Who Shaves the Barber.

Then the paradox is solved.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

They Hatch // Sina Glass

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Lieutenant.

You stood before the bed and she was laughing, still you pushed her hard, she stumbled it matches your sick drill That was when she stopped laughing you also noticed me it was her who said sorry that’s how it’ll always be (no)

[classic-art]

Stapleton Park, near Pontefract

John Atkinson Grimshaw

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Salinger’s Diary.

I raise my glass to Zooey and to Franny, too I ponder over Seymour and also over Boo (Boo) I am no man of honour that’s why I thought: the clue is I invent a family      what loneliness can do.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Blowing Bukowski.

Ain’t it true that poetry’s supposed to move you, lustfully but when I write, cannot forget: Bukowski never made me wet.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Santa Fe.

Take me in my winter coat to the bricks behind the fence and where there once was virgin snow - where are the snows of yesterday how sweet, so sweet the moonlight and the trail to Santa Fe.

[igormag]

Isaak Brodsky (1884 [O.S. 1883] -1939), Fallen Leaves, 1915.

oil on canvas

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Babushka.

I’d love to be a Russian doll just sitting on a stove complain all day and drink all night and fight and fight and fight.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Poem to Dorothy P.

My muscles they are strong and tender forcing you: surprised the lines to my vagina no longer demonised my nipples hard and pointy when I go down on you and when I light a cigarette I do it for me, too (mother) No longer I impress you ‘cause others love me so and if you treat me horribly I do know where to go.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Rustle of Sheets.

Oh when you laugh I feel all cheesy shameful for the kitsch your unique way of telling stories but most of all your wit I love your eyelids: soft, transparent your honesty in moaning I kiss you blithely when you leave and also in the morning.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Beeswax.

I know who I am, now I am not attached I attach myself bury my tongue in your naked lap.

[catonhottinroof-deactivated2023]

Yuli Yulievich Klever (1850-1924) and studio

In the depth of a pine forest 

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Laid to rest.

she may have liked the quiet more than the overture but then again the overture fades.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Murder Me, Eva.

I scraped the insides of her medulla spinalis out out, with a spoon for pure medical reason I consider brewing treason in the oven grandma’s pie There you go and me, I’ve been already for long, but not so long I kept your eyelashes I am not sick I kept them with my plastic dick.

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

Like Flowers at Last.

And oh he prayed to Him alone they found him by a cornerstone and right behind his nasal bone (they found) a rivulet of blood some say that it’s a lauded land fine needles they still push and yank ohgod, ohgod, ohgod.

[hellfreeway]

“The Breakfast Tray” by Elizabeth Okie Paxton, 1910

[theparadoxisuseless-blog]

A Romance.

He emptied himself out and what was left was ash he crumbled, just a minute I took him to the trash His warming ash still quivered but the fireplace was blocked the wooden stake plugged through me and someone knocked, they knocked.