CORONAVIRUS IS CALLED EUTHANASIUS

They say that Euthanasius, to whom people calls Coronavirus, came from China, after gorging on a bat as a first course; second: Pekingese dog, and as a dessert: grasshoppers and crickets, having a vast field in all the Continents where to spread out and peck at humans, especially to old age nursing homes or geriatrics, and battered by other type diseases, from ears to the tail.
Apparently, everything was at their disposal: their physique and their morale that dragged on the ground, or in wheelchairs, although, some, presented an abundance of straw ideas when they, the old women, put them in a state of overflowing scholarship peneal, or ass, patenting the beautiful qualities, the honors and the glories of the Donkeys so human.
Recalling, now, the presence of a pretty mine’s sister, Guapalupe, in the nursing home of Villaviciosa de Odón, in Madrid, I could only see her limited to her fallen mouth, drooling, screaming, noisy pain, a crash, the infirmary being very small where it could be expanded; being this spectacle a consideration that would have confused any doctor or health worker in his right mind.
Here was letting do, letting go, reflecting that some life is better than nothing, without wanting to deprive the elderly of the new diseases they deserve; until Coronavirus, Euthanasius, started the global world trip, back from Marco Polo’s in East Asia.
Anyway, Guapalupe died at the Rey Juan Carlos de Móstoles’ Hospital, before Eutanasius came to visit her; and, as the female doctor who signed her death told us: “Guapalupe died with a lot of shit.”
To the disappointment of men, who believe they are superior beings, Euthanasius, or Coronavirus, has now arrived, with the joy of having been able to dedicate to the good Death, called Euthanasia, more than eight hundred verses in any Nation or Continent, like a Jorge Manrique in the universality of his verses in his “Coplas a la Muerte”, Couplets to Death, both indicating to us that Life is nothing more than a great Shit punctured on a stick, without forgiving expenses or fatigue, of course, like any other plague, go.
Let us remember the famous poet from Palencia:
Remember the sleeping soul
Feed the brain and wake up
Watching
How life is spent
How death is coming
So quiet ”.
-And, I say- not so quiet ¡

the canning town kid

a kerosene lantern hung on the porch

a plaid western shirt with a tear

old wrangler jeans, denim not cord

dos equis or sin city beer

a brown leather belt with a buckle so fine

new shined up boots on my feet

willie nelson singing yesterday’s wine

a truck that’s both rusty and beat

take me away across to the rockies

let me spend time on the plains

don’t label me as an east london cockney

my look should say ‘home on the range’

it’s the land of the brave, the home of the free

where custer was once called a hero

just bury my heart down at old wounded knee

take my ashes to spread at ground zero

when I’m away baby write me a line

with sentiment kisses and sweetness

you know that I’m yours and you’re always mine

but cowboys sure are my weakness

Last Night
by Daniel S. Irwin

Last night,
I wrote the greatest
Poem ever written.
Last night,
I suddenly woke with it
Clear in my head.
Last night,
I was inspired
By this voluptuous Venus
In my bed.
This morning,
Venus seems more
A homely beast.
This morning,
My poem reads
Like crap.
By noon,
It’s deleted
And Venus is gone.
Tonight,
Like a fool,
I’ll probably
Do it all again.

Heaven on Earth
by Daniel S. Irwin

I was a nineteen year old
With 200 bucks in my pocket
And a dick so hard
The Viagra people would love
To use it in a misleading advertisement.
And there in Amsterdam,
Heaven on Earth.
The windows along the canals
Were filled with luscious women
In greater variety than
Forrest’s mama’s box of chocolates.
Up all night, the sampling
Was exquisitely extensive.
A lot of guys brag that they’ve
Never ‘paid for it’ in their life.
That’s fine, but as it saw it,
I wasn’t paying for pussy,
I was hiring a professional.

abuse

the sun branches out

its rays of light towards your throat

to burn away the traces of hope

left in you,

and the weeping moon

watches as you plunge the knife

into your chest

while the sun, still there,

watches over her back

to make sure she knows

who is the one

in charge.

Community Convalescence

Those abrasions on her cheeks

were said to be the result of being

fucked from behind and rammed

into the rough shag fibers en vogue

in 1978 by her father’s friends

in her own home on a school-year

weekend so full but empty

with the mother gone

through the decade’s attachment to divorce

and no mention of the mustachioed

father—looking like the era’s TV cops—

but Facebook heals all wounds

even to the face, all the way to the depths,

so she smiles with a daughter

as a “friend suggestion”

among the hundred possible pix

and opportunities to post

every mild success and hope for a toast

by the virtual audience

for whom deep-napped carpets

and their burns have cooled to ice

with a chuckle at a style so passé.

I’m Lucky, I Guess

I sometimes feel like a misanthrope
and the world seems an unbearable horror.
I’m glad I’ve never been able to purchase
a gun, or I doubt I’d still be here now.
At times like this, life seems at best pointless,
at worst it feels like a cruel form of torture.
As soon as I wake, the self loathing
and humiliation come in wave after wave
of sickness. Intoxicants are my only
hope, and oblivion is all that I desire.
I’m lucky, I guess because every time
it’s happened so far, something has
woken me up and dispersed the black clouds.
Shooed away that fucking black dog.
I’m lucky, I guess. What else can I say ?

THE CALL OF NATURE

I hear crickets chirping in my bones,

Cicadas humming in my brain.

Roots grow through my skin,

Weaving in and out like a tapestry.

There are dandelions on my tongue;

They taste like the sun in my teeth.

You may say I’ve gone mad,

Gone with the fishes and the birds,

But I have lived with my head in the clouds,

Since I heard the call of nature –

Of peace, of solace, of tranquility –

Of madness and solitude,

But awakening still.

And so I’d rather be mad than asleep.

Woman disguise

 

When the sky is gray, Parisian,  

Sip coffee and zip it, 

Your iris speaks to the tune of

Coltrane, Yo-Yo Ma,

The space between my breath— 

If meaning lies there, 

Let philosophers argue,

Your lap is better 

For my paws to mine

The wolf inside you

Caged, wrapped in an ugly red

Beautiful bow. 

Vertigo

Fresh ruffles
of surf, rising, pattering against beams of steel

saturating
the sky with treble interjections; convulsive gyrations

of effortless
rage, lightnings on waves, cold and bare, gather

together
under a spring moon.

He wanted
to tell her between the stretches of electricity that

made the
tulips bleed with poignant scent, filling the air with

sadness;
the thought of it a simple thing, the solid paces of

silence,
God’s own calmness.

What kind
of witness would she be? The rain whispers, intimidates

the dying
to lie down with the dead, disappearing into vapors,

tugging
and sealing down edges of brick and mortar, desperately

seeking
to become eroded.

She stops,
spreads her arms apart, his heroic figure of comfortable

subjectivity
catches her breath between the metaphors of sunlight,

his words,
swirling wants against frozen lips; she knows. Loneliness

reaches
her soul as she looks down suffering vertigo.

Wretch’s prayer for Every Dismal Day

If I get through this one day
that spills into
the void
where I am continually lost
always left
for dead
if I get through this
pattern of screw-ups
this one last bitch smack up
if I get through this blowtorch high
cradling that needle
like Mother Mary cradled baby Jesus
if I get through this Chinese water torture
on my veins
if I live amongst people who
DON’T
shoot up
people who fuck up
but don’t hit it
if I promise I will let every
oozing sore dry up – I don’t want that infection
within me any longer
if I kiss this needle tip
the end
and wake up tomorrow
with just my Newport’s
will you float me a few more good years?