John Maurer

Poetry

 

 

Vitamine utensils

 

I live in the minutes between minutes

Speak in the words between words

 

Maybe because I’m drunk

Maybe because I grew a beard

 

Because no good philosopher abstained from this

Because they were drunk too

 

Toilet water after a night of insight

Reads like reiki

 

Nostradamus reads like this

And knew all of his thoughts

Were getting in the way of his thinking

 

 

The Divine Left

 

Craning drug caked veins into pajama pants is a man’s work

Not water to wine but wine to bad decisions

I am the less fact checked Jesus

Another heretic-hermaphrodite ignorant

That my father needs to be a king for me to be a prince

 

I stretch my canvas across a horse quartered line

Walked across by the Swahili tongue swirlers

These strokes are done with the more passive of war paints

The more muted tones uttered by rusted trumpets

This song plays with the drum beat of my illusive breath

 

As I swallow Christ fish without a chew

Crane my neck and eat all my gospel before cake

I walk these desert "foot-paths" with my greying feathers

Snatched from the globes ceiling; souvenired from the dismantling Sistine

And I calmly turn psalms in my palm; only as busy work

 

 

 

Jaded

 

Beethoven only bit back at that that ate him whole

Eighty years later his dental mold is as stained as Veronica's cloth

Rattling his brain into a maraca of senile thought

Fading into another memory I forgot or wouldn't mind to

 

Dead writers are the greatest because they aren't writers any longer

The sexiest corpses only wear fuzzy handcuffs,

DNA-helix pigtails for the pulling, and a silent speaking mouthpiece

Not a drop of dribble dripping down their unlisped disclosures

 

Closing hands on leaving clovers

Unraveling my red ribbons for sharks to see

Not seeing them in this simulation of penultimacy

Not feeling their teeth in this bath of malt liquor

 

I drop my jaw and pull my pinned tongue from its hinge

Swallow them whole and never floss away the taste of their sapphire sadness

 

 

 

Another Accidental Divinity

 

Born as a god that I wasn't supposed to be

I accidentally find out that gods have their own gods

And I ask, can a god with a god even be a god?

A monkey looks at me unevenly

He dares to ponder this exact thought

And I look at saviors this way

 

From a crucifix beaded and beaded with sweat

Wrapped around a loved ones arm

A foreign blessed tourniquet; far from finger turning

He fixates on me, lingers pointedly, with this look that says

'I need there to be a god so that it means that I am not god'

You are, you're god not me; god knows, but not me

But ESPECIALLY not me...god knows too though

 

 

John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful.  He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and others. @JohnPMaurer