Grandpa Poems – Cletus Crow

Ars Poetica


I don’t know about beauty,
and it hurts you.

I’m more inspired
by my grandpa’s uncircumcised penis.

He had fallen in the shower.

You say I have herpes of mind,
a psychic ailment that manifests itself
physically due to dark power.

Most aren’t so infected.

In weaker moments,
I wish poetry was for everyone.

You should ask my grandpa
how I became a perverted shithead,
but he would just cry.

I like it when flowers die
because I’m still alive and in color.

Remember that twilight zone episode
where half-pig surgeons
considered beauty a disfigurement?

I’m sorry. Truly, I am a little boy. 





My grandpa’s corpse
is quintessentially dead.

His head leans left,
mouth gaping like a corpse.

They glued the eyes shut
because corpses look frightened.

We’re gathered here today,
making water with our faces.



I’ll Name My Kid “Assault Rifle”


My grandpa has an assault rifle
because he is afraid
someone will take his assault rifle.

It’s strapped on his chest at all times.

When I stay overnight
I hear him whisper “I love you”
through the walls.

I don’t know if he’s talking to the gun
a ghost or himself.

I hope he is talking to me.

The next morning
cleaning his assault rifle in the kitchen
he’s already eaten breakfast.

“When I die you get my assault rifle.”
He pushes himself from the table
an 87 year old who wields
the newest in killing machines today.

I love you too grandpa.

I don’t want to die a powerless husk
unable to survive alone.