On this page, I wanted to share some of my poems. I don't have much room, but if you like what you see, just
email me. I'll be happy to send you more.
email me. I'll be happy to send you more.
| Ode To Samantha Samantha, my dear, You are my one true love. You remind me of dew on a blade of grass during the middle of a rainstorm. You make me feel as if I were five feet tall. Your smile reminds me of a mouth with teeth in it. I cannot get enough of you -- even though there is definitely enough of you for me to get. My heart feels something that can’t be denied. I think it's gas. You make me feel so special. I love you, Samantha, But do you love me? You remind me of a woman. Samantha, When I look at you, I become nauseous - I mean nervous! Your eyes are like two round objects that can be found in the eye sockets of a human being. Your breath is like a lethal gas bomb that could kill me in my sleep. When I think of you, Samantha, I think of a beautiful woman With great personality, but, then I am brought back to reality. You are too beautiful for me. I hope you love me, Samantha, For you know that I love you. When you are around, My heart beats faster, and faster, and faster, and faster. But then I realize that it's only you and not some big, horrible, ugly monster with big fangs. Then I am relieved. Somewhat. Your thighs are like bones with layers and layers, and layers, and layers of skin surrounding them. Your nose is like a protruding piece of cartilage covered with skin and containing enough hair to strangle a person to death. Your neck is like, well, actually, I have no idea what your neck is like, since I can't even find it! Your chin is like a round, flabby hunk of skin located beneath your mouth. And so is the other one, and the other one, and the other one. When I see you, Samantha, I want to run and hide, But I don't, because I love you, and because you are loaded with money and you will die soon, anyway. So I say to you, Samantha, "You're special -- you're not like the other girls!" |
Beauty
There once lived a girl with a lovely perfume,
With a scent that reminds you of roses in bloom,
And the boys dropped like flies
When they looked in her eyes,
And caught the scent of her lovely perfume.
But, at the same time,
There was a horrible crime,
Caused by the man called "The Beholder!"
He shot five people dead in the head,
And the sixth, he shot in the shoulder.
But, this girl, she was strolling along
As the boys passed out all around her.
They smelt her perfume,
And they started to swoon
From the "Beauty" that surrounds her.
"Beauty," I assume, is the name of the perfume
That she used almost every day.
But as she walked down the street,
She was headed to meet
The man with the purple beret.
The police, it seems, had arrived at the scene
Where the five people had been shot in the head.
The one who survived,
Though barely alive,
Said the killer had a hat on his head.
A purple beret, the woman came to say,
Was the hat that the killer had worn.
The one who’d shot her in the shoulder
Had said his name was "The Beholder!"
And she wished he had never been born.
But the man with the purple beret
Decided that he would kill again that day.
So he attacked the girl with the lovely perfume,
But, unfortunately for him, he attacked her too soon,
And she was able to hit him away.
She reached in her purse for something to use,
A can of “Mace,” or something else to do the duty.
But all she could find
In her frantic state of mind,
Was her can of perfume called "Beauty."
She kicked him in the groin, once, maybe twice,
Then she punched him in the shoulder.
Then she sprayed him in the face
With her substitute Mace,
And now "Beauty" is in the eye of "The Beholder!"
There once lived a girl with a lovely perfume,
With a scent that reminds you of roses in bloom,
And the boys dropped like flies
When they looked in her eyes,
And caught the scent of her lovely perfume.
But, at the same time,
There was a horrible crime,
Caused by the man called "The Beholder!"
He shot five people dead in the head,
And the sixth, he shot in the shoulder.
But, this girl, she was strolling along
As the boys passed out all around her.
They smelt her perfume,
And they started to swoon
From the "Beauty" that surrounds her.
"Beauty," I assume, is the name of the perfume
That she used almost every day.
But as she walked down the street,
She was headed to meet
The man with the purple beret.
The police, it seems, had arrived at the scene
Where the five people had been shot in the head.
The one who survived,
Though barely alive,
Said the killer had a hat on his head.
A purple beret, the woman came to say,
Was the hat that the killer had worn.
The one who’d shot her in the shoulder
Had said his name was "The Beholder!"
And she wished he had never been born.
But the man with the purple beret
Decided that he would kill again that day.
So he attacked the girl with the lovely perfume,
But, unfortunately for him, he attacked her too soon,
And she was able to hit him away.
She reached in her purse for something to use,
A can of “Mace,” or something else to do the duty.
But all she could find
In her frantic state of mind,
Was her can of perfume called "Beauty."
She kicked him in the groin, once, maybe twice,
Then she punched him in the shoulder.
Then she sprayed him in the face
With her substitute Mace,
And now "Beauty" is in the eye of "The Beholder!"
| Abandoned abandoned in a random act of apathetic, lack of feeling, change of heart, and unappealing slap of truth and all-revealing false excuses, never calls, bullshit lies, and lack of balls to say the truth that times have changed and love is lost, and all we’ve shared is tossed away like shattered glass in picture frames and, though you may not feel the same, I’m still in love with you… |
Black Death and Puppy Love
Team Captain . smile forced . blue eyes closed . makeup caked . unnatural .
Brown hair wavy . stapled down . undertaker . smelling of formaldehyde .
Buried with a ball in hand . letter jacket . mother crying . macho daddy on his
knees . pompom girls wail endlessly . “I love you” and “I miss you lots” .
Letters on his grave . flowers weeping in despair . an open gash within the
ground . a wound of dirt and grass . Little brother getting bored . too young to
understand . a Labrador Retriever . whimpers . sighs . wets the ground .
barely six months old . tiny drops of misty grey . cold and chilly sky . Pastor
preaching . Jesus Christ . forgiveness . sin . amen . casket lowered . brown
and brass . Taps is playing . shrill and soft . a shovel-full of dirt . Thump .
Thump thump . banging on the door . No answer . No one home . In the
casket . In the ground . a shell . no person . mind as dark as the space around
him . Underneath the stapled hair . behind the pasty pancake . an open gash
within his skull . a wound of blood and bone . Six feet tall and six feet under .
Unhappy and alone . a howl from above . a Labrador in mourning . Father tries
to shut him up but the dog continues wailing . A boy in black is far away .
nose ring . red hair . outcast . watching from a distance . moments shared .
kisses felt . a tear invades his eye . Black death and puppy love . he howls to
the sky .
Team Captain . smile forced . blue eyes closed . makeup caked . unnatural .
Brown hair wavy . stapled down . undertaker . smelling of formaldehyde .
Buried with a ball in hand . letter jacket . mother crying . macho daddy on his
knees . pompom girls wail endlessly . “I love you” and “I miss you lots” .
Letters on his grave . flowers weeping in despair . an open gash within the
ground . a wound of dirt and grass . Little brother getting bored . too young to
understand . a Labrador Retriever . whimpers . sighs . wets the ground .
barely six months old . tiny drops of misty grey . cold and chilly sky . Pastor
preaching . Jesus Christ . forgiveness . sin . amen . casket lowered . brown
and brass . Taps is playing . shrill and soft . a shovel-full of dirt . Thump .
Thump thump . banging on the door . No answer . No one home . In the
casket . In the ground . a shell . no person . mind as dark as the space around
him . Underneath the stapled hair . behind the pasty pancake . an open gash
within his skull . a wound of blood and bone . Six feet tall and six feet under .
Unhappy and alone . a howl from above . a Labrador in mourning . Father tries
to shut him up but the dog continues wailing . A boy in black is far away .
nose ring . red hair . outcast . watching from a distance . moments shared .
kisses felt . a tear invades his eye . Black death and puppy love . he howls to
the sky .
| Cold “So?” I say, unsympathetically. “Who cares if your mother died?” The corned beef on the table smells like pie. An angry look, a bitter stare. I hate the saffron daisies on her shirt. I take the silver- bladed kitchen knife and drive it deep into the meat. I offer her a slice. “I hate the taste of corned beef,” is her reply. “Is that why you’re so frigid?” I feel the sting of fingers on my face, and her hand retracting in an instant. We share a look of bitter angst, of mutual disgust. I bite into a greasy slice and find myself erect. The hotness of my cheek where she just slapped, and the hotness of the greasy beef contradict the coldness of my tone. She tells me to go fuck myself and I find the irony amusing. I never liked her mother. |
POEMS
by
Daniel Guyton
by
Daniel Guyton
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |
| Mary’s Song The window blinds have lost the war against The rising morn. The amber hue has shattered Through and slain the curtains drawn. The shadows in my darkened room erode before The dawn. Then, slowly disappearing, They evoke a tender yawn. My eyes arise In faint surprise to hear the denouement. And there beside me sleeping lies a naked Debutante. Her skin the flesh of angels And her color as the swan. And in Triumphant morning rays which graze upon Her arm, like brave courageous antelope, Or brazen hungry fawn, her face remains A strange melange of innocence and calm. So, I taste her freckled shoulders, and lace My fingers in her palm. For though the blaze Of evening fades, our flame shall linger on... |
| Waking Up Abandoned Waking up abandoned, standing in an empty bathroom, staring at myself and asking, “What is wrong with me?” The toilet reeks of urine and my skin of your infected sexual secretions and my mind deletes the seconds that we rolled into abandon and it centers on the lesions I imagine that I’ll find. Splashing water on my face, attempting to erase the one-night stands and empty love without protection like a glove without a hand, and I feel the brisk and cool sensation on my closed and weary eyes, bleary with the lack of sleep from plowing deep inside your every night is someone new religion as I hunger like a pigeon for a crumb of something more. I let you come, but still you go. You fucked me like a whore. I touch my eye, and feel the dry and cracking skin beneath my touch. I don’t know why I do this to myself. My reflection plays it cool and answers, “Stud, the golden rule is never let a woman get you down.” |