Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.

Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.

Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.

Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.

Poetry is the ****.

Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.

Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.

Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.

Poetry is cat and mouse.

Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.

Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.

Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.

Load the needles
stick their veins,
get them healthy
get them strong,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Put the dead brethren
in the feed,
make them fat
make them tasty,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Hang 'em up by the feet
begin to turn them into meat,
slit their throats
remove their skin,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Assortment of cuts
at the store,
get the cheese
get the buns,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Turn on the gas
ignite the grill,
drink your beer
cook one rare,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Lettuce and tomato
yes pickles too,
a little ketchup
a little mayo,
I like to eat it
while it bleeds.

Lucid silhouettes melt the air into psychedelic fluorescence,
realities cast upon fleshy darkness forgotten by the light of day.
Look on with distraught eyes as we dance through dark pleasance.
I wonder of God and Lucifer, good times they had in their heyday.

We race towards an apparent end; it's no apparition.
Return to your mother and her blessings, its time to meditate,
you've almost seen reality; can you finally see the evil of your disposition?
War, I mean ******, only perpetuates the hate.

Coercion and lies spread like wildfire, mystifying mind, body, and soul.
Buy that item, it looks cool. Six months later, obsolete, you fools.
If you've learned anything in life, don't get ****** at the troll,
and don't be scared at the screams at night, just demons and ghouls.

My mind is one hell of a maze, just got lost in a schizophrenic phase,
or was it spirits in the transparent haze, plunging back into my cosmic gaze.

I built this castle,
not by my hands
but by theirs.

I conquer foreign lands,
not by my swords
but by theirs.

I eat and ****,
not by my food nor women
but by theirs.

I'm lost in exotic luxuries,
not by my gold
but by theirs.

I do enough to keep the fools foolish,
the ignorant ignorant
and the weak weak.

That is why they call me King,
and I call them mine.

Waves come back to me.
They say everything happens for a reason,
the changes of the seasons,
the death of caesar,
and the way you please her.

Does mystery discover or create?
They sway; my feet.
So do the clouds,
funny.
What makes me rock
blocks the glows,
the full show.