One day both the hands

Decided to make a stand

Inviting both the feet

To where they all could meet

Down in the city park

To enjoy a pleasant walk

The feet both spoke out loud

We'll have to ask the mouth

He handles all of our affairs

From travel plans, to pedicures

From East to West, North to South

Here and there and there about

Gives everything we need

Through the chatter of his teeth

The ears they heard a roaring sound

And asked the eyes to look around

Of course it was the mouth

Telling them all to settle down

Who is it that gave the mouth control

Something that we may never know

Visions of crystal cobwebs
swept up in awesome lies;
ambergris whisked scentless
to a sea-streaked sky.

Watching the melting snow,
feeling clouds of fire,
hearing the orchestrated chime,
touching every liar.

Morning passed, blue's forgone
for a quiet afternoon;
vapours pulled at all my senses
towards the rising moon.

Faint southern lights soon faded
against the silent sphere,
no starry sky was witness,
to your smile beguiling sneer.

I thought something
Was wrong with me.
I'm writing so
Seriously.
Reading poetry
Religiously.
Lines invade
When I'm retiring,
Ascending I'm reciting,
Divining parallel parables.
I'm convinced  
He's left the stage,
Replaced by me
On the page,
In figures of speech.
The Chosen words,
Give meaning and comfort
Religion obscured.

With love we have
An alibi;
Sometimes,
A somewhere else
White lie.
My defense?
My innocence
Compels me to
Give evidence.

All I've learned
From Rock 'n Roll
Has helped divine
What I call soul.

I regret (usually too late), the authority
Of the sitting government.
Any government.
Once in power (I regret that word)
The back room broking good ole boys
At the exit polls loose their senses,
Sight and hearing.
Feelings get hurt.
Taxes are wasted.
The trough gouging is too loud.
I resent lying.

I regret (mostly from the evidence),
The too full baskets of organized religion
Overflowing from indulgences;
The Roman fingers
Poaching coins for another memorial window;
The glass cathedrals
And get-a-way cars.
I resent hypocrisy.

I regret people don't arrive on time
(no matter the time);
Especially when outside anyplace waiting,
Perhaps a light for a smoke is needed,
Or there's inclement weather,
The nearby company is distasteful.
Waiting dinner.
Late children are the worse.
They cause worry.
I resent the selfishness of time.

I regret being diseased,
And hated for it.
When in remission I'm loved.
Active, not so much.
The know-its say it's a matter of will.
Like you can cure
Cancer or smallpox with thoughts.
The one symptom alone, hurt,
Would need temples of meditating chanters!
I resent condemnation.

I regret failed relationships:
Family, friends and women.
My thoughts are mine;
If I said everything
You'd have a different opinion
Of what I am.
So we don't
Because we can't
Say things: we would appear as socio-paths.
We think good and bad;
Therefore we're real.
A virtual humanity.
I resent blathering.

I regret an educational system
That believes in paradigm shifts;
Spouting new-age lingo:
If it's not broken, break it;
Selling out to athletics,
Or Mr., Ms and Mrs. know
All about education;
They went to school.
Bullies top the list.
I resent permissive parents.

Most of all,
I regret
My resentments.

Have you seen the revolution?
did it quiver your repulsion?
sitting there in feigned rejection,
laughing at his resurrection.
Gone is word of insurrection,
take it now to your affection,
entertain his sweet deception
while he plays with his *******.

Please don't call me Poet
I am but a sinking boat
these words they crash against my hull
and keep my heart afloat.
They stop me going under
for my soul cannot be saved
it's sleeps down deep with Davey Jones
beneath the churning waves.

Please don't call me Poet,
to that name I don't aspire,
I merely scribble words that rhyme
and sing of dark desire.
I whisper onto paper every truth my heart does hear,
my blood it taints the pages
you will find no beauty here.

Please don't call me Poet,
I am but cold and worn,
my jaded eyes are barren
and my fickle heart is torn.
My resolve she crumbles slowly, precious thoughts do not behave.
If you must call me poet
place a marker on my grave.

I float on gin soaked nightmares
Yoked to the liquor like a babe to a bottle
Coaxed to sleep slowly, dosed on 70% proof
and with it the night's terror starts.

Gin addled, lying in sweat soaked sheets
Memories raise their heads above the parapet
These memories coaxed from their corners
Coerced by addiction.

My addiction I saw as a benediction
A positive to all the negative.
But my submission was not conviction,
it was hell and condemnation.

Now, my nightmares torment me,
like purgatory, no rest for the wicked,
the fallen, the flotsam and detritus of life.
Stricken I can only question....

What's it like to drift off quietly?
Not to wake with a scream trapped in your throat?
To count sheep instead of the faces of the long dead?
To slumber in peace, cloaked in love?

If you can answer these questions,
please let me know.
Pop a note in bottle and give it a throw.
If it washes up I'll let you know.

Beneath the calm
Of moonlit leaves,
Lying lovers
Shoot the breeze.

When in the moment
Of the mode,
Between the rhythm
Of stride and strode,
Shoot off your mouth
And not your load.

Corner thugs
Will deal you drugs
To smoke or snort
Or mainline shoot.
It's a slippery *****
Of lost freewill,
The up is high,
The trip's downhill.
You're in the cross hairs;
Drugs shoot to ****.

The shooter feigns
Heeding advice,
So craps himself
On loaded dice.

The lawyers grin
Without remorse;
They shoot your savings
Throughout divorce.

The pool hall hustler
Cues his cool,
Looking for
A snookered fool.

Naively, when the children play,
Yell, “Ah shoot!” instead of say,
“Ah ****.”
We say that's okay.
Like saying, “****!”
When they can.
It's in the Bible, see?

Sports Illustrated
Puts out a shoot
Of photoshops
In skimpy suits.

When we say
We shoot meat,
Do we stalk roasts
On city streets;
From our hide
On city blocks,
Do we crossbow
Down our chops;
Do we rope *******,
Then use buckshot?
It's euphemistic,
A rich spadeful:
"We shoot 'em all,"
And that's no bull.