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Rob Cohen Nov 2020
the ghost of Hamlet drives his Cadillac
from Denmark to Dallas

ghost foot stepping heavy on the gas
passing decades of decadence
fanned by fallen slaves with hollow faces
skeletons risen from their shallow graves.

watchmen cast their eyes
on dice and dominoes,
blind to murderous deeds
passing men begging on their knees
    whispering ****** words from chapped
chained lips
              
scoffs drowning pleads of 'don't shoot,
I've got kids to feed.'

Abraham walked down highway sixty-one
back to the sacrificial altar
carrying his rabid dog,
a bow, fifteen arrows and two pistols
in holsters -
                 best friend blown, shot in the head
splattered brains and bones spread on the rocks
                            sat drinking the blood
mixed with a double shot
to ease the swollen sense of shock.

Antonio is going home,
assets seized
though the loan remains unpaid
        walking the narrow
thorny road
his poems couldn't pay the bills
and pelicans sit
beaks wide and hungry
seeking holy loaves and fish to feed
    they watch a king pass
walking on water
as hunters and fishermen shoot
at the easy flocks of prey
           ready for bullets to spray
while clowns play
splashing in the shallows,
           they better pray to their gods now
for the day of reckoning shall be known.

blood floats on the water
under the purple painted sky
eyes shut  
     blurry from crying
all through the night,
                
              the resurrected king died a second time
now the hackers wipe his memory
       smirking Moloch's stinking grin
chicken grease drips from sharpened teeth
running down their chins
onto crisp white shirts
under petticoats stained with sin.

golden chalices and plastic cups  
       lifted in cheers
toasting on the cusp of greatness
party anthems sung in jest
as the prophet waved goodbye
                                      falling spread,
         punctured neck and chest
eyes shut  
            he lay shot dead.

Sisyphus fell back to the foot of a hill
rolling his stones
with a mountain to climb
asking for a lift,
    the driver shook his head
saying dimes are no way to pay in this rat race
and road-blocks
have closed the one-way that lay ahead

the impending street parade
with waving banners of death
flapping in the wind
   limousines turn into hearses
as the speechless crowd stand breathless
wondering in silence
                               who's next....
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
above the ashtray valley,
blood splattered light
of sunrise shines
on the factory town,
manufacturing marching slaves,
while institutes
groom prostitutes.

hawkers hunt
landmine playgrounds
for stray best friends
who ventured off leashes
and into wet market woks
serving stir-fry stew.

sides of
table—side theater—
cirque du slaughter
offers a show
with the menu.

cages rattle
like hostel cutlery culture,
in corrugated tin places
dishing dog meat plates
from street food
vendor caravans
to starving
hand-me-down
boys and girls.

unrelated,

underlined bold headlines
offer a glimmer of good news -
     ‘orphanage closes:
westerners adopt the school.’
lightning strikes twice
on page three,
offers of 'buy one,
get twins free’.
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
drowning on the closing page of winter
along the filth stained streets,
downtown Cape Town,
i walk upstream
through the sea of turnstile smiles
searching for a drop of sincerity.

drifting towards my vagrant home
with struggling sluggish steps,
my starved, lethargic
lactic acid legs
weigh heavy
hiking hungry.

trapped in a wayward ever-mend
cul-de-sac
at a blue traffic light,
my crippled compass
passes the warning signs
of humdrum sighs,
silencing my whistled
barbed wire lullabies
under suffer’d sulfur skies.

basking in cold-shoulder greetings
and downtrodden dismissals
my empty rag pocket bags
offer no trump cards or blankets
on the bone chilling pavements
of this tortured Topheth town.

September sings
springs song
as my ember flickers
under soaked socks
and shredded sneakers,
waiting for the sun
to dry my wings
and fly me westward
from these deacon blues
towards the beacon view
shining life anew.
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
On blue moons,
between barstools
and broken beds -
I have moments
where my
beer-battered brain
opens the cage,
brave enough
to let my own bluebird
fly across a blank page.

My caged bird sings
in tweets of pain,
dragging
my life-sentenced
ball and chain
across
the telephone lined terrain
of purgatories page.

Painting the space
in hues of blue,
birthed by ballpointed dissection
of wing-clipped
captivity,
my bluebird bleeds out
those soft, tender
places within me,
mocking the freedom
I'll never know.
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
самая большая радость - это жизнь
самая большая боль - это жизнь

memory burns into a loop
of melted vinyl
smooth touch
    scratching sound
a bottomless pool of broken noise.

white nail polish
glides into letters on a blackboard
forming romantic verses
      screeching to a halt
with the ripping of cuticles.

drifting into an afternoon siesta
waking to overgrown streets
electronic billboards
peak through the jungle
        'seek and destroy'.

sunlight reflects
off of a golden throne
white hot brightness
melting eyeballs explode
out of the hollow skulls.

Atlas cut off his ears
when the voices on his shoulders
drove him to madness
              lost bearings
without hearing
the balancing act slipped clumsy
dropping the blue ball into nothingness.

Jupiter's rings swung loose
falling
          forming a noose
cracking a lightning whip lasso
slipping around the neck
squeezing tight the windpipe
                                breathless death.
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
i shot into the starry night sky
on a Miles Davis blown trumpet rocket
fizzing higher and higher
with electric waves whizzing
from the soles of my beaten scuffed boots
through my body
and up to my head,
spiking each strand of hair
to stand stiff like a saluting soldier.

buzzing on brass blown bubbles
and bass drum beats
my feet started shuffling
scuffling to hoots and *****
of cosmic rhythmic jungle jives
that sent shock-waves raving
in a two step jumping jack jolt
along every plate of my tingling spin.

star dust synchronized swimming
melodies melted and dissolved
into the air around me
dancing on clouds of sound that lifted
both feet right off the ground
carrying me with a freight train gust
onto spinning turntable tabletops
with a hop, skip and flashing jumping jacks.

those jazz sounds reverberated
through my body and dislocated my joints
into fluid elastic bending motions
of rubber-band man wiggling,
flopping and flapping with the blowing harmony
of exploding saxophone stimulated satisfaction
ringing in euphony
from ear to ear
in toe tap dancing frequencies
ten-thousand nautical miles skywards
to the sweet trumpet of mister Miles Davis.
Rob Cohen Nov 2020
my finger lingers
on the trigger
safety pin
deep inside of me,
waiting to pull
a jellyfish parachute
floating me into the dust
and the dirt,
at the slight sight
of an upward curve on my lips.

in my rickety raft of uncertainty,
bobbing on the sea of momentary
tranquility;
waves of warmth
wash over me,
as i douse myself
with a liquid nitrogen
concoction of self-preservation,
steadying the swing
for a cushioned fall.

hardwired in the vaults
of my memory-bank
are big screen flashbacks
replaying scenes of endorphin
robberies,
tattered scrapbook
crime-scene photographs
and chalked off reflections
illuminating the lineup of clown masked
ghosts.

crestfallen from Goliath heights
without a stitch of pride,
still i fall
from roller-coaster summits
on groundhog,
scratched
stuck record tracks
to a heap of rubble and debris
lying
where the tower of Babel
once was seen.

my dark,
barking mad dogma
echoes whispers
in Greek
from the ink
of Hegesias and Heraclitus;
and surrenders to French truth
captured
by Voltaire and Rousseau
in safety net ceilings
cementing my plight flight
in a lifetime of all-time lows.
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