These poems are not listed chronologically, nor are they divided according to subject or category, but are presented here in the order that STP thinks should flow pleasantly for human readers. But he may be wrong, obviously, so please feel free to roam around randomly.

You will certainly find a lot of repetition and variations on themes, but please be assured that each variation contains at least some new shades and subtlety, and if they are not immediately apparent to you, you might want to try a reread or two.

STP has never felt the need to undergo any therapy, psychoanalysis, etc., probably due to the catharsis afforded him by these lines, so perhaps they will afford your similar benefits as well.

(And if you get the feeling that some of these are still works in progress, or that the paint hasn’t fully dried yet, please consider yourself a most astute observer.)



Why did Ms. Goodall go to the chimps?

Perhaps in the hope of learning something new about herself?

I sometimes go amongst humans,
To learn something more about myself…

Something deeper about my origins…


Have you ever licked an asshole with gusto?

If not,
You may have difficulty,
Appreciating some of the following…

You may want to come back,
Once you’ve developed a taste…


Reading the following,
May inspire you,
To forsake inherited sanctity,
Dabble in inherited taboos,
Embark on life-threatening journeys,
Of following your muse…

Be forewarned!

I assume no responsibility!

I survived my journey,
My visions,
And voice…

You, however, may not!

If you have a family to feed,
A job to hold,
Or a position to keep,
You may be well advised,
Not to read the following!

It may dizzy you out of the assembly line,
Pop you off the chopping block,
Awaken your silenced voice,
Unleash your trampled vision,
Distract you out of functionality,
And launch you into spheres of prophecy…

Be forewarned!

If someone broke your heart,
And you want me to fix it,
Look elsewhere!

If someone stole your savings,
And you want me to replace them,
Look elsewhere!

I’m an articulator,
Not a placator!

Things come into clearer focus here –
Both the pleasant and the painful,
The beautiful and horrific,
The inspiring and disheartening…

If you prefer blurriness,
Or soothing distraction,
Please seek elsewhere!


One man’s light,
Is another man’s night,
And neither one of them is right.
So give up the fight,
And kill that sweet sight,
Of loving truths in slippery flight.
So give up the fight,
And whip that sweet sight,
Of lusty truths in slippery flight.
So give up the fight,
And spank that sweet sight,
Of cuddly truths in slippery flight.

*Provided – albeit without credit for some reason – the title for this Omer Avital song.


Voices that echo across centuries,
Are often too loud for their contemporaries.
Thus geniuses quickly learn to whisper,
And funnel the unexpressed thunder,
Into tears,
And lonely masturbation…

Oh, what damnation,
To be the source of elation!

Only when the genius ceases to breathe,
And people can deceivedly believe,
That the sounds are those of immortal sages,
Can the whispers blossom into voices,
That echo through the ages…


Like the fuel a rocket guzzles
While being shot into space,
We chew on poetic puzzles
To get to that magic place.

Like a drug without side effects.
Or a free perfect fuck.
But always at your disposal,
If you have that bit of luck.


The sweet bloody air,
Of Charles Baudelaire,
Is not my favorite.
Though my mind does savor it,
And it be gallant,
Full of talent,
And the madness,
Of genius –
It is not the mirror to my dreams.
And though it often seems,
As though I’ll soon collapse and fall,
Into the dark gory gall,
And lose my optimism forever,
And my affair with life sever,
I still see a light,
Seductively bright,
Peeking through clouds and misery,
And luring me towards the imagery,
Of that life-affirming German –
Nietzsche –
That King of Jolly Madmen.


Gods don’t exist,
The way people think they do…

But they do exist,
In the sense that people think they do…

And these cruel, foolish phantoms,
Destructive, addictive phantoms,
Must be killed
And mercilessly!

By any means necessary!

– Thus spoke Sir Tijn Po, a.k.a. The God Killer