Friday, November 27, 2015


The icons were missing
Desperate for warmth 
entering into it the wet fur
posing as a cavernous lesson
for tucking oneself in
for the evening out of experience
blah blah blahing studded aftertaste
long in the abstract 
short in the specific
widening in the excuses
thinning in the reason
shaved for emptiness
close to the sand trap
inspiration turns to cursing
swearing up and down
and in and out
sweating with nothing tagged
barcodes deciphered into DNA
cramps blustering into soliloquies
wind passes through the branches
of flesh gathered into curved air
around corners rounded off
into blurred vision
transcending grammar as looks
as looks multiply into mathematical
hatred for this observer's points
numbed with lightheaded
avoidance of bent people above below
between the shits you take
that is how your life my life
is broken up into units of
defecation punctuated 
with the expelled unsaid
made with a lonely tongue
drying out under clouds
thickening with disgust 
He picks it up
paper wrinkled from neglect
forgotten scribbling hazards
of the mind's sharp turns
rollercoaster ramblings hunting
for the bark worse that the night
darkening every day with its fists
tumbling into broken necks 
stomachs burn with menus
seeing the table underneath
chalk tablets stencils pierce
the sky's belly as the back aches
with weariness routine allegations
of the exercises in disillusioned
frustration building up 
meditative congestion in
the here and now of pretending
to forgive acting like it means
something anything
wasted another smile
to cover a hole where the elephant in the room
recycled nature in murkier shades
of the broken down

- Max Stoltenberg 

Wednesday, November 18, 2015


Ripped shirt
business like any other
tie in the trash
morbid fecal cattiness
tepid drumstick chipping 
away at the smile
drying up stomachs
of care dripping with nausea
nasty naughty download
fingers tripping over ideas
trampling distraction
into the landscape

conveyed into the vanishing point
of the horizon's laminator
fuck tomorrow 
tomorrow fucks everything back

Toppled blocks of care
folded napkins
opened by gusts of death
gnawing at profiles
echoed back between
tongues hesitant now
hesitant still

boom and freeze
stick it to me
handling the chuckle
before it deems the needle
for drawing for taking
for withdrawing
for not exchanging
anything but the cause anything but the door
towards an analysis 
of progress hurtling us
forward to the place 
we want identify hide
that stuck menu
plastered with the clearing of our throats

- Max Stoltenberg