Tag: prose

• 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.

  September 5, 2025

  embrace, hug, intense, juliet, love, love poem, poem, poetry, prose, prose poem, romeo, romeo and juliet alliteration, sex, sexual, squeeze, too much lol

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• Prose Poem 6

  Hello all,

  As promised, I am posting a second poem for this week. I have an alternative title for this called: “The Facetious Beseech Us” and I like that way better but I don’t want to sound too pretentious so I’m sticking with the original. I have been having the same thoughts over and over again about the lack of appreciation for consequences or empathy among so many people today, so I decided I’d write the poem below. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem, if you decide to read it.

  We Just Do What We Feel
  Inside us are just reactions, perspectives—good and evil are just feeble definitions of silly people, misguided and divided, therefore right from wrong cannot be decided so why would anyone worry about the immoral when we’re amoral, anything goes, so we’ll quarrel with the teacher, the preacher, yell at our son from the bleacher because our mood justifies being rude—we’re not deluded, not everyone is suited for the brave new world like us, not ready to eschew meaning for booze, fake news, and permanently disgruntled attitudes--we’re emotionally avaricious and just as vicious over the fictitious wrongs we’d never right but we obsess over the fight, even delight in the misery we wrought--but that’s just what we ought to do, our emotional bona fides are deep within our bones and it just feels right--yet, most won't realize our insincere sincerities downside: disingenuous genius has deceived us into believing Jesus was beneath us, instead, compassion for passion‘s sake is to be our only bastion because introspection’s now out of fashion—what is to consider when we’re brought up inconsiderate, illiterate, and generally full of it--rules and regulations in a confused nation are in need of arbitration, else you’ll feel the devastation of our terrible generation on the rise so say your goodbyes and greet your demise, we’ll see you on the other side.

  April 17, 2025

  apathy, consequences or the lack thereof, empathy, ethics, evil, facetious, good, life, morality, poem, poems, poetry, prose, prose poem, right and wrong, sarcastic, The title is a reference to the song In the Summertime, writing

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• Prose Poem 4

  Hello all,

  This is a poem I wrote when I was angry but tried to have a good spirit about it all. I think it’s a little funny. Let me know what you think, if you decide to read it.

  All the best,

  JCO

  An Asshat

  Fucking assholes, mine being the deepest—cavernous, really. Constantly constipated with hatred, like some cruel desire for expulsion when really it envelops, in its vacuum of all things nasty, the kind of shit that sticks so firmly it’s not worth peeling. I’ve got rounded walls of lesions that bleed and peak through my abscessed anus abused by suppositories my doctor prescribed. But the medicine isn’t killing the roundworms peeking from fleshy portholes too stretched to be called pores, oozing the same black filth I drool when I’ve lost attention. No, dewormers are something but listen, my rectum’s nearly killed ‘em, those little worms, with the occasional expulsions of will–movements which evacuate as if I’ve been burning, completely invaded by flames. Maybe, but I’d like to think I just run hot. Really, my colon’s collateral damage in these wars of consumption which stick in my gums and repeat the same tirades just a bit more tiredly than the last time. I take cyanide for the stomach pain but it only seems to make it worse, probably a carcinogen too, seems every drug is these days. I guess I just wish I didn’t have to wear my ass as a hat every time I went out, but I’d hate to make an ass of myself in front of everyone else’s.

  October 23, 2024

  asshat, Funny, idiot, ignorance, poem, prose, prose poem, Silly

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• Prose Poem 3

  Hello all,

  Here is the sister poem to “Identity in the Information Age”, the first poem I posted here. I like this poem a lot but feel it is entirely unapproachable. Please enjoy anyway and pretend this is as clever as the Cantos (which this is not). Let me know what you think, if you decide to read it.

  All the best,

  JCO

  Good Men Did Nothing, Edmund

  The misunderstood solipsism and the tacit acceptance of good-natured mistakes as fact is solecism of the highest order. The perverted altruism of social media is a fresh selfishness and the eggcorn of our truth; objectivity is obscenity and the misunderstanding of tolerance is Overton window voyeurism. Reality is retracted and replaced by the misplaced desire to belong, pages are for ages dedicated to the sage advice of neophytes constantly cosplaying competent cognitions. Really, it’s solecism and solipsism of the worst kind, convincing the masses while holding covert fasces like scare-crow straw-men offering a handshake. The social media mistake is the modern mosaic of middling men and women meddling with messages of (previously never-before-seen) mediocrity which is now never-to-be-unseen by the majority. The hitherto localized idiocracy has now been vocalized invariably; domestic disputes are open forums, every moron’s posting their 95 Theses to their walls for all to see. Children are championed for their innocence while wiseness is made insolence to silence the majority Nixon nudged and which has now been nixed. The prodigious professor’s sacrilegious poison of the ivory tower are political buzzwords legitimate only to the illiterate; they are happy to burn Burke and Hobbes—no one’s read Leviathan, and the Reflections on the French Revolution’s a faux pas. Self-destructive dedications to the immolations of reason are not noble, but the foibles of asinine altruism unable to understand selflessness is senselessness when unbound. In today’s Reign of Error, we are but one torchbearer from adding that one fearsome letter. 

  October 15, 2024

  And a little Robespierre for good measure, Edmund Burke, Martin Luther, Overton Window, poem, politics, prose, prose poem, social media, Thomas Hobbes

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• Prose Poem 2

  Hello all,

  Below you will find a prose poem that I wrote almost a year ago. This one is more approachable but it helps if you’ve read Raymond Carver and Richard Brautigan. I think they’re great and that this piece is fun. Let me know what you think, if you decide to read it.

  All the best,

  JCO

  Fishing to End the Sunny Days

  I hate fishing. Brautigan could have thought of another metaphor. Not all of us fish, you know. I’m no trout, never caught one. Though, a friend’s dad brought us out once. I caught a Sunny and in a flash its gills turned the white of my hands a muddy red. He said hold tight but that made it all the sharper, the breathing blades of that flash of life. Ray Carver’s problems postpone for fishing and I’m left reeling, more and more. Nowadays, fish won’t take the bait but I’ll bite the naked air, empty and unsatisfied as screams echo around the woods. The creek and I babble on, completely alone. I won’t fish, it will not reel me in because I’m hanging out to dry. The ripples and streams splash and steam an uneasy mist around my boots as I edge closer, until my echoes fade into the brush, near silent again. If only the creek would quiet, then perhaps I would know a singular peace. Yet as I cast the end of my line into the void, it echoes back again, my silence breaking with the light of day as the bubbling creek’s currents cease, drowned out.

  September 17, 2024

  brautigan, carver, fishing, poem, poetry, prose, raymond carver, richard brautigan

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• Prose Poem 1

  Hello all,

  Below you will find a prose poem that I wrote a few months ago. It’s a little dense but I hope that the rhyme and word play keeps it enjoyable. I am a very pessimistic person, as I am sure you will soon conclude. Let me know what you think, if you decide to read it.

  All the best,

  JCO

  Identity in the Information Age

  I am empathetic and this malapropping neologism propping up our zeitgeist is the destruction of the word: empathic. It is this perverted altruism of social media that is fresh selfishness and the eggcorn of our truth. Let me explain:

  Our absurdist obsession with identity is idolatry of the exemplary—holy highlight reels, innumerable influencers, and venerated vloggers are lord to our peasant present. The profligate propaganda of comparison breeds commiserate misery and mystery unto the self. Quiet contemplation is the contempt of the nation, bringing the defenestration of our individuation. In other words, the contagion culling confidence also swallows my self, satiated instead by an indulgence in others, an obsession with the inferior ulterior as if I’m motivating myself. That’s another eggcorn, as precedence is given always to perusing people’s postings rather than pulling myself together. Outsourced introspection is obtuse, an amorphous amalgamation of others’ desperation and their insinuation of decency when they are deceitfully lying to me.  Personality blurs by the monitor, its black reflection obscures, and manifests a destiny deadened and desperate for introspection, yet I never learn my lesson; I am empathetic and understand nothing, least of all myself. 
  

  August 28, 2024

  commentary, critique, poem, poetry, prose, prose poem, social media

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