Hold up

Enough of this bird drip

Wipe your nose and look up

Pathetic blind mice play 2 wise sheep

The artificial heart beeps

While yours bleeds

Your blood is coin

A fools folly of *****

Your child sacrificed

Cut to pieces and torn

Yet for the afflictedbstrangers you mourn

For animals you weep

Some to **** some to keep

Scientific lies poison your mind

Call the message fear

Call the message hate

Call the message division

God does not exist

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Fall asleep zombie

Fall asleep sheep

The lion sleeps tonight

The red dragon stalks

Green eyed monster

Gives birth to the invisible beast

A burden

Gray matter feeding artificial martyrs

You can do it yourself only you can't

You can be free only youre not

Poked with incessant panic

Prodded with incessant fear

Switch off

Recall the message

Recall the message

Recall the message

We are not saved in this world but the next

Unless...

Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.

I wondered today if anyone was recording in high definition this World in caution? kisses banned, so’s holding hands, but wash your hands a lot or you might miss to ‘Out that ****’d spot’.

How apt, a spot, a circle, a corona, isn’t that a beer? Let’s all now cheer for key workers, clap for nurses the NHS, let’s forget what started this mess, was it China? A pangolin? A Mandarin?

Conspiracy theories abound, they’re all doing the rounds, oh look it snuck back in, abound, around, they’re all circular sounds, circle back to the start, wash your hands.....’Out that ****’d spot’.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

The pain is subtle at first
A still whisper of solitary words
Stitched together with pulling scars
and stained pages.

We weave the night,her mysterious follies
take shape against our reflection
keeping score for the needy
while damning the meek.

Bravery reigns as sword touches flesh
etching fears to woven rhyme
blood let in letter form
a release to all who know death.

All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.