The Web Poetry Corner

Karl Vincent Langstramm

of

Portland, OR, US

Home Authors Alphabetically Authors Date Submitted Authors Country Submission Rules Feedback

Portlandia as 1 Man has known Her

If you have comments or suggestions for Karl Vincent Langstramm, you can contact him or her at:
spiroknavenine@yahoo.com (Karl Vincent Langstramm)

Find a book store near you, no matter where you are located in the U.S.A.!

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

Portlandia as 1 Man has known Her

by

Karl Vincent Langstramm

as the summer solstice pagan fertility parade comes faster
then it went ---
for the coveted rose
with all too many thorns

for any loving suitor

gone, gone, gone INTO HEAT ---
sold out to the highest bidder
a proud fellatio giver
to Joe Camel
20 times a day
Lamenting and
sorrowing at
her choice
in the oldest most reliable profession
she could ever choose:
asks:
"who are you dying for?"
"WHO ARE YOU DYING FOR!!!?"

all the while I can’t help asking:
who are you living for?
who the fuck are you living for you?
YOU FUCKING WHORE?

I’ve seen the misty crisp cool clean Avalon of ancient primeval west coast forests
reduced to a piss cold clammy damp basin
of unspoken human made misery
here in this world where I stood
and lived for over 25 years.

I’ve dined on your shadow of ephemeral surreal lush primeval beauty
I’ve seen the Willamette river swollen with your shit
That’s no better than anyone else’s.

I’ve tasted the pathetic descendents of chinook salmon -
fat and controlled, inbred,
from a fish hatchery.
I’ve seen your human made underrated pain
and overrated pleasure ---
pouring and festering mildew on your hastily built particle board apartments and suburban sprawl
doing everything in your power to show
No one should ever be content
with little

Everyone should covet vanities
and never be satisfied

I’ve seen the ménage à trios threesome idealism of this town.
I’ve seen your alabaster idol of a dick-less castrated man held in the center of an invisible tug’o’war leash by bitch-dykes down on 5th street between Salmon and Taylor.
You know the ones. Each vying to sodomize him with their double dong
strap-on --- again and again.

I’ve seen you do a little sandwich action and be doubly penetrated by butt pirates poets such as Ginsberg and Burroughs vying for your backdoor pass when they weren’t busy fucking each other.

I’ve seen your hip little café’s and just about every little avant-Garde Bohemian granola joint cafes all never anymore than feeding troughs for the confused college kids
with rich parents.

I’ve seen this all little Miss Meritorious school girl and all your Peter Pan
drag King idealism and conceit to show up everything
some dickhead does only better
--- as you play every dorky dumbass
beast of aburden
and mr. breadwinner
like a fiddle for total control over the soul of every child
you can spew and slither out of your pussy.

Portlandia -- I’m The Gray little dingy twerp Daddy told you shun and ostracize ----
I’M THE ONE who defiantly pours Elmer’s glue inside your desk we shared in 4th grade
as though it was my preternatural precocious puddle of cum

- that you writhe in horror will one day inseminate your gilded twat.
I’M THE ONE IN a dark navy blue sweater and --- a hybrid of
a savage kraut U-Boat captain blasting Beethoven’s 9th in my head
with mix matched eyes
one of a fiery blue mountain Hun
and the other
of a black beady
southwest American Indian bitch punk

I’m the sleeper biding his time,
waiting out the storm,

lying flat on his back in solitude to the
omnipresent deep blue blasting
immersed and purified
in oceans on some jovian planet
in a galaxy far, far, away
caressed by the piano keys that chimes my hibernation
--- like a vampire roosting pleasantly.
Wanting the music to never end and when the music’s over
The nightmare lyrics of that song
by The Doors of the same name
Intone my conscience
again and again:

What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered
And ripped her
And bit her
Stuck her with knives
In the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences
And dragged her down

SYBIL S-Y-B-I-L

the pseudonym for Shirley Ardell Mason

is a fairy God sister to me

seducing me again and again
to her demands
that I avenge
with total raw condemnation
everyone in her way
reaching out in hope of vigilante glory and ecstasy
possessed by her spirit
from the pit of child torture and despair
And spinning into a dozen and five personalities
Biding time in solitude
Hacking away with words
Laughing hysterically and listening intently at every
Perverse raunchy Phil Hendrie sketch

Especially where Phil mocks every dingbat hen
And every jackass cock
Who’d ever dare chirp, cackle, and crow
about
why it is that
I’M THE WRETCH?
Why it is that
I’M THE CREEP?
Why it is that
I’M THE WEIRDO ?
Why it is that

I’M THE LOST PUPPY DOG?

I hear Sybil as a siren a
at night pleading to crush every oppressor
of the fragile and tender.

For what blissfully ignorant ungrateful
conceited
stuck up
privileged talent
born with a silver spoon up it’s ass
and it’s feet in the doorway
could ever match the refined beauty of the rogue
with rebellious underdog conviction vomiting up
horrible colorful rainbow bile
on your fluffly white shotgun
wedding dress?

as he casts forth his sinister smile
leering and mesmerizing
like Hannibal Lector
& Rasputin the Horny mad monk
Around and around we go
spinning in spirals
around and around in confusion
and enlightenment
who to emulate and
which untouchable talents to taste
and pretend we’ll achieve,
as I see time and again
PEOPLE
FUCKING people
people
so Goddamn
impossible to please
for any promise of
any real appreciation
any time soon enough
enough!!!
Enough spoon feeding with one hand
and backstabbing with the other
I sneer and snicker and explode with a maniacal grin
And diabolical chuckle
with a mission
like Jack Nicholson rising from the ashes of the
Cuckoo’s nest
as a Phoenix
wielding the lance of Longinus
on a vengeful hunt to impale
every nurse ratchet
every dabbling new age nutcase witch
every semblance of the
old world sadistic pecking power
Vlad Tepes’
style
skewered from top orifice to bottom orifice disemboweled and left to die slow and painful
posted high on stakes
from the depths of every psychiatric ward

in every hospital
where every sadistic bondage act
was ever committed
as markers
along every road, street, bridge, and highway
in PDX
to the summits of Council Crest and Mount Tabor
with
every corpulent greedy fucker
every human
pig after pig
cow after cow
nabob after nabob
whose demagogue boastful traps
can be stuffed with apples
and their corpses roasted on a spit
and left for the dogs to feast
Portlandia you evil bitch
you know nothing about walking in my shoes
You snobby painted gringa
who judges me by
your 28 different pairs
For each day of
your deranged
fertility calendar
of some variation of either
clacking stiletto Cinderella slippers
or Kansas school girl goody 2-shoe LIES!!!
there’s no way
I’d ever wear them
Let alone tap them
and take me to this place I’ve
resided most my life
that never was my home
For rarely was a woman here
whose chilled, frigid, and
reluctant kiss of
labia lips
would turn this frog
like so many others before her
into another spineless Ken doll
and God willing there never will be
With some measure of unbiased quest for knowledge
I made my vows to study the forests
Though took a few fumbles of love and hate along the way
"forest management?"
"forests do not need management?"
said the graceful princess ballerina
reminiscent of Julia butterfly

from some surreal fairy tale

I admired on a day in May

a decade ago

yeah that’s right
"Forest MAN - agement" honey
here I go once again with a passion to MAN-age
and
MAN -- handle the forests
And some remaining elf maiden
moist with anticipation
For a MAN
no longer as a MANchurian

candidate

passing the time with a little solitaire

playing your futile games
by your rules on your fixed deck
with all 4 queens

against me

I won’t play your fucking games again
never again fixated by the
black iron spinning wheel
and the black iron scissor hands
and the black iron twisted cross
of your long dead
wicked mother
who pricked you long ago into
sleeping beauty
and
sleeping ugly

This time you’ve sold out Portlandia

Your perky Poly Anna condescension cannot reach me now
Soon you’ll be another post-menopausal
Hag and bat
Corroded from melanoma
And tit cancer

Dying alone with your dried out vagisilic
yeasty old cunt
Time marches on

The Savage blue indigo swastika painting
Of a fighting cock
That Sybil made
has come home to roost

"Blue is the color of love" - she says
describing the vast oceans and sky
And Saphhire Blue is my birthstone

No rose is blue
That I recall - not in this town
certain not in your grand
fucking fruitcake floral parade

For no reason other than
no one ever cultivated them that color
nearly enough

not nearly as much as needed
Roses are red and violets are violent

Blue is the color of millions baby boys’ blankets whose dicks you circumcise moments after their birth

Without their consent
confusing their identities
to seeing none better than
to be soldiers
trained to slaughter
to kill or be killed Many years later
Blue is the color of my balls for ever giving you the benefit of the doubt
for far far too long.

Portlandia you
Skankey vermin shrew
You got knocked up for no one but you
as you spawn and corrupt an innocent
into your bastard "mini-me-s"
you’ll never have room to talk of any one’s
loss or misery.

This time I’m leaving for good.