Cut away

The roil it ends lifeless

Storms blow past

And the whirlpool grants itself.

That magnificent spout.

Boiling with the rage

Of seventeen angry gods.

Picking up like feathers,

Falling boulders

Flesh and wood

Pelt the surrounding waters.


By what providence?

By whos mercy?


None for I saw it all.

And I alone grieve them.



The bull,

That object which we chase

But never catch.

Ahh the meat could feed the village

And the skins can clothe your children.

Let him live and you can till fields.

But it grows dull.

To study his movements

His eccentricities.

Day in, day out

Life in, death out

The dance grows tiring

And the horns get sharper each time

We meet.

The tighter the grip you hold

Frays the rope more and more.

The bull always gets away

And yet he is always there.

Ready to struggle.

Why not leave the fucker alone?

Your kids miss you.



Flowing along the river they call time.

I thought I stepped in not too long ago.

Whether the Yellow or the Rhine

I really don’t know.

But the things I see

And the people I’ve met

Were much more important,

Than where I figured I should be.

What I really learned

Was that I never stepped in

And I’ll never return.




A poem by Bug

I reflect.

A scratched mirror.

Millions of times

I see it.

Millions of times

On everyone i meet.

They reflect.

I see their scratches

And cracks.

Or are those mine?

A piece could break off.

It looks like billions of pieces.

Seeing them in their faces.

I put my scratches on my walls.

So i can still see them.

Unchanged by the other’s scratches.

Reflection by approximation.

Put a mirror up to a mirror.

What does it see?



As the vine takes root

And climbs towards the sun

I can’t help but wonder

What it reaches for.

The sun sheds its gifts

The vine takes them up.

And yet,

It still climbs.

Grasping hold of more and more.

Enough to smother the kind tree

That hosts it.

Soon comes the day

When the vine surpasses the tree,

Gently kissing the sky.

But oh, the withered tree,

It gives way.

And the vine is left wondering,

“Why did I fall?”



How do you answer

How’s your life going?

People I know who say

They’re blessed

Are depressed.

And when they say

“Im depressed”

They mean it by then.

And when they joke less

I wish I had more to say

Than I love you.

I wonder why walls

Get built for out

Dearest friends?

I’d like to blow them up.

See what they mean then?



Freely walking through a field.

Nearby roads, nor a plane in sight.

I wonder what you’d do if you saw smoke?

I wonder what I’d do?

That fire could bite?

So could the snake in the field,

Not two feet away.

It could be a shelter,

Storm’s always near anyway.

But then again the fire?

All these questions are like

Cold tingles down my neck.

Leaving me sweating.

But what about a campfire?

I could make a new friend!

Or maybe they’d hate me?

What else could it be?

All this thinking is like wind at my back,

Rushing the tingles down to my legs.

The loud clap of questions roars through my ears.

And right when I got all my answers,

There was a flash of light

And poof! On to the next one.



The sprinkling of rain

The cool breeze

And the twinkling

Shuddering leaves.

They fill your ears

And flow across your skin.

As the cars kill the mood

You can’t help but rest.

The walk was long

The aching of bones

The pins and needles in your feet.

The smell of smoke.

The quaint lights

Of oil lamps.

You can’t help but rest.




The sprout fights its way

Through the frost.

Straining slowly.

Moving in its ways

To overcome

Not only itself,

But the harsh frost

And frozen ground.

How does the new life

Still grow to flower

In such conditions?

Such is life.

And such is the plant’s nature.



Bug Roadkill

Just an asshole writing a poem or two to pass the time.