YOU CAN LIE TO ME

You can lie to me.  That’s okay.  I’ll probably figure it out and no one will really get hurt.  But you keep lying to yourself and that’s really an emotional and psychic cancer.  But like a portrait of Dorian Gray in the attic, you’ll keep the deterioration hidden from view.  You know the cancer is spreading but it isn’t visible so you can smile and I can pretend. And the pain and the depression continues and it deepens.  You refuse the surgery that can remove the tumor.  And the lies just get deeper but you’re only really fooling yourself and maybe some mindless social media followers who don’t care about your soul.

You can lie to me

but if you lie to yourself

the disease will spread

eating away the spirit

your internal organs first

Cannibalized Haibun: Schaefer, George: 9798416456573: Amazon.com: Books

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/prose/1083264

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN

I saw the best minds of my generation 

destroyed by blandness

MTV spoken word tour; sewn up vaginas;

dismembered penises, poetry slams

featuring dickless, cuntless verse

spewed by genderless eunuchs

all in the name of advancing pop culture

for lamebrained, gutless pansies

trying to rap out poems

to the underage audiences

running around pretending it’s deep

yeah, Henry Rollins,

16 year olds think you’re deep

but we falsify the nature of the beast

mindless infidels, staggering drunks

The feasts that were promise 

were never delivered by corporate—

yes, corporate MTV execs

pathetically trying to be hip

& failing miserably in the effort;

Timid poets pointing a finger at me

while I raise the finger at them;

All the yuppified, glorified culture

Jim Morrison wannabees and white boys

trying to rap like wiggas

without a clue about riddum

and the ever so sensitive—

ever so sensitive political correctness;

worrying about Bill and Hillary

or trying to eliminate sexuality

It’s all a crock of shit to me

Don’t have an alcoholic drink

make it water with a lemon twist

Try to create a giant rubber room

out of this glorious planet

so our Volvo’s and Saabs

can run freely in peaced

hide inside petty rhetoric

allow tv producers to think for us—

can’t actually expect us

to actually think for ourselves

figure out how not to offend

while pretending to be radical poets

those people cutting into my scheme;

but don’t think I don’t know it

only I admit it up front

that it’s 90% art, 10% pretense

or maybe the other way around

I just cling to my insanity

but it slips through my fingers

It, like sand beaches, is eroding

I am falling prey to the plague

but I try not to be defeated

try not to be like everyone else

It is a desperate, lonely plight

but not without its charms

as I keep the candle lit

and burn passionately through the night

determined to escape the fate

of albatrosses & other fallen angels

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1082993

5-7-95

CHOKE THE CHICKEN (AUTO-EROTIC ASPHYXIATION GONE HORRIBLY WRONG)

They found him

in a room in Thailand—

pants down, belt around neck

big smile on his face.

The prostitute in the room

sobbing and swearing

it was an accident.

Auto erotic asphyxiation

gone horribly wrong.

And then there are suicidal tendencies

and people hanging themselves.

But families lose the Ka-ching

if it’s suicide

so now we have lawsuits

claiming deceased loved ones

were really just perverts—

No intent to die

Just intent to cum

Auto erotic asphyxiation 

gone horribly wrong

But maybe we’re taking

our idioms and adages too far.

Maybe we need 

to drop “choke the chicken”

and bring back “spank the monkey”

There will still be

a lot of redness and swelling

but at least you’ll live

to recount your shame.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1071061

IRIDESCENT JEWELS

Iridescent jewels lay buried

deep within the soul

waiting to be excavated.

I struggle for

the pure stream of consciousness

as twisted ideas

rampage through my mind.

I recklessly splatter

and sprinkle words

across the page 

in mock rhythmic cadence.

It’s been suggested

in some circles

 that I am a poet.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1066478

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN: Schaefer, George: 9798449725561: Amazon.com: Books

THE BATMAN DREAM

I haven’t had

the Batman dream

in quite awhile.

That was always

my favorite recurring dream

in my early adult life.

The basic gist of the dream

is that I would be Batman

with uniform and Bat Cave and all.

Of course,

I wasn’t a very good Batman.

I was more interested

in making time with Catwoman

than preventing crime.

Then people ask the obvious:

Which Catwoman was it?

Was it Julie Newmar or Eartha Kitt

or Lee Merriweather or Michelle Pfieffer

or Anne Hathaway?

I’m truly a whore

because it always rotated 

among the different CatWomen.

All of them (including Haile Berry)

appeared in at least one dream

and truth be told

I’ve yet to select a favorite.

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1065749

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN: Schaefer, George: 9798449725561: Amazon.com: Books

MYSTIC BALLADS

Enchanted by

these mystic ballads

sung by princesses

who smoked Moroccan Hashish

and gave head to monks

dipped in Holy Water

as the soul is purified

in thoughts resounding in caverns

never heard to cackle

a harsh or untrue word

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/georgeschaefer/poem/1087216

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO DO POETRY AGAIN: Schaefer, George: 9798449725561: Amazon.com: Books

LOOKING FOR GOD IN THE ANACOSTIA RIVER

Fact is sometimes

stranger than fiction.

A case in point

is a recent Dead show

in Washington DC

I was partying up

in the legendary RFK parking lot

getting primed for the show.

I was talking to

a college girl

about the scene

and explaining how

it’s mainly just in fun

only a few of us

ever actually take it too far.

No sooner do I finish

my soliloquy 

than a guy goes running by

screaming at the top of his lungs:

“THERE IS A GOD ABOVE!!!

THERE IS A GOD ABOVE!!!”

and dives into the murky waters

of the Anacostia River.

and I’m standing there stunned

thinking, “Open mouth, Insert foot.”

at this amazing spectacle.

Now, I’ve drank excessively,

done all kinds of substances

both licit and illicit.

I’ve been fucked up drunk,

stoned, obnoxious, dosed,

zoned, dusted, zonked,

blasted, plastered, under the weather,

high, wasted, toasted, roasted, wired,

tripped up, smoked up;

I’ve puked, passed out, 

gotten sick, made others sick,

misbehaved, acted like an ass. . .

But in all the madness & chaos

it never once occurred to me

to look for God at the bottom

of the Anacostia River. 

6-7-95

https://www.postpoems.org/authors/fuche_bu/poem/1062033