The small blue Arab stallion dances on the hill
like a glancing breaker, like a storm rearing in the sky,
In his *****-ears,the wind, that wanderer and spy,
sings of the dunes of Arabia, lion-coloured still.

The small blue stallion poses like a centaur-god,
netting the sun in his sea-spray mane, forgetting
his stalwart mares for a phantom galloping unshod;
changing for a heat-mirage his tall and velvet hill.

I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.

Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.

I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.

Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.

I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.

As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.

Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.

Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.

Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.

O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make

in me is my bliss.

Don't bother me, don't follow me
There's no one else I yearn to see
So fold away your memories
To cede beneath that Hemlock tree

What will I do? Where will I go?
Unshod against the burning road?
These memories I mourn and hold
Crease in my hands where they enfold.

Don't bother me, don't follow me
Or brandish me things I cannot see
My eyes plunge past the memories
Beneath that bygone Hemlock tree.

What will you do? Where will you go?
I was your heart, you were my soul
Did you let go and drift below
The Lethe River’s undertow?

Don't bother me, don't follow me
I hold my head above the sea
These memories furled around your sleeve
I've stashed beneath the hemlock tree.

What do we do? Where do we go?
There are separate paths, or so I'm told
You'll tour one, and if I'm bold
I'll peer once more down your own road.

Don't bother me, don't follow me
But yes, perchance... I'll dream of thee.
I'll stargaze there, and make believe
Of truth beneath that Hemlock tree.

In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,

When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing *****, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.

Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.

Being kicked in the head by a horse
can be rather unpleasant of course.
My father lay stunned for a time
and for three days thereafter was blind.
He was lucky the horse was unshod
or he might have been punted to God.
As it was he spent three days abed
while his mom worked her beads in his stead.
On the third day he rose as before
with the  injury that kept him from war.
His impaired vision a fortunate curse
Time spend on the Somme would be worse.

i'm thirty six now
thrice a rat
and i must say
it ain't that bad

you'd think i'd shed a tear
or two
but after all
the sky's still blue
the sun still shines
the rain still falls
my fam would even take my calls

i'm frens with cats
i'm frens with dogs
some people too
a couple hogs

i walk and saunter
skip and hop
taking my time
around the block

i'm looking back
and all i see:
those things i did
were meant to be

i'm looking forth
and realise:
you can't prepare
for each surprise
that life may throw
at you or yours
you can't predict
as to which doors
will blow wide open
unexpected
and which will ever
be protected

no key, no lock
how to get past?
to secrets guarded
fierce and fast...

another thirty six to live?
so full of joy, and toil, and grief...
or, one day, have just what it takes
to boldly go and up the stakes?..

mid-summer autumn
rat three times
feels good as hell!
unshod and blithe...

Escape imperative,
stealth of night
unshod; eluding
his blatant lies.

When first you let your beauty go,
I saw a heart deep below
Layers of peanut butter
With brown sugar

When next you let your beauty go,
I saw a heart deep below
Layers of insecurity
And cruel words.

When then you let your spirit shine,
I saw the insecurity was mine,
Layered in confines
Of false confidence

When then you let your love show,
I saw my heart was shallow
Seeking external beauty
Missing your heart

When at last you shared your mind,
I knew then I was unkind
Demanding only the fine
Expecting swine.

Yet my presence you demand,
To satisfy your base command,
Do I stay and smile and nod?
Do I walk, and cry unshod?

a pony ride turns hollow when unshod hooves slip and tear
lots of room for prey and avarice on the prowl
I'm hiding sad shadows in the gods' kind shade
the position you've cosseted was never yours
and a bouquet in full bloom lies face down in a trash can
and a dead plant stands in the corner of a takeaway outlet
your shadow came to talk to me when you fell into deepest asleep

a frosted windowpane is sandwiched in snow
a slick oil spill in a cat's hungry paw
incredibly, convo is created in terse debate over a teaspoon
similarly, two ladies sit and sip in evening caps

amarna letters get torn or burnt to maintain the unknown

am I become an asterisk in your life,
a small reminder of what once was soul-deep,
was the trumpet-radiance of character?
I wander, unshod, in the wilderness created of myself,
to revisit a dystopian dream, where my soul-scars
bleach white from time’s long goodbye
and my caged heart sings a canary’s song to no one

am I become Bukowski’s consummation of grief
dancing on thorns to a choreography of remorse
to a dissonancy of love?

when did I become a mere star-point in your
wintercircle, lost in the wilderness of your sky,

an asterisk abandoned in your asterism?


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

In herds of painted colors unshod hooves tear across the land scape. Tumble weeds chase them in their wake, as they leave a trail of dust thrown up by them as they go. Through thin brown grasses, they rampage on endless plain that has no end from horizon to horizon. Shaking the earth as they dance along, trotting with fire in their snorts and strength in their mane's. Wild horses thunder on the prairie, as they run into the setting sun as if chasing some place not yet known to man. Fading shadows of the heard conjures up legends of an era gone by as they thunder on the prairie into the steel grey sky.

It’s odd when you realize how poetic you get whenever you talk about your favorite place. Mine seems to radiate smells of noxious fish and decomposing aquatic life; yet I find myself sitting there, basking in the sunlight and nose-offending odors, as if I myself were in a giant stir fry of the sea, the sun, and decomposition of life itself. To most, the odors would drive them away from the place where sea is held back from the land, but I find myself drawn to it. The giddiness I feel whenever I see it, just rising from the horizon as I approach, is inexplicable. As my feet touch the ever-changing, flowing particles of crushed stone, a lightness fills me. Spreading from my feet all the way up to my head, the tips of my fingers, my nose; the lightness turns to energy. Pure, unadulterated energy. As the walk I had seemed to achieve transformed into a run, the energy turns into static, and my body turns into no-see-ums, flying in the breeze and spinning. Creating a dance that moves and flows like the liquid nearby, forward and back, lapping at the granules of ancient sand and worn glass. As static-foot touches warm stone, my body fuses back together and I climb the steep hill of smoothed down, yet still rough broken-down boulders. Unshod feet touch comforting, sturdy baby-boulders, and my body automatically starts to climb to the top. The sights aren’t that great at the beginning, seeing that you are a mere four feet or so from the small, granulated stone pieces, but as I rehearse my dance with the stones, jumping and sprawling across them with ease, it gets, stunningly, much more charming. The salt-tinged liquid makes beautiful melodies as it navigates through the cracks and holes between moulded-together stone, creating creeks and, eventually, having reached its final destination; the shoreline. Walking for what seems like miles, finally ending up at the end of the moulded sculpture, I sit down and lay there. My arms and legs spread, seeping in the warmth from every possible angle, breathing in the salty breeze. My eyes see an array of puffy marshmallows, accented with hints of pink, purple, and various shades of orange and red. I take a deep breath, letting out my worries and fears in a sigh; the sea has always calmed me. The taste on my tongue is a mixture of fish, the sea itself, and the chicken fingers being cooked up by a nearby snack shack. Sitting up, I bask in the way that the stone feels against my skin; hard, firm, but warm and comforting. Slowly being worn away by the water’s constant lapping at it, begging to be let into the overflow-areas of the shore. Time and time again, I have explored the roots of the stones, jutting up from the floor of the ocean, hiding and housing its creatures within, as if the rocks themselves were their mother. This mass of broken-down mountain formed into a beautifully elegant bridge has a name that fits its magnificence; a Jeti. The jeti houses me from the water, protects me, lets me play on her. Yet the Jeti protects herself, too. Housing barnacles is only one way that Mother Jeti defends herself, making sure that passer-bys stay on their toes, as to not catch their feet on them, for painful cuts and bleeding shall ensue soon after if they do. I need not worry about the dangers of my Mother Jeti, for I have navigated her hard and scaly vessel since I was a wee child. My feet have toughened enough to not get hurt by her sharper edges, My muscles remember each divot, nook, and cranny engraved within her scaly skin. I know her weakest parts, and her strongest. I know, that if the wind blows just right, and the tide if far enough out, she sings to you; a melodious tune of lapping waves, hungry seagulls, and the swift, quick movement of wind through all of her cracks and holes. She makes a beautiful melody, a melody to lull and comfort all of her children into a blanket of safety and warmth. When it becomes my time to go, I say”Goodbye, Mother Jeti, I wish to see you soon.”, and swiftly retrace my steps backwards, turning into no-see-ums and departing, flying into the breeze, until I return yet again.

none more than I,
surprised and wary,
that my all-my-life
urbanized body,
be so unnaturally well attuned
to a slight degree
temperature modification

I,
proud city dweller,
born and bred,
urban dust,
the sandblast used
to erode and etch-a-sketch
my body's skin pores hollows,
by definition, pride and myth,
a tough skin necessified
to survive where
plants cannot

the chill of fall,
and the follow up of
it's 'whiteout' afterwards,
faintly dimly but
remarkably present,
unmistakably different
from the chilling moisture
forming on the ice bucketed bottle
of dinner's colden, golden,
waiting white Sancerre

the lowest, coldest single note
any viola can exhale,
I,
hear coming from Itzhak Perlman's
so close, Shelter Island retreat,
a foghorn warning
clearly felt, smelling its deep fried heard mournful warning,
tonal hum, swelling from the outside in,
not despite, but to pointedly spite
the surrounding humidity condensation of August
on the air cooled window panes

the very same humidity
that makes humans
curse the blessing of sweating,
registering slews of
no-one-cares complaints to
no-ones-listening people,
about the drying out everywhere
wet dampness of the end of the
simmering season

a sliver, a musk,
a prophet's portent,
so subtly well entrenched,
secretly by nature sent,
a realtime single line of code,
message that winter is indeed coming,
but not to the Seven Kingdoms,
but to the Czar's literary summer palace

I,
the sole prosecution witness,
to winter's germination
as the evening cools,
testifying about the acorn droppings
felt beneath flip flops,
like hurtful peas
beneath a princess's ten deep mattresses,
reminders of too soon time to be mourned
as gone, gone, gone
the summer,
the peak of the foliage, the zenith, the crest
of this old and very peculiar man

but one?

how can this be,
one **** degree
of Fahrenheit
leads directly to
sniffles and endless
gesundheists?

one **** degree,
separates the operatic arias,
the shower sing-a-long songs of his summer soul's
contented tented revival,
which now, in these sultry days of  August,
he sings, so swell,
practiced with an artistic style of
summer lazy's 'doing nothing'
so, so well

soon to suffer the mysteries of
the longest day
of wintery night,
where silent snow falling,
beautifies but makes the man
put down his pen and
reread his summer poetry

tonite,
we fine and dine
dressed in summer attire,
sock-less, coolest linen with cotton blended,
only ******, good natured,
political discussions allowed,
some daring souls,
bare their left shoulders,
more tan skin out than in,
while others defend
the natural human right
of man to wear in tandem,
white socks and ugly cargo shorts

all the fabrics, all the friends,
crinkling wrinkling upon the tannins
of sweet brown sugar of caramelized skin

some wearing bright pastels
clean new white T's,
so eye brightening-whiting-delighting,
that they are legally required,
and illegal to wear anytime else,
except for this one abbreviated quarter
of the best days of his life

smell the snow,
hearing  the boots and parkas,
making tramping noises upon snow cleared paths
swimming unhappily across
slushy street corners, almost mountain pass impassable
all these molecules, wafting in the coolness
of the August shore breezes ,
fedex'd  up from the polar south winds
of wintertime Argentina

all of these hints,
present and accounted for
in the atmosphere,
but of them,
I,
do not speak
not out loudly anyway

why,
to be lost beneath,
under the munching noises of summer corn
summer fruits, tongue exploding,
clinking of happy glasses,
toasts of "what a great summer eve!"
the wisdom of silence loudly asserts

for who am I to
rob us the deceit,
the human natural conceit,
that the future is the identity of our
permanent press present

that the unpracticed pleasures
of lapping up breezes,
the genteel salted aroma of
heated sweated forehead beads and sea water,
the cocktail odors of barbecue sauce,
fishing boat's diesel, Campari,
root beer floats,
strawberry shortcake's speaking of its peaking,
little children laughing with carousel joy at
running unshod and free upon bunnies and frogs,
all words and thoughts somehow miracle rhyming with...
forever

soon to end in the
disenchantment of reruns on
a flickering black and white tv night,
once again, no longer obsolete,
unlike the man

the eyes glisten from held back tears,
all come to give me hugs, thinking
the old man, in his white apron is
joyous simply happy or simply,
grill smoke got in his eyes

but that one **** degree...

We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.

twitching muscle above my right eye
signifying stress and unexplored options
reminding me that something sits, unresolved
bouncing as a child in an inflatable wonderland
neurotic nerve-ending, ending my peace
pieces of broken mirror lay at my unshod feet
maximizing rage, a scream passes chapped lips
spittle gathering at the corners
while lunacy takes hold
10,000 scenes pass by my inner-eye
each with its own special irritant
seeking to disrupt the easy-going nature
put forth by sandals and elastic-waist(ed) short pants
wasted years bothered by triviality
sitting wasted, wasting my time
and that of the government agency
which employees this sorry ***
gassed in class passing with class
recoiling from the derailment
I try to regroup
but the short pants line
has the tears too thick to type

it's ******* you over like the memory of a 7th grade dance.
lissome where it hurts.
dreaming like a hallway.running hot from throwing up over the railing.

chest-wet
and dripping into the ringing of my ears.
your slender limbs fold over themselves for convenient storage.
i'm
running out of options in the smooth outside of your fantasy
                                                                ­                                rings- many digits a-caged
i've fallen down before you.

stuck inside the wills before you touched your lips to my fingers.
i am repeating in your forests,
dark as they are.
before the world is lit,
i stumble, blind enough to the lake. and the
unshod calling that bids me
                                      to you.

and even now, as the grey waters wimp away into the other side of the opening - the frost that stays close to the dew          takes lives.

meandering thoughts
of creativity for recreation
versus the idea
that art
can be prosperous
self-expression and
emotional depth plunging
for coin and
posterity –
poets only prosper posthumously
for the most part
and soft rock singer-songwriters
are a dime a dozen,
cousin –
validation from within again
as sin and winning blend
a regular trend….
the trees give no applause
or constructive criticism
but are an audience
that sway gently to the soft rhythms –
grumbling old lab at my feet slaps his tail
at the same song he heard yesterday
rubbing a worn nose on my unshod feet
looking for a toe scratch
as we both look outside for validation –

Hallelujah-----
Inspired by Leonard Cohen Song
Jude Kyrie

The light it poured from up on high.
From a magenta red and yellow sky.
The visions only made you cry.
Those up above just sighed a sigh.
You don’t want heaven, do you?
The weeping moon is sobbing
hallelujah.

The lost and broken lie in the street
Walk the world in unshod feet.
Why are all these children there?
Doesn’t anybody care?
Statistics only fool you.
Cold winds whisper hallelujah.

Children are reaching out for love
Their arms outstretched to up above.
Begging love from heaven’s door.
Only silence rings for evermore.
Just bitter rains to cool you.
Broken children sobbing Hallelujah

They say there is a God above.
But all my grace has come from love
Why fill Gods mansions full of treasure
When to feed the hungry was his measure.
Sick and tired of those that rule you.
Winter winds wail hallelujah.*

Authors Note

A snake rattles and
slithers to the rock where
it will hide in serpent secrecy like
a tongue in mouth that lies.

A boot fears no snake bite
hardened leather and harder soles
as protected as a buried coffee can in the desert
baked impenatrable, this the snake will not bite.

The unshod foot, the unsuspecting mouse are
fair prey for the fangs that drip a poison
that kills without mercy, ****** with impugnity
and swallows whole those who trust.

Better be a boot; inflexible, unpenetrable,
than a bare foot or quiet mouse
when snakes lurk
in the secret shadow whispers of the dark.

She ran towards the rocky cliff
that bit beneath her feet,
crying for somebody
to give her wings
so she could meet
her one true love, just come ashore
she promised him they'd meet
she flew across the rocky cliff
leaving a ****** trail
beneath her unshod feet

He stood upon the ships prow
praying for her arrival
He'd given up hope of arriving
nearly dead in his survival
Marching upon the broken backs
of bothers that had fallen
he stood upon the ships bow
hearing her sweet voice a calling

She dodged the farmers cart
and weaved amongst the miners
slipping and sliding in the muck
looking lost to the finders
skirting around the grubby children
chasing each other in the street
****** footprints in her trail
her one true love she will meet

Until she falls on cracked ground
and plants her hands in the mire
looking up to the ice cold sky
glimpsing the raining of fire

He saw the glow and felt the heat
of Hells very own righteous fury
far from home, knowing he was beat
but remembering his duty

She stands, this day, upon the cliff
waiting for his ship to sail in
He stands upon the ghostly bow
waiting for her to meet him

the ground screamed at me,
begged me,
implored me,
until finally it grew quiet,
and that is when i heard it -
so i took off my shoes and went outside,
greeting the earth with my feet unshod,
and it spoke to me,
as it likes to do.
i cried,
because i took so long to hear it.

the democratic convention under the deck
———————————————————


all kinds have registered their displeasure
with the arrival of the human menagerie,
their boisterous ways, jive not with the quietus
of the island paradise, and under the shady deck
where the convention conversations are held...

open to all but the factions forming, squirrels most
populous, demand the gavel and the chairmanships,
because they breed best, knowledges of the yard
terrain, par excellent, have climbed every tree,
show no fear, boldly jumping on the chaise lounge
occupant by the lady of the house, quizzing her with a
side-tilted glance of what are YOU doing here????

they like their acorns from the Oaks, their fav poem
Acorns in August, naturellement, naturellement,
leaving the beheaded remains of the acorns devoured,
everywhere, to obtain maximum annoyance from them
interlopers human, delighting in the foul mouthed exclamations,
when their ugly footed bottoms, unshod, meet the pointy part,
proving squirrels natural ability to govern the swap infected
by the two legged in-cursors, who have annoyed for forty years...

the rabbits, seek alliances, they live full time neath the deck,
making babies, so cute, getting bolder as they get older, hopping
unashamedly across the deck, eliciting oohs and has, of the children,
who blissfully unaware, all this creatures carry the ticks of Old Lyme.
Though unnumbered, the rabbits, fat, throw their heft around,
promising to drain the backyard of the invading hordes, with their
smelly sun tan lotions and outrageously ugly bathing towels...

called to order by the light of the flickering television, a fire signal
that the humans are in for the night, won’t notice the shouting and
shoving not so cute, tween the factions.  Animals behaving like
humans, what a lowly sad sight, deals and promises made, give
me a hundred Likes, ten repostings, and five 😊, say the hedgehog,
who rarely appears but boy is he big and has capital to lend to anybody
who will give him what he wants...

the field mice, have little-power, their diminutive constituency, not
so useful, as they no longer make the female humans, shriek, nah,
now they are cute, until they chew the wires in the basement, and
hide their tennis socks in spidery corners where they leave them to
yellow, corrode, unravel, unfit for human footage anymore;
and while these weakfish of the under-deck, their longevity of encroachment must be respected for they have been since time immemorial, which nobody remembers exactly how long that is exactly...

called to order, resolution on the floor, who shall lead the charge,
plan the plan to drain away the inhuman interference for once and
forevermore; but the conventional dialogue interruptus,  by an unfamiliar voice: a scouting party sent, like the spies of the Israelites, fails to return, another party formed and returns, with woeful news, of a white van truck,stenciled in black death,
                 The East End Pest Company (Exterminators)
has been invited in, and sadly nobody of the animal world has in their possess, a dictionary or vocabulary so large that the word, exterminate, strikes a note of danger!

the booing and brawling silenced, the political skullduggery is replaced
by the sad quietude, until the insect kingdom returns to reclaim the lands,
they were driven from many decades earlier, and they big human eavesdroppers, well, they know that word well and won’t make the same mistake twice! but then from above, between a crack, come a tumbling a business, white, from the deck o the below deck, in hand upon the back write these words:

See ya next week!
We leave your property
as clear as our conscience


p.s. for security reasons, conventions are held now every four years,
the location unrevealed, until, the very last minute

They run like headless chickens
but
I know it's only nerves and
the lingering opinions
of life
no longer fit to serve

Turn your back and they'll shoot you
then they'll curse you for falling down

I've seen a thousand wasted ******
on the unshod
riding roughshod on the
patterned cobblestones

and a thousand more hit homeless town
a thousand more folk going down

(Food banks)

pretty names for means testing,
religions on the rise
the poor are being shafted and
there's ****** in their eyes,

In the air ride, mod con sat upon the throne
he thinks it's home

I think it's Judas in my hair and it's God that
doesn't want to care
and if I have to
I don't want to
it's a mantra from the master who turned
out to be the ******* son of Satan.

Hating
always comes to hating more

don't hate the ***** for selling ***
there's some that sell their souls.

I know a few
not one a Jew
or Jesuit
who would sit and talk again of war

but it's war we make when we take a stand
and I've been to war before.

It'll end
and the end will be
headless chickens
lingering opinions
and
bad nerves.

Suffer Little children

*~~Tears fall down
From the orange skies
Hungry faces in the town
Weep in unison from dead eyes
Not enough to spread around
The winter chills a flower dies
Charity only fools you
Lost children singing halleluiah

Frosty cold ices the street
The homeless shuffle like the dead
Lost and lonely cry for heat
Hungry children weep for bread
Ragged souls with unshod feet
Where are the ones that rule you
The children reaching out for love
Pray for help to god above
Weeping angels singing Hallelujah

Death falls on us its only time
Lost souls are crying for your hands
Children like a half forgotten rhyme
Wander forever in dark lands
The heated deserts with bleached bones
With no winds there to cool you
Children pray to Angels bring us home
Nothing left but Hallelujah

My terrifyingly-terrifical reality warps under therapies psychiatrical
& psychedelical like no Atlantic tuna fisherman's scale pentatonical
upon oceanically-flat, perpendicularly-level sea planes capitalistical
while birds fly lower in an arid-zoned Arizona that's deterministical
& esoterical as men push thumbs up girly ***** for hikes strategical
after circle jerking to shows that're less proctological than athletical
but rarely & lamely ever, hungrily-raunchily-anorexically bulimical
I fork pitches into threshed alfalfa hay bales like I am pyromaniacal
and susceptibly prone to no ills local nor core diseases xenotropical
Hey largish woman, let us fish for warm regards at Cold *** Harbor before our freshest blue turds are totally stolen by a bold **** robber whose pushers are burned crack hoes with clap & an old **** jobber
fishing for the corpses of Frisco floaters with a *****-slotted bobber
off the Golden Gate where gag-happy girls have sold spit as slobber
while each ***** pukes peat & tosses penicillin as a mold-pit lobber
on leave from a Georgia chain-gang as a queer, unshod clod hopper twice demoted from flat-ball spotter to broken Hoboken hobnobber
who, like Hillary, survives on gray, vomited Hoboken squat cobbler
in gay museums & ***** ***** houses as a snot-clobbered shopper
resigned to tease, displease & nonviolently seize Herr Alvin Toffler
Pay more at Mary Tyler Moore's fish store on the floor of the shore,
with Al Gore on his global-warmin' tour to make wealthy men poor