enwombed
among the
sullen pine
gritty
grainy
grungy
with
past friends
of mine
here we stand
where once
we fell
to
buckskin glove
and
pitchfork tine
on
needled duff
drunk
on
honey wine
alone now
among the
sullen pine
entombed

we are
all of us
junkies
who said that
Burroughs maybe
some
behavioral scientist
some article
some ******
meme Steve
as I lay here
sleepless
helpless
basking
in the glow of
my anxiety abyss
my dopamine
doom box
my window
into the lies
of the reality
to which I
enslave myself
pondering
salvation
and
slavation
thinking
Maynard was right
we are
indeed
in need
of a good
flushing
from Mom
thinking
I knew a girl
who knew a girl
some hog goblin
who used to
blow him
whenever he
passed through
Dallas

one day
you too
will
not know
you never
existed

And they sat as equals in the first times. Those who measured the eons as days. The Morningstar and their Creator, watching the People. They will love what I gave them. The sun, the earth, the air, and the water. Their love will be praise, their tribute. The Morningstar, keener in the ways of the People, disagreed. No, some will see your gifts as their blessings, and theirs alone. They will band in like mind and hate others for their ways of praise. They will become keepers of their own truths. Liars in guise of your Word. Their praise will become death. This they will call Religion. As they spake, it became so, and the Devil was born. Hell soon followed, in the wake of the Morningstar.

Reality is
most real
at 0300
**** the
Witch of November
that dizzy *****
ain't got ****
on the
titanocunt of the morning
angel
The proverbial Kong
to our collective
Denzel
That hag
cuts cold
cuts pure
like the
fine Colombian
of
fabled yore
Cuts deep
through the hazy
procastinatory fog
of the day's
delusional din
Hey Nineteen
ye
I remember you too
Sleep tight
you Simple Minded
sonofabitch
And
don't you
don't you
forget about me
'Cause I'm acomin'
comin' 'round that corner
with
Krueger claws
and krugerrands
'Cause this old man
is definitely
too old for
this ****

Mostly
he'd just
like to
sleep

Forget that
bad moon
The shitstorm
currently rising
will assuredly
drown whatever
devils dance
its pale
lunar glow
Forever eventing
the pimply
horror horizon
of our
collective global
political shitshow

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Who'd do such a thing,
who'd want the rap?
Someone weak of knee,
I think.
Wanting of wood,
no doubt
(it reaching no more than three,
you see),
and in dire need of its
robust and ruddy sap.

Who planted the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Its seed ensconced,
mayhap,
a hundred years past
(or three),
by a wigged wiggly lass,
sporting and wee,
riding wild a
brigand Dragoon
on some fine
Imperial
British afternoon.
The sewn and
sprouting stone
assuredly
shaken from
her silken
pantaloon.

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
I dunno, prolly
the Russians.