,
And as my life is evaporated:
Inebriated, I aspirate until
Asphyxiated, still completely
fixated on anything
else.
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Prose Poem 7
Hello all,
I wrote a bunch of really gross and disturbing poems recently and I’m really a very big fan of all of them, which is unusual. Typically, I am very critical of my own work and only like 1 poem of every 10 but I like all 5 I wrote in the last month or so. This is the only prose poem and probably the most intensely sexual (and I think a little silly too), so this one is sort of unique. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem if you decide to read it.
Best,
JCO
I Think I Love You
I want to squeeze you until you squelch and squeal, squeak inhuman biology from your squishy anatomy, suffocate those breasts with my suctioned zeal, hear the veiny surround sound of swishing Capulet platelets, the blood of my Montague-y fascination, our gooey manifestation--I want my nostrils streaming, squishing, squelching into your supple sternum, cracking under pressure, until my embrace destroys my face, your spine squeegees like a towel twisted as my fisted fingers, laced, crush closer to my face, and then at last I hear your deathly embrace as there is no space left between us.
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Verse Poem 18
Hello all,
I got married, went on my honey moon, and spent a lovely summer with my wife. That’s why I have not been posting at all the last 2 months–but I am happy to get back into it. I wrote several poems in the last few months and edited a few short stories I’m working on but I decided to post something a little different. This is a poem I wrote in high school or very early on in college about a regretful marriage and I post it now because I feel the complete, absolute opposite sentiment of this poem, thank God. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem if you decide to read it.
Best,
JCO
Eternal Regret
With breath the smell of fresh-laid dung,
A loving kiss I grant resistant;
While charming is her serpent tongue,
I often wish it keeps quite distant;
A face of green, and boiled strewn,
She leaks and reeks but all to often;
And in the silver gleaming moon,
I dream, I dream, she finds a coffin;
I know, I know she troubles so,
With that wretched hair and putrid stare,
That widdle-waddle of a sow,
But yes, you’re right, my cross to bear:
Her presence will always linger
For I put the ring on her finger.
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Verse Poem 17
Hello all,
I get married this weekend, which is very exciting, so here is a little poem I wrote about a bird I saw in my backyard before it flew away. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem, if you decide to read it.
Best,
JCO
Ruffled Feathers
The yellow yolk eyed
Ink blot black bird has
Spectacular specular
Reflection (misdirection
Of light) shining bright—
Its tail and torso
Caped by a more-so blue nape;
Its head a dream of purple
Sheened plumage pristine,
This branch perched beaute beams—
Until the ink blot bruises
And fuses black with blue breast,
Hemorrhaging its chest
Screeching a request
Unknown, and chirping, flies off.
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Verse Poem 16
Hello all,
Back to regular verse poetry with a fairly intense one that maybe will ruffle some feathers. This is a strange and sort of taboo topic but I think I love to center my poetry around degeneracy, so this seemed perfect. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem, if you decide to read it.
Best,
JCO
Only Fans Organism
I am covered in viscous desire,
Again, under a pool of my own mire,
Like an oil fire floating at sea, slippery,
As it lies there on this belly of a liar
Vying for self control—I cannot console
Myself, can’t scratch that itch except to bankroll
The witch that cast this curse on my flesh and purse—
Her Only Fans hurts--fanning the flattering flames
Of her by splattering on myself, yet the
Battering by my fist cannot extinguish
The desire, and I languish over that same ire,
The inextinguishable fire which burns for soothe,
But within this masturbatory booth of ignorant youth,
I find our purgatory and collective truth:
We are all stuck in this fucking muck, shlucking but
Never fucking and awe-struck by those running amok,
Selling sin to those within while they’re without,
Not experiencing drought while we black out
To them getting blown out until we come to,
Tissue the residue and revert, unable
To refrain—we strain and strain, yet: they remain.
Jogging the Mind 