Another Poem? Who is this guy, Pelmini?

By the way, there was never any poet named Pelmini. A pelmini is a type of dumpling that comes from Russia and other parts of Europe and Asia. They have meat inside of them and they are delicious. This is another poem. Enjoy.


Elephants, aardvarks, and artichokes
Three things that are completely misunderstood
In this world verging on the brink of collapse

find me

Singing unbroken verse
In an unbroken world
into the dark of the night.

Borders breaking down
And the people screaming out

I wanna be free!

I wanna shut down the man, shut down the system
and just blend into the verse.

My Neck


Yes, this is another poem. My head is chalk-full of these fucking poems. They’re all up in there like gray matter and fatty acids. So, here you go. See if you can figure out what kind of animal I am!

(You fucking hipsters. You’re hopeless…)


My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?


All for the sake fuck’s sake,
of reaching beyond the break,
curling my ambition to reach great
throws of fortunes locked and crate.

Before the apples fall
before the dew rises
before the coons chew
through orange and plum –

I spread my mind
across vast distances.

Come to me, Come to me!
Oh sweet nectars!
Come to me, Come to me!
So that I might once more bask
in the glory of your sucrose.

After the apples fell
After the dew rises
After the coons doth chewn
through orange and plum –

Get away, get away!
You miserable beasts of the night!
Get away, get away!
Before I [expletive]

If my name weren’t Spot,
and I wasn’t Spotty,
I’d swear my name was Harold,
Because I think I’m onto something.

Let’s get back to my neck
because I’m really quite the

My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?

It’s grown oh so much
my God it’s grown
I don’t know what to do
about my motherfucking neck
It’s grown.

As if overnight.
It WAS overnight.

Am I any worse for the wear?

Am I the song of all time,
for an infinity exists within the distance,
between my face and my spine?

My one hope,
beyond the inklings of desperation,
is that the light at the end of my neck
isn’t a train.

Sunrise Birds

Welcome to the great new world of the internet. Where miserable idiots reading poetry get instant gratification by googling the word “poem” and clicking on the first thing that pops up.

If you want to experience poetry as it’s meant to be experienced, go to the fucking library. Or a bookstore. Or, better yet, go to a poetry slam.

Go to a place where poetry comes alive and stabs you in the jugular.

You won’t find that here, you miserable moron. This is a place for naught the art of what art is nigh. This is a place for the assholes. The idiots. The morons. The gits. The buffoons. The sods.

This is where you all shall find happiness. I love you. You’re like baby birds back in the nest, surviving off of the scraps of my regurgitation. And so fourth, I shall vomit this utterly useless poem into your mouth. Enjoy it my birdlings:


The sunrise birds are out, you say?
The sunrise birds are out, today.
Time to start a beautiful day!

Rattled from my bunk,
rattled from my slumber.
First Sergeant’s on the horn –
shouting of his hunger.

Hot chow isn’t on the menu.

The singing birds are out again.
This time, they sing of pain –
was this whole long day in vain?

I guess I’ll have to wait and see –
and die another day.