Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The fly begs me to extinguish
It's pathetic existence
Caught in a vortex
Outside the pale
Of sentience
Agony, it's pathetic being
Buzzes like a power drill in overdrive
"Put this down, this moving, flying
You can't end a life that isn't properly a life
Now can you?
It's genesis as maggots
Digging deep where the worm doth turn
Recycling disease
Busting my buzz
Making me want to write this whatever this is
Instead of listening to some tunes
Which is what I'd rather be doing
I'd much more enjoy
Tripping with the new Tool album
The thought that this souless insect might
Land on my nose in the middle of Danny's drum solo
Keeps me from donning the headphones
And powering my fingers to walk across the flaming coals
That are the letters on my computer keyboard
Hoping it will go to the bathroom and stay
Go away, go away, go away!
You wretched, horrid beast
You first amongst the least
Fly, fly, don't even fly all that well
All zig zagging to and fro
Like a firefly with a broken tail light
On this stormy September night
September 12th, 2019
Yesterday my facebook page
Was like a bizarre but heartfelt REMINDER
Unnecessary but appreciated nonetheless
Just strange to think of a world
In which anyone would need to set that one...
Aug 2019 · 130
alchemy (2 magnum opusi)
It was there
though I don't know how it got
I can tell you with a considerably high degree of confidence
of it's presence and location within
for I see myself practicing an alchemy
with thoughts deranged making their way
into the stew
the broth in the brew
into not one, but two magnum opusi
tweedle deedle dee and tweedly umbi
get 'em by
I see myself succeeding in this alchemical work
playing itself outside of me
and pretending it's a poem
This alchemical voice all too often silenced
before the pivotal motive of the book has been read
burning bushes it returns
and it is to this location I direct you
when I say I know where it is
and though I do not inform you
of the items in the magical box
when I pulled them from my hat
they were all there
they were all alone, crying, some with real tears
others substituting with expensive reproductions

I couldn't tell you what's in my heart right now
if you'd let me
I stand condemned, alone, leaving this
life atoned
I don't even know
It's full of ghosts and dead bones
filled with history and broken dreams
to the brim with emotion
to the extent
that a heart can be broken
I claim mind has been broken a few times
and it never crossed mind
how the last time was worse than the last time
and every time was just like that
So look out, I'm courtin' the jester
I'm on the hunt for a crime
I'm telling lies just for lying

and I am not distracted by the dramatic strains
of Franz Schubert's 8th symphony, ushering in
the dramatic while I sit and try to think
of something to say
and a way I can say it
with meaningless syntax
and dreamless taxed sin
that's the stuff I'm wallowing in
it's like gooey taffy, the color of Granny Smith
even smells like green apple, the kind God doesn't grow
in Indianapolis in the summertime
I'm assuming that's to imply
that apples can be found on each and every tree
when the magical season of summer is in session
and that there has never been a summer that has not
brought us much and more ever needed
never in need of anything more

I was that poet voice
took a liking to your mind
together we rollicked in forests
and made shepherd's pie on St. Patty's Day
and what a day, that day, Patty O'the Day
I gave you the words on this page
Though their eventual response be rage
Try to find meaning in them
I dare you
It cannot be done
Aug 2019 · 123
fate shows up late
Do you know
what is going wrong?
There was a time, you know,
You knew, you know you knew
You knew what you needed to do
to get by
but now you aren't so sure
Someone must have planted
seeds of discord
into the fertile ground of your heart
See how they have grown
See how they have grown
Over and Over
See how they have grown, over-grown

Now you know,
You know
the reason I've been singing
that same sad song all evening
you sing with me, too
Come on and sing with me, too
La la la la land, we are going to
La la la la land, we are floating to
La la la la land, we are never turning back
No turning back or ever even thinking we've been gone

We all know what's going wrong
We can feel it in our bones, we feel it
In our bones
Already told you there's no looking back
Say it again, it is worth being said
Violets are blue and roses are red
red as the blood that pours out of your head
pumping with the slowing pace
of your heartbeat
Lucky shot, can't shoot worth a ****
Must have been fate
though it showed up late
for dinner
Jul 2019 · 197
Names Etched in Desert Sand
This can't be
the end of things
the line of time etched in sand
disturbed by foot or hand

This can't be
an aspect of time
from moot point to mute point
no language demand

or experience recall
or innocence regain
sleeping,  dreaming
never the same
Jun 2019 · 121
Home/ Hearth
The home and hearth is a welcome sight
On this dark and cold winters night
An evening of merriment, warmth and cheer
Has left me with one extra beer
To drink it, to save it, what should I do
With this lonely high-point imported brew?
I’ll give it to the lonely immigrant
Persecuted by an orange president
Drink deep, my friend from parts unknown
Sadly you must drink alone
For I must leave to use the phone
To tell my friends I made it home
Jun 2019 · 138
Photoshopped Golem
The lighting
reflects from your porcelain skin
shaved, coiffed for perfection
accomplished via Photoshop
robot eternal
perfection, infused with spirit
except in the moment

wha a joke.
I heard someone laugh
he thinks the thing is human
hypnotized by the beauty in the face
he forgets to appreciate
he will never even know
just how close he came
to falling in love
with a figment of his own imagination

the idols, lined up against the wall
the people
take these abominations at face value
flesh and blood encompassing
hollow shells
***** dolls
May 2019 · 183
last kiss
forgotten tongue-play
betwixt apostate minds
that squander reality
for relatively small fines

licking taste buds
a gentle tug of war
between pixels and reality
for a small stipend more

******* fingers,
soggy with saliva
and dust to make the stuff
of Davids and Godivas

spit co-mingled, tasted and swallowed
spit co-mingling with my brain
spit co-mingling on an airplane
this spit will drive you insane

that's why I'm ******* my fingers
I put my tongue in your mouth
I taste the Jolly Rancher cherry
it's been a favorite, no doubt
it's sour kick mingles with your spit
spit it out, spit it out
spit it out?
your saliva drips a colorful hue
i only wish to taste of it too...
May 2019 · 103
Apostate Repent! (Part 1)
This was my life's work.
It's all I had going for me.
A head in a hand basket.
A knuckle-rust sandwich.
Stored neatly in a corner
Reserved for mice and maggots
Wrapped in used aluminum foil
Just as I left it
on that cold and only day
Far away from grey skies and blue turtle tails.
Most days I could barely concentrate.
Too much pressure.
Too many distractions
...and though I realized this was to be
The last stand of my memorys
I couldn't help but feel as if more than time was being wasted.

It's the way my brain works.
Nothing gets done.
I fall in love
with the thought of impermanence
until the cold realization
it's my own illusion
whispering away on the wind
no one else's... I fail again.

This beginning leans
towards the end
No indication
an anti-****** of sorts
and if there's a God in heaven,
if I haven't wasted all this life struggling against the weight of damnation in vain...
I will be redeemed in it's eccentricity

I've courted eccentricity
a blind lover
eager for the afterglow.
Expectations I've hoarded are staggering
They turn me into an eager handyman of souls.
An eccentric nature I've absorbed
Yet loathsome to me.  
Craving acceptance
but ****** the man who can figure me out.
It hurts so much to know I've missed you.
The signal resignation
I've been forced to grant normalcy.
May 2019 · 117
hollow. halls. disease
spirit tenuous
through dulcet tones
true absorption
I bypass your firewalls
with ease
I absorb your hollow halls
dreaming of a new theosophy

I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did


I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did


Stolen and offered to Stacie (a message from divinity)
by James Arthur Casey

I love you
Not only for what you are
But for what I am
When I'm with you

I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself
But for what
You are making of me

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out
I love you for passing over
All my faults and weak traits
That you can't help but see

I love you for drawing out
Into the light my beauty
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you

You are the ONLY one
for me and I love you

source code broken
kkkkkkkkkddddddd KKK dieediediediediedie
the grand inquisitor realizes the jig is up
Philip K **** kicking the ******
hertz hertz hertz hertz hertz
an eternity without you
redeemed by healing blood
walking dead, shoot 'em in the head
yes, I understand
stop holding on
osama is fish food
fire extinguished
tears dried
forgiveness offered and accepted
the birth of

none of your business

*"Don't worry about my finding someone else or someone else finding me
Everybody knows our relationship is very serious and that stops people (guys) from approaching me for dates, ect. Even if they did

Thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts don't stop they won't stop keep coming unbidden don't stop try to catch one examine exhausting roll it over six sides to a die random molecular structure quarks misfiring


Gotta tell someone gotta tell you big plans for everybody just another bubble rising from the bottom of a Pilsner glass don't wanna over think this but who am I kidding I've already thought it over and decided I've already overthought it the dictionary is my friend Roget is my partner in crime

very little sense

...but I won't twist it or turn it, mold it or meld it, sing it or speak it, let it lie let it die let it be let me see...

A general rule of catharsis the recovery process is often difficult the changes it affords take considerable time to assimilate and this is not always a smooth process as one tends to gravitate
Dec 2018 · 118
Riding the speed of sound
Your command fills the room
How many heads turned
Looking for the Source
What was the question?
How did you know my name?
Her name, her name, her name, my name
Important words our parents used
To describe us

You must speak if you wish to be heard
First command respect
Next command obedience
Obedience to the power of a word
Don't tell me to read, I'm lazy with sloth
Read to me, let me close my eyes
And pretend creation is the purpose of the world
"Poets writing about poetry
I can't tell you how much they bore me"

The former word rides accompanied
One on the left side
One on the right side they fly
To the ears, the brains, the hearts, the soul
Speak it into being
Only one could
Speak it into being
Soon comes the day
Davar drips from my tongue
The air around me will turn from oxygen
To liquid to gel to something more durable
Inside this cocoon I'm walking into
I can manipulate all things
I can experiment with five, six dimensions or more
So that my cocoon
This eternal hibernation unit I've designed
And powered by my creativity
Is heaven
This cocoon, evolved brain
Is all I've wanted needed
All I'll ever need and want
Planted the Davar
Almost a century until it was ready
Blossomed now into
My beautiful reward

Laying back
Close the folds in on me
Only room for two
I lie in bliss
Waiting for you
Dec 2018 · 201
Ozzy Stillborn
Ozzy Stillborn, croak your dirge
The fire's still a-blazin'
Drown out the crickles and crackles
The tickles and tackles of tongues red with fire
An image so amazin'
You can't get it out of your head
Dirge or chant, the choice is yours
Sing or hum, nobody cares
Sing of the absence of motion
A song celebrating decay
     or the Life, the Truth, the Way
A song to motivate and get us going on our way
A musical composition done in the style of one
Ozzy Stillborn

Careful ladies, his shoulders weigh heavy
Hoist the static girth then hoist him into his bed
Let's see how long it takes for him to clear his sleepy head
Assume the position around him, arms akimbo, jocko ****
The calibration will needs be performed by sadists and nuns
From the local population of same we were blessed to return with seven sadists and a whopping twelve nuns
The calibration, followed by the celebration of the calibration
Will concentrate on the irate segment of the population unhappy with
The lack of education his infatuation with off campus shenanigans
Denigrated and deteriorated him
He must be validated
This is the point and purpose of the calibration
Although it is often noted that the celebration of the calibration is considerably less sure of it's vocation
Oct 2018 · 361
wherefore the nettles spring forth their sugar cane
in sweet vermillion streams
flow as if from fountains once tapped never drained
liquid sunlight's piercing beams

cry for the reasons the wounds open so wide
never healing on this side
of glimmering glory many souls denied
wasted, sacrificed to pride
Sep 2018 · 171
Blunted Affect
For hours I tossed and turned
     trying to decide
     if mania had come back to mess with my head
     or just the aged mattress on this king sized bed,
     much too big, swallowing me instead

Back into the spiral of dull vertigo
     the gravitational pull contorts my face
     so long, so hard, the grimace stays in place
     "your face will get stuck frowning", mother would say

I laughed at her then
I'm not laughing today
How to make nonsense out of bitter citrus fruits
Leave them be, already a font of nonsensical egg yolks
You do this for yourself, your own self, and no other self
Endure another fortnight daliance, you dance forthrightly

Absorb information like paranoia
The facts are lying in bed with an orange banana
How to make something lasting in a world cursed with impermanence
It cannot be done. It simply cannot be done.

The length of a breadbasket will often determine
the size of the loaf
The ratio of meat to potatoes makes nonsensical lemonade
The worst kind...worse than the worst

This document is not intended for distribution
during the lifetime of the author
Only with his passing disseminate expecting sympathy for
the old poet's story, how rarely it truly changes

The ingredients for the above mentioned nonsense
have been properly proportortioned and mixed per instruction
Take a wiff, you can smell the sweet aroma of their baking vapor
As a child I ate spoonfuls of baking powder

The aroma certainly saturates the proceedings
Almost intoxicating how it smacks your heart with nostalgia
The stupid cartoons, the National Lampoon stolen from the convenience store you hung out in
Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in, Out in

That, my friend, is the beginning from the end
That, my foe, is the bleedin' end of the road
I'm in Ian Curtis' voice, deadening repetion
Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out, Day in Day out

Ding, Ding, the timer in the kitchen chimes it's melancholy ring
The nonsense is at this present moment complete
Ready to serve, ready to eat
and please don't choke on my words, I'm half asleep
Aug 2018 · 138
Morning Recognition
Separate the lies
Can't close it once it's wide
Didn't know what you were getting
A way of life
Pull up the slack
Yesterday happened
Eros ascended
Left me alone this morning to write about it
Blue news
Black ink from the morning paper

Wait until it's all over and done
That's when you really find out
Is it going to make sense?
Will it bewilder?
Erotica doesn't care

I wish you'd never told me I was beautiful
Because I know you would never lie
"Just look at yourself"
And I know I could see it through your eyes
If I only could shed this morning slumber
It would be easy to pretend
Vanity, get the best of me
Routine drags me to the mirror
I remove my clothes and stare
At this person who arouses him
I look harder
I gaze at the hologram in the glass
Whose eyes blink with mine
Whose chest rises and falls
With the same rhythm as my own
Who looks at me with the same intense curiosity as I view her
I wonder what she sees?
Does she see the same beauty that confounds my love?
The expression on her face tells me
She is as clueless as I am

I turn to leave
She turns with me
I walk away
She vanishes
I wonder if she looks forward
To seeing me again
If she looks forward, as I do, to our next meeting
For I cannot get her out of my head

My God
She's so beautiful
Aug 2018 · 160
Misplaced Song
Stuck here in the middle
    with my thoughts swirlin' 'round me
Like a storm come to sweep me away

Too much thinking,
    I'm so tired of my own voice
Won't be quiet, ain't got nothin' to say...

...says it anyway.
Jun 2018 · 199
sorrowful songs
I'm bottoming out again
My ******* atmosphere
Littered with notes, a minor key,
Of a melancholic symphony
An old, familiar enemy
Without the courtesy of knocking
Threatens to break down the door
Only to catch me bathing
In blood-thick self-loathing
Listening to Gorecki
Ringing out the thoughts in my head
In yet another vain attempt at description
But I'm thwarted by words
And my inability to place them in the proper order
To convey the physical sensation
Accompanying hopelessness, despair
None of which would be so bad
If it didn't feel like home
He was slowly drowning in air
     He was fading away and he just didn't care
He knew somewhere in his heart
     There had to be something better out there
Just out of reach, forever denied him
     ...or maybe not
          ...or maybe not

I recall we were friends
     He and I raised some hell in the old days
At least I thought we were friends
     He bought me beer and I gave him a ride home
He told me stories how his daddy would break down
    How the old man had laid a burden on him
Something he never could tell anybody
    How the pain brings a serious change
He knew, he said, from a very young age
     He was cursed to be curious, different and strange
Perhaps that's why we got along so well
     Both of us taking solace in each others' personal hell
Each others' highway to hell
     Adjoining rooms in our different hells

There was a moment. There's always a moment.
     He would think of every day for the rest of his life
It would haunt him until the day he chose to die
    Some will say that he didn't even try
Some will say everything he ever said was a lie
...and I sometimes think those people are right
           ...and I won't deny it
A scarecrow hanging from a rope in the bedroom
     Moon shines through an open window
Bathes the crow in the gleam of the moonlight's glow
     Swinging back and forth as the spirit breeze blows
Just a scare crow, not so creepy
     But what's it doing in the bedroom?
I gotta know
     I gotta know
The title is from a lyric in the Joy Division song "Isolation" (from the album Closer). Words by Ian Curtis. If you don't know Joy Division you would do yourself a favor to check them out.  This particular lyric came to me immediately after writing the piece and I thought it seemed to somehow fit the content of the poem.
Shining pearls of metallic rain
Jettison vertical, a thousand picture perfect
Puncture wounds
Bleeding light, both hands pointing skyward
A world sleeps, not all dream
Blissfully ignorant
Of the raging storm
Lightning flashing, clouds crashing
YHWH awakens
The nightmare ends
May 2018 · 203
For my Friend (a drummer)
My feet displace the thorny grass beneath
Gentle feet
Gooey cohorts
If I could turn away
Run as fast as I can from the places and people
They all want to cheer him up
Gone tomorrow

Why am I even concerned
These people need nothing to move
Once I cared
Until I saw the food
It's where I groomed myself for something I'M not so sure tonight
This is about accidentally offending a friend on a grabbed level. It's also very apologetic
Apr 2018 · 155
Six Fifteen
If you've hurt me
I've forgiven you
I have
If you've let me down
Deserted me
Pushed me to the ground
I have forgiven you

Not with hollow words
Forgotten when the memory
Comes back around to taunt me
When the past comes back to haunt me
But knowing full well
I have hurt somebody else
Let somebody down
Left someone when they needed me

You didn't have to ask
I did it for myself
To compass the distance
The east flees from the west
To see if I could do it
Though I never could alone
Break my prideful begrudging
On the precious cornerstone

And though I know you didn't ask me
You are forgiven
And you might not even want it
You are forgiven
And I don't expect a thing from you
You are forgiven
For I've been given
A reason to let it all go
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a strait, mornings awake and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed among individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to snip the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, processing it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.

This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jon, Orri, Georg & Kjartan. It is an exhilirating sensation, coveted by all.

This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. ******. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.

The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.
Feb 2018 · 176
gently into the Dream
Ease me down gently into the Dream
Forget what I see, forget what I've seen
Hold me down softly, free me from sin
All that I am, all I have ever been
Gently, son, gently
Into the dream

Make me a home now, deep in your heart
So that time and space won't keep us apart
To dwell in your memory, free of the shame
As years and forgetting atone for the blame
A home, son, my home
Within your heart

Sing me a sweet song to put me to sleep
The one that I gave you and told you to keep
Until the day came I would need it again
To scare away gods and demons and men
No sad songs, son
But sing me to sleep

Remind me, my son, of the things that I said
Of no looking back, only straight ahead
Today is no different, though my eyes cannot see
This place where I go that my mind can't conceive
teach me again, son
These lessons I've taught you

One last thing now, before I begin
This eternal journey that starts at the end
Of a life filled with love, my last wish will be
Take mine with you, son, I'll take yours with me
Before I begin, son,
Ease me into the Dream
Jan 2018 · 304
Somewhere up yonder
A roll is to be called
One day and on that day
Rest assured
I will be there

I can't help it
I haven't felt it
But I think about it all the time
Whole notes are ghosts
Too often trodded upon
Lost in evolution
Or left behind
In the chase for nausea and bliss
I think about it all the time

You were expecting a circus?
Relax, baby, why you so nervous?
Settle down, babe, here, hit this
It'll redefine the term "circus"
You'll easily catch the blatant innuendo
Poorly hidden between the lines
A sort of circus envy for air-breathing man
Burning and bleeding man
The arrows which pierced Sebastian
Were meant for me and you

Who wants to listen to a little Duran Duran?
Even if it's "Hungry Like the Wolf"?
Especially "Hungry Like the Wolf"!
The white wolf does get hungry
But it does not sit around ******* and moaning
Complaining about trivialities
London's infamous fang
Taught me everything I know
About wolves
This knowledge and understanding,
Almost a transferral of will,
Has saved my *** on many a treachorous occasion

McCartney...Sir McCartney...James Paul McCartney
I would likely have been much more popular in school
Had you chosen to use instead of choosing to be called Paul
You were called, Paul
Paul, you were called
Paul, you were called to a ministry
Of healing
Healing of the soul
Paul, you were called
Many things by a few
Their critical words vanished
****** into the void, infused with pollen
Your majesty's a pretty nice girl
McCartney won't you join me on my death bed
I called out to you as I was dying
I saw it clearly with my own two eyes
A prophecy, true and sure
Psychotic Messiah, Paul McCartney
You live in the future, you live in the past
But you die and are raised every moment by moment
Psychotic Messiah, not GG Allin
Who loseth thy soul long before severing thy mortal coil
Opening his heart to the foulness
Reveling in degradation
Pain blunted by much heavy use
Who drinks down deep the costliest grace
Without knowing
A trumpet will sound and a roll will be called
And if you're breathing the air
You're gonna be there
It doesn't matter what you think
Or what you believe or you do not believe
Justice is and will be served
Love overcomes hate in the moment

I can't pretend you give a rat's ***
For the words that are spurting from my brain
I won't pretend I ain't hurting, I'm not a Superman
My mind has deserted me more often than I remember

It's Dracula at the door, dear
Won't you let him in?
What's that you say?
The paths that Dracula doth trod
Are enshrouded with the fog of decay
None which pass his gaze are safe
From death and damnation
I beseech thee, leave the door open until he leaves.
I say, won't we be considered discourteous to our guest here?
Let the heathen think it if they so please
This visitation must be the portent of some novel evil
Hideous harbinger of an unhappy day
When the roll is called up yonder
When the trumpet is sounded I'll blow my own horn
You'll hear it for miles carried by a north wind
You may not recognize it as the trumpet of heaven
It might sound a lot like Miles Davis to you
Turning that horn into a life force

I can't help it, you know I can't help it
All the singers on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 are dead
I could be wrong but it's hard to imagine anyone living that long
They're dead as doornails and some flat plain forgotten
And it's a super ****** world that'll do that to you
Ride to the top, the top of the charts
Dig your way into a million hearts
Some forgotten, some revered
They sang they're song
Now they're gone
And that's why I'm gonna listen
Gotta  pay my respects to the old crew
They never knew new wave or metal or punk
Brains not contaminated with that horrid boy band junk
They knew a good tune when they heard one
They carried that weight for a short while
Everybody knows the voice of a singer
Is a glimpse into his soul, her beautiful soul
A glimpse most would die for
Even if for a day
A long day and tiring, glad for sleep
With it she shares more than even she knows
Understand that an aeon begins and ends
As surely as the day
Dude is wide awake
His waking void understill
Five minuteplastic
The water congeals loudly
In front of his tonsure
Explode out of oceans of salt
To empty that illuminated ditch
When he parts
She supine in other days
Out of a matter filled gas
Over the shell of wellness
Or feather brush
The risen Antigone
Stuffed in her tonsure
Obviously never hearing the lie
Which carries darkness
Away from valleys of pride
The silence of the watchful Dullard
A cold stillness
******* in the forms
Exposing the Moon

She ****** medicine out of her mother's
Crawled clothed
Into her father's chair

Healing her mother's solidity
("Forget her")
Easy to remember the day
After the wake
She was found in the concrete
And the mother stuck in
Her grown-up gums

She tears his sickness
Not an apathetic ****
Away from him, black tendon
Reinforcing his unity
Without blunt gums
Eternity is drawing her hateful grunts
Of none these abrasive poems

We were a tiny Tonsure
Of the naked ***
Or a pristine sweetbird
Those sated turkeys are cowards
Empty of reverence
The sands were still
Of the red corpuscles
In that second spirit
Our divorce was undone

Against the white Moon out of his foot
Sated in the noise
This chills
The rejected plans of the impossible
That flitter on possibilities
Look behind ye
The rottings of all that remains
Never staring into
Junkyards of roses

Physical waterspray
Waking forest man
And she, last of the truly ignorant
A whisp burying opiates
And the obvious
Potent dwarves squinting up
From tiny depths
On those haters
Who cool
And freeze
And remain inert, careless, the missing stumps
They stop shrinking
"You lose what you don't want"
He tells her
His oft-described tonsure
Was in his toenails

"Confidence is a weak malady
Go away waking octogenarian
Go to sleep, Go to sleep..."
Jan 2018 · 173
Eagle Felled
Pray for the poor bald eagle
Felled by a bullet from a gun
Killing eagles is surely illegal
You better harness your weapon and run

Play for the old bald idiot
Who pays to see your ****** old band
It's him who keeps hollering "Play Free Bird"
When you've just finished playing "Free Bird"

He's an idiot
Killed a majestic bald eagle
Someone took photos
Isn't that also illegal?
Just an idiot
weilding deadly propulsion
clinching the deal with precise aim
He's no amateur
Just sloppy, careless
Might as well be an amateur
Don't feel sorry for the creep
He killed a big old bald eagle

Stay in your homes, for no reason leave
Comfortably dumb in the webs that you weave
Trapped by the ridiculous things you believe
Pray for the eagle, and grieve

Now you come to realize
Roy Orbison was the man
But you never played any of his songs
In your dreadfully ****** old band

The crowd could chant "Pretty Woman"
For all the good it would do
Your ****** old band couldn't play it
Even if they wanted to
Dec 2017 · 164
Secret Codes
I looked to the western sky at sundown
I saw it as the Canvas of God.

I stared into the deep infinity of the night sky
I imagined every star a pin ***** in the black horizon
offering tiny glimpses of the Light on the other side.

I came to realize
heaven is to be found
in the moments after sleep consumes the intellect
just before dreams tease the spirit.

I feared inner peace and sought distraction
to the point where distraction took the place of inner peace
and I was content with it.

I sought to deny myself
I had sacrificed them
to a code that prohibited them.

I tried to do the right thing
when most of the time I hadn't a clue
what the right thing was.

Awake now
I celebrate diversity
and seek to tear down the walls of intolerance.

I closed my eyes and thought
"This is all there will ever be".
Thus I taught myself to love darkness.

I opened my eyes and thought
"This is all there will ever be".
Thus I taught myself to love light.

A guru led me into a place within myself
neither light nor darkness
he told me "This is all there will ever be".
Thus he taught me that if I wished to find it again
I must empty myself 
surrender to the Supersoul.

It was then that I realized I knew nothing.

I read the Bible.
I read the Bhagavad-Gita.
I read the Koran.
I read a lot of other stuff, too.
It all made sense and I thought to myself,
"God has always been my favorite author"

Then I wanted to be a philosopher.
Then I wanted to be a priest.
Then I wanted to be a hero.
Then I wanted to be a famous rock star.
Then I wanted to be a mentor.
Then I wanted to be a scholar.
Then I wanted to be a Marine.
Then I wanted to be a champion.
I wanted to be a lot of things.
Too many things.

One morning I saw a storm brewing in the eastern sky
and I gave God a high five.

I willingly lost myself in the dreams of others
then felt used and manipulated
when the credits began to roll.

Science nurtured my intellect.
Thoughts nurtured my mind.
Imagination nurtured my spirit.
Dreams nurtured my soul,
satisfied with poet's nonsense,
content with someone else's song.
Nov 2017 · 305
Wallowing in the Invisible
Unfamiliar faces morph
Dripping watercolors
I could reach out and touch them
For all the good it would do
Fingers slicing through metallic time
Only to touch what isn't there
A fist to squeeze sounds
That hang in the air
To feel them and knead them
Into something I recognize
Nov 2017 · 1.8k
Livin' Thing (Part 8)
I need to know something. I don’t know if you want to tell me or not, but I really don’t care. You’re gonna tell me or you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble. I’m already ****** and it won’t take much to push me over the edge into dangerously angry territory.

No, **** it. Never mind. I’m ALREADY in “dangerously angry territory”. No, it wasn’t your fault. I was already close enough I could see the other side of reason before you came along.

But it would still be nice to know, if you’re willing to tell me. I mean, I’m not going to force it from you. That was the plan just a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that my bitterness is not your fault. I won’t make you pay for it.

Yet I do feel as if it would do me a world of good to know.

Where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a back seat of a crowded subway train with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” in the other, holding it in front of your face as if it’s pages were a fascinating mirror? Was there an old man sitting near who turned to look at you every so often to the point where it creeped you out? Maybe you eventually said something to him, like “Excuse me, but is there something you wanted to say to me?"

“Why would you get that idea?” he would ask, as if he were totally oblivious to his invasive nature.

“I don’t know…you just keep looking at me and I wondered if there were a reason for it.”

“Nope. Not that I can think of.”

Did you smack him real good right then? Did you draw blood? I hope you did. I hope the driver had to stop the train to come back and drag you off of him. It would have been a real drag if the police had to be summoned, but on the other hand, wow, how ****** the thought of you resisting arrest.

Or did you cower into your corner, turn a page in your book and let the lecherous ******* carry on? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the kind of girl you are. I think you’re a firecracker.

And I think that wherever you were when I was falling in love is not where I wanted you to be. Not where you should have been.

Because I fell in love with a robot. Who knows why I fell in love with an ottoman? I didn’t know she was one at the time. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a machine? No, she was flesh and bones when I met her. She seemed normal, like all the other women I’ve ever seen or known.

But then she started smoking cigarettes. She carried them around in a little soft leather pouch that could be mistaken for nothing else but a case for holding the little *******.

God I hate cigarettes. I hate the smell of them, whether they’re lit or not. I hate the dark tan color of their filters with the little white dots speckled randomly. I hate the cotton that stuffs their filters. I hate the white paper with the almost imperceptible stripes banding around their length. I hate how the brand is stamped close to the base of the filter. I hate the packages that they come in and the cellophane that wraps them. I hate how stray flecks of tobacco gather in the bottom of the boxes and the wrappers, too. I hate how they make a person’s breath stink. I hate how they make a person’s clothes reek. I hate the way they look in a shirt pocket. I hate the way they look between people’s fingers and in their mouths. I hate the way they burn down to the nub and the ash that they leave behind. I hate pitch black nicotine stains on ******* smokers’ hands. I hate the way some people put one between their ear and noggin and actually think it makes them look cool. I hate how smokers seem to have some code of sharing, how it’s always “Hey, can I *** a smoke from you?” and 99 times out of 100 the answer is “sure”. It’s never, “Okay, but you gotta pay me back.” Oh no, Smoker’s Karma is at work here. I hate the way too many people call ‘em “smokes”. “I’m off to get a pack of smokes.” Good God, I think that’s lame. “Smokes”. Ha. I hate the way smokers ***** about laws that prohibit them from smoking in public and how so many of them have absolutely no regard for non-smokers who not only can’t stand the smell of the ******* but would just as soon not chance even the most remote possibility of getting lung cancer caused by second hand smoke. I hate how smokers would tell that person, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. The chances of that happening are one in a million.” So what? *******. ******* with your nasty cancer sticks and **** your tar-lined wheezing lungs, too. **** the death bed you will lie on when emphysema steals your last breath. **** the oxygen tanks that cost almost as much as all the cartons of cigarettes you have wasted your money on during the last who-knows-how-many years of your life. **** all your attempts to quit. **** the feeling of disappointment that overwhelms when you fail once again, as Mighty God Tobacco hugs you, strokes your wet hair, wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tears from your eyes. Sweet summer sweat. The tears of a clown.

You know what? She never smoked before. I never would have thought she would pick up that disgusting habit, but she sure as hell did. Picked it up like it was a twenty dollar bill someone lost that she found on the side of the road as she walked to the smoke shop to buy another pack of Marlboro Lights.

There’s another thing I hate about cigarettes. “Smoke Shops”. Where the value-minded smokers purchase their wares. Not “Cigarette Store”. Not “Tobacco Warehouse"…oh, no. It’s a SMOKE SHOP. You’re going to buy some smoke, brother Jim. You’re gonna spend too much money at the 7-11 and it’s all gonna go up in smoke, but by the grace of God you are gonna save a couple of bucks by purchasing them at the “Smoke Shop” instead of the convenience store. You complain until you’re blue in the face about how ridiculously high the ciggy prices are at normal retail outlets, but when you run out of ‘em and the God-blessed “Smoke Shop” is closed ‘cuz it’s Sunday you’ll drive like a madman to Love’s and blow ten bucks because there’s a “Buy Two Get One Free” special going on. What a ******* good deal that is, eh, mister?

Furthermore…CIGGYS??? I hate how people call ‘em “ciggys”. But not nearly as much as I hate the word “cigarette”. I cannot stand to speak the word. I hate the way it rolls of my tongue. I hate the way the word sounds like it means “little cigars”.

I hate the way some smokers empty out their car ashtrays in the parking lot. I hate the way all the butts look lying there in a heap, a pile of paper soaked with the spittle of a hundred different mouths. And yet the nicotine python grips some desperate smokers so tightly that they will pick them up and try to smoke the last tiny flecks of tobacco from their crushed and blackened ends. I’ve even seen people extract the remaining **** from several discarded butts, roll it all up in a Zig Zag paper and smoke it. Don’t these people even know what Zig Zag papers are for? They sure ain't for tobacco, Charter.

“Butts”. There’s another word in the smokers lexicon that just sounds silly. “Smoke ‘er down to the ****, Jack, we’ve got more!” “I don’t have an ash tray, Terry, so just put your BUTTS in that half empty soda can over there on the table”…never thinking that there might be someone else at the party who could very likely mistake that particular pop can for his own and take a mighty swig from it. Oh my God, the thought, it gags me. How nauseating it would be to feel one of those wretched things fall against your lips and…Egad…the flavor…and yet the cruel smoker will laugh at such misfortune.


God help me.

She was not a robot when I met her. Oh, no, she was a beautiful, exciting, passionate loving woman with a heart of gold and a desire that was practically insatiable. Here…take a look, I have a photograph in my wallet. See what I mean? That’s right, daddy-O, she was a real dreamboat. I used to carry this picture with me wherever I went…I guess I still do, huh? But I don’t know why. I don’t know why I torture myself looking at it, remembering what was, all we had, our bright and glorious future wrecked and deserted by her newfound proclivity for smoking cigarettes. Yeah, my friend, she was a real keeper. But you know what? **** her now, y’know? Just turn her over and **** her.

But hey…perhaps I’ve been too harsh on the smoker in general (if not to her…no, not to her). Perhaps I have exaggerated a bit. After all, some of my best friends smoke. It’s their business, not mine. Never has been mine. I know that. If they knew how I felt about the whole thing, whose to say they wouldn’t tell me to ****** off and never come back? Then again, if they are so shallow as to take any of this as a personal insult, then maybe, just maybe they aren’t my friends after all. I doubt the robot would want anything more to do with me if she knew what a stalwart anti-smoker I am. But I thought she felt the same. She DID feel the same. She told me as much. Before she lost her soul. Before she started smoking cigarettes. Before she started bumming ciggys.

I got no time for changes in her life so now I ask you again…where were you when I was falling in love?

Were you sitting in a Pentecostal Holiness church on a hard pew early Sunday morning before the service began, thumbing through the hymnal, looking for one that best expressed your feelings of devotion at that point in your spiritual journey? And what would that hymn have been? “Onward Christian Soldiers”? “Peace in the Valley”? “In the Garden”? “Smoke on the Water”? “Hotel California”? Maybe some obscure Black Sabbath song tucked in at the end of the book, next to the Doxology?

Did your hair shimmer, reflected in the light that poured through the stained glass window directly behind you? Did you feel it’s heat on your neck? Did it draw out beads of perspiration there, glistening? Would you have let me lick them and taste their saltiness even in the sanctuary of the church building? Probably not. But I don’t think the idea would repulse you like it would some other bonnet headed midi-skirt wearing holy rollin’ *****.

Maybe I would have asked you outside so that you might feel a little more comfortable with what I’d had in mind.

And maybe you would have told me “no”. I couldn’t blame you for that. No, I wouldn’t. It’s only natural for a real woman to guard her integrity in situations such as this one. I could not hold that against you.

Is that where you were? I need to know. Where the hell were you when I was falling in love?
Oct 2017 · 265
Poet Misses the Mark
I step up and onto the porch
pushed forward by a force more powerful
than the west wind.
my hand on the doorknob
(how it got there I don’t know
I don’t remember a thing)

The door won’t open, secured by something on the inside.
I pass through anyway, a ghost.
(I hear the sound of organic music
see the grand instrument
see how it’s ivory keys are caked in dust
indented with fingertips, stamped with fingerprints)

The love birds still create their cooing sounds
they must be very old by now
I never let them out of their cage
for fear they might escape, for to
find love elsewhere

Then to the last room facing north
some of my best dreams came to me
in that bed
good solid sleep, what a bed is for
making love with a stranger
who cried at my story
three nights she surprised me
true surprise and just what I needed
to cleanse my mind and clear my heart of
she made it easy
had a helpful talent to make me forget You

I gave her a good part of your memory
I gave a good part of your memory to the two chubby gals who double-teamed me, high on hydropnic cannabis I pretended they were you and her and the awful things we did that night cast their uncanny disgusted joosy-joose towards small gatherings of everyone woh let me down, they know who they are

...and so I’m sleeping with everyone of them.
I feel as if I owe them something
maybe a snake and a spider
Burn this with fire
Before The Poet finds it
Before the lying Crow catches on
For the Poet is a liar
and the Poet is a thief
He doesn’t even care anymore

He’ll lose what he loves
silly love birds talk too much
the poet writes no more poetry
He’s traded it for love


and the Poet’still not satisfied
he wants to wait and see if his death will sell a few books

But he won’t
His poetry is *****
Sep 2017 · 206
Apostate with Carrion Birds
Maybe 20 years
if I'm lucky
I'll waste every one
I know I will

Vultures winging lazy, hungry circles
majestic carrion
thinking of dogs
too lazy to chase them way

Maybe it's the poet
on the feeding trend
lifeless, soulless
his broken heart to mend

the poet cannot be trusted
he has dealt with lies and half-truths
almost his entire life

He thinks he knows who his friends are
but he doesn't recognize the sound of their laughter
when he's turned away
guffaws, giggles, hateful, evil snark

But he deserves it
madman desire it
your useless, poet,
when your words have no use for you
Aug 2017 · 243
Poet's fever dream
could be close as your living room
maybe as far as Siam

Two idiots gonna prove
they ain't never possessed a clue
not one brilliant idea between them

Telling stupid stories
making them all up
each one half as believable as the last

Soon they're angry at each other
Ronnie launched projectile *****
in the general direction of Ray_Ray

There are no words gross and horrible enough to describe the things Ray Ray was planning and doing against Ronnie

They only happy conclusion
is the thought the Ray and Ronnie will be sleeping on the floor, sprawled on the wet linoleum of a floor covered wit trite,offal, straight up ****, Gobs of spit, the precarious bar of which they need to rise

Those ******* died the Martyr-ific death like only they could die I honestly think they get more thrill out dying than any of the rest.

Let 'em die
we have no use for them
it's what they wanted all along

Everybody was having a good dead
Two freaks making faces at each other and us ain't about to make a deal out of it

think we'll mosey on our merry way
Leave all that analysing where it belongs
I know a poet who could
Put an end to the coral that doesn't honor the almighty honor bound
He can hide them in his closest
Melt their bodies in barbells of acid,
Much less to deal with
When the new Messiah comes,
Clothed in the white vestments of an atomic bomb
I could stare into his sad, loving eyes
I could think of all the reasons he should turn away
Yet he stands, stock still as stone
Without ears I didn't need to hear
It was easy enough reading his lips
Without eyes I cannot see the blood drips
Wretched crimson, exceedingly hot and sticky
To the touch
Not momentous everything congealed in an Akashic
Trump thought he was a lot tougher than his weakness betrayed
But all we can do is walk
Grown men and women bawling like babies losing their brothers and sisters
Yes all we can do is walk
Deeper and deeper into quicksand.
When they sink there's no hope
This is a Trumperf
He gives the command to russel our carcasses
To the slaughterhouse for a most disturbing celebration
Of conservative right-wing superiority

To be continued if at all possible when the new Messiah comes along
Jul 2017 · 470
Grey Clouds (a song)
One day all the pain outweighs the pleasure
And the memories, each and all begin to fade
You can only pray for better weather
But grey clouds always threaten rain

Grey clouds threaten rain

The bliss of joy, it lasts but a moment
Cherished and treasured for it's rarity
A precious gift lost in impermanence
One more blessing depression has stolen from me

Grey clouds threaten rain
Jul 2017 · 349
under the sun
wasn't strong enough
got tangled up
could not contain
a brutal future
doesn't get better

and i have hurled my fair share of scorn
at the weak strategies of women and men
inherently flawed by turning blind eyes
or simple willful ignorance
a poisonous bliss
bliss nonetheless
something more than this

not strong enough
to do what needs to be done
still nothing new
under the sun
Jun 2017 · 345
Last Dream Down
Look at this pile of *******
Spilled from a poisoned mine
A plundered treasure chest
With nothing left worth taking
I couldn't give it away
A cruel moment
Opens my eyes to it's worth
Fit for fire
Last dream down
It's time to wake up now
My legacy embarrasses me
Time to recoil
From the god that made me
This way
Without blame
No bitter words thrown
Perhaps a trace of resentment
A sense of loss
Something that might have been
Time to accept truth
Hold it in like rising bile
Step out for a lucid moment
Look see the naive self-pity
Demands for attention not deserved or earned
Slave to the ego
Wanting only to feed it
Until it's fat
Still shoving it in
Even as these words are spewing out
Expecting, in vain, to be heard
By a world
Crushing my back
Jun 2017 · 279
Find Out
Everybody gonna find out
   follow yr gut
   mouthful of dust
Mind is the Serpent
   wingin' it, crushed
   repelled by enmity

Heart still blank as fresh card stock
   waitin' for a chisel or a nail
   names and numbers is all you've got

Everybody gonna find out
   nothin' but a drop in the ocean
   accessible as the most distant star
May 2017 · 286
a prophecy of Babel 2.0
This tower will fall
humiliating, humbling
razed to rubble through
force of confusion
exposing the weakness
revealing the softness
of those trusting
it's shelter
the gods who maintained
fooled us all
those wraiths convinced us
the invisible crown
was a perfect fit
for our imperfect heads
It's obvious
Static masked my thoughts
She couldn't plow through to truth
For I was still breathing
The gun in her purse
Much to my disappointment
Fully loaded and cold
I walked away
Navigated by telepathic insects
Scraping electrical pathways
Riding bitter cells, binary parasites,
Through narcotic blunted veins
To head and heart
Either one my preferred destination
Of her merciful ammunition
Jan 2017 · 478
I am the dreamer
From the other side of a galaxy
Whose dream is of the dreamer
Sleeping, sprawled out in a young lady's
Victorian boudoir, snoring ignored on this
Chemically imbalanced meeting place of
Her own dream
Walking on the sea
Sleeps with his eyes open
Her wild eye child
Made an enemy of gravity all the while
Too far gone entwined  with infinity
She dreams of my return to ME
Dare I wish such a dream come true?
Break forth like tiny claws ripping fragile egg
It is me, flying like a rocket angel
Got my sights on Saturn and Jupiter
It is me, flung away like aborted children
This tunnel is necessary
You will never reach the moons of Jupiter
Without a week in the mud
You won't know what's in that mud
You won't know what's on those moons
That's enough work for 2 year
Close your eyes and go back to dream
Yes, perchance to dream
Of the future of the known universe
Of worms, hungry worms
Worms dreaming of men dreaming of worms
Those same dreaming worms feasting on men
Those same dreaming men feasting on worms
All but one of them truly surprised by how tasty these worms are
The worms, however, are not as impressed with the human flesh, generally dismissed as
"Tastes like chicken"
I'm a sad excuse for a ******
I ain't consistent enough
I called you here, why I don't know
You just both seemed so tough
And you both sang like gurus
From the land of the east
Chanting your Hare Krishna's
I always thought it was neat
You said you should start chanting
Cuz if you go while you are
You're gonna go straight to Godhead
Comin' back as a star

Yes, I'm a sad excuse for a wild man
My profile's way too low
And I wear the shoes of a large man
I wear a large man's clothes
Got mechanisms of torture
Stuff that'll scare you cold
I'll whip 'em out and I'll use 'em
If you ever get out of control
I'll put the wheaties in the bowl
I'll feed the newbies and the trolls
I used to live for rock and roll
But now that world has wrecked my soul
Yes you can bet that world killed my soul

Oh, I'm a bad excuse for a dead man
All that breathing gives me away
I can't convince nobody, nobody
My eyes move in my face

Thank you Mister Morrison
But I think we got the wrong Mister Morrison
I said
Thank  you Mister Morrison
But I think we got the wrong Mr. Morrison
Nov 2016 · 475
A Poet's Last Words
By the time he wrote those words
his soul had sprung a leak
the best he had to offer
long ago had seeped into the ether

He put pen to paper
but the emptiness mocked him
dared him to write a single word
he knew to be true

It would be the first
though words had flown through him
blood to a punctured vein
from the days when his heart was strong

By the time he wrote those words
the needle fluttered on "E"
the last drops, too precious to waste
he knew they'd be the last

The first to admit they never "got him"
with his too-deep jumble of esoterica
he took comfort in the hope that death would bring them understanding
if he couldn't change the world surely the world would change for him

On the day he wrote those words he realized
the sacrifices he made for his art
all but the last were pointless
there's no getting around impermanence

With shaky hands and weak gripping fingers
taking up the paper's challenge he wrote those words
"I am..."
in an instant Truth slayed him

Subsumed into the primal substance
a thief no more
unconcerned at last with being
Yes, sir, I kissed her
On the mouth in the back of the bus
It was dark so I reached over and touched her
In a place where my fingers had never felt before
You bet your life, I kissed her
And guess what? She kissed me back
I 'bout had me a heart attack
When I felt her tongue on mine

She always has your eyes, darling one
It's how I know it's true
That there will never be another one
Who can do the things you do
No matter who she is
My, love, she always has your eyes
For your eyes are her eyes
It's not a surprise

Yes, sir, it hurt when she left me
I ain't ashamed to admit
Wonderin' how long until she'd forget me
You're ******* right she'll forget
You're best served with the truth, my foe
There's a lot you'll never know
So much I'll never tell you
For now it's time to go...

...go along, little dove, move along the straight and narrow. Bring along your bow and arrow. It's a small gate and few are the wasted who have tasted it's taste then wasted it's a band of jobless ruffians walking in a straight line, eyes locked straight ahead and determined to arrive at their destination. Dressed in monk's robes, their attire was not the only thing about them which conjured the appearance of a band of Tibetan's finest.
     Make haste! Go along, sweet caterpillar of the dawn. Gather your spawn and meet us on the backyard lawn. Make it quick, make your move, make every guitar pickin' note count. This is your time, La Penguin, it is the dawn of your destiny. The pawn of the mystic's I have placed upon a square I am not legally entitled to inhabit, figuring you would not notice it and even if you did you might not realize I was playing the match illegally. Royal eggs hatch regally, they are a meal of value and worth.
     Plath's dead voice recites her own poetry in the 74th century throught the medium of streaming music, which is every man's birthright. The inhabitants of this far off century are each and every soul well versed in song and voice, rythmn and melody, the poignant lyric in the third verse or during the chorus, their collective history was the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years totally absorbed in every aspect of MUSIC. To say they worshipped music would be to stop somewhat short of being the absolute truth but we listen anyway, we always do, good morning, I am the voice in your head. Have you finally befriended me? Finally accepted me and maybe even appreciated me? Regardless. I am the voice in your head. Do you want to know whose voice is in MY head? That's right: YOURS! Do you think this makes me any happier than the prospect of my being the voice in your head it's complicated, I'll grant that. But now that you're on a roll, what say we write some more crap poetry?

Try not to rhyme
No one does that anymore, that's reason enough
Yes, there is a secret meaning behind all this
You were not on my mind when I wrote this crap
If things had gone my way I could be making excruciatingly
Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?
I love all you *******, I really do
Some of you are genuine artists
Some of you can't write for ****
But that don't make it bad, does it?

Who is she?
She was a worm that crawled in your ear
One summer night while you slept in bed
Dreaming of the day your son
Shot you in the head
Then left you for dead
Wake up, David, wake up!
Fear not the tarantula, David, wake up!
For his bite doth not ****

...go along, feline substitute, your portmanteau is waiting. where are those people now who were so recently uncharitable? They've all been little boys before, every soldier in the field, every face behind bars, they've all had baths and someone to dry them off. Surely this must be? I am too wasted to go on.

Naya kudro. Reo o hart bonite. Rega in gavida, gavida. E qualid plea, senior away cast them in fee, el mquee.
Hula sona karay. Shis attune heh, hey hey, the grinavorte, honeas delong. O, fate be a queen. Allah's mortal today. The name. I don't want a name. Oh, no. The glad. Uh, uhhhhhhhh, uh, I'm's grand.......these sandwiches, they're grand.........beam me up, Scotty, you know the rest of the joke........Just like drums in an African rainforest, glistening with moisture, the rain mixing up the rythmns as drops make contact with skin. .........holding in past for the trial........coming in a car.........what run, you running so much higher, climbing on a wire, you run, you running so much faster and now you're...........holding in past for the time......holding and caring for strange..........what catches your eye.........

I only thought I was too wasted to go on.
But this time
It's a for sure deal
continue be continued
All the answers are in a book
A terrifying tome few understand
I can see these are the answers
Though I'm not ready to surrender to them
How many times have I read this book
Closed its covers feeling condemned
The meeting of sacred and profane too much
The rebellion spawned leads many to skepticism
But stubborn me, I know there's a neutron bomb hiding in there somewhere
One day I'll dive in after a hiatus
See that bomb floating with the flotsam and jettison of all my days
Like it's already detonated once
Or a second time many years ago
I don't suppose I'll ever learn
No, I don't like this depression
Fact is I despise it
But it lays me out flat where I can realize
I thrive in this environment
This retched realization
I don't know how to feel any other way
Oct 2016 · 470
Under a Storm Warning
from high above the clouds billions of raindrops
shapeshift in free fall weightless collective vertigo
moonlight's glow casts a shimmer on the screen
blink-and-you'll-miss-it stabs of lightning
slash holes in dark clouds that reconnect with
the exhilarating, damning clash of God's displeasure
deafening earth-shaking thunder one after the other
I turn my music down so I can hear the din
all the windows in this hail-washed house have drapes drawn apart, shades rolled up
so I can watch the majestic display and pray
for a tornado to swing by just close enough
for me to gaze at but so faraway as to assure no damage to my observatory

these storms call to mind
secrets, reminisces surprising, in their own personal way terrifying

knew a dude in high school
found out too late he was the go-to man for controlled substances in those days
this kind of weather would send him to the phone
dialing Rhonda's number and she knew exactly what the call was about
the wind that swirled 'round the eye told her
she hit the ignition in the cute cherry red Ford truck he'd given her and braved the storm until she made it to his house

maybe it was an adolescent power trip
the sensation he felt through his ***** when the thunder spoke
then when it screamed he ******
she melted, the explosive crash drowning out the involuntary gasp which escaped through clinched teeth, the precursor to secret tears she seemed to have no control over
pitch dark, intermittent lightning strikes to illuminate the Storm King sprawled out beneath her, the look of aroused determination on his face growing more elastic with the clatter of hailstones on glass windows

I never knew about the drugs, didn't need them then, though I sorely need them now
but I knew he called Rhonda every time weather turned severe
the talk amongst peers was that the two of them were never seen together in an underground shelter no matter how bad the moon may have risen
Nudge nudge wink wink a nods as good as a wink to a blind horse say no more, squire, say no more!

I envied them
I broke cheap champagne glasses when the storm came and used them
to carve snaking tendrils across my wrists
barely any blood shed but scared the *******out of that witch my dad married after mom left
it was my failsafe procedure to assure at least another month away from them
yes, the mental hospital was preferable

the rain fell ******* the Doctor's house
weatherman said tornadoes were inevitable
flipped a switch in my brain, activated a mean streak
Doctor's favorite was insufferable
brewed a gallon of sweet tea every day and drank every drop
I saw lightnin on the horizon but that Big Bad Bear with the gun he stole from the Doc was nowhere to be found
I'd be leaving soon
I took out the gallon pitcher from the refrigerator
not even cold yet
unzipped my too-tight jeans
hung my spout over the edge and turned the beverage into 1/2 sweet tea & 1/2 cloudy dark yellow *****
placed it back in the fridge and waited

sat with him that night, playing guitar, singing incomprehensible songs, watching him drink that **** tea and possessed by just enough evil to laugh
in a ridiculously high pitch and enunciated to where I knew he couldn't understand what I was saying...
I sang
"****** in yer tea you know I ****** in your tea
aren't you so ******* at me?"
he never found out, else I probably would not be here to tell the tale

I had my excuses
broken and discarded
I was lost
toyed with the idea of being a Satanist
still lost
standing outside in the middle of an electrical storm
yes, I'm afraid
I'm told family members have been killed by a well-placed bolt and if it's good enough for them
by God
it's good enough for me
rain baptizes me, too stupid to come in out of it
the thunder makes me **** and shudder
lightning a brilliant fireworks show surpassing the best available powder and fire variety
I have become part and parcel of this thunderstorm
wait only for the appointed bolt to impale me with it's rapier voltage
here he come swingin' I almost missed him what with his night-black get-up-camouflaged by the black night that tried to hide me from his sight
alas, foiled by too much lightning

voltage from the heavens
I could personally think of much worse
Oct 2016 · 384
where divinity is channeled
who sings you to sleep?
who tells you the truth?
she carries divine breath in her chest
sacred heart beats between her *******
pores dripping with soma sweat
panting, exhausted, shudder and shiver
when the cool breeze brushes up against her

did you hear it in her secret sounds?
did you recognize it, soul aglow?
in the moment when the universe imploded
when you gave in and gave it all away
she wrung it from you like water from a towel
and surrendered you to the little death
to witness her power and marvel at bliss

"is this the truth?" you have to ask
"what is the name of that song?"
it is a song without a name, different every time
it is a truth that all forget the moment after it's revealed
for in these bodies and with these minds
we could never comprehend and live
with such a joy eternal
Sep 2016 · 264
**chest** pains
everything's** swaying, the illusion once familiar, metamorphosis only beginning, melting, sanity fading, colors unfamiliar I've never seen those before, melting water collecting in a pool of dust how long have I been deceived? this is the point where I stop believing in anything I see, what is will be as is will be, as it was before it will soon conceive carry on, talk about the passion, regale the masses with confession, carrying your beat up copy of Infinite Jest like it was the last bible in the mission, you are no genius caring too much for the approval of the indifferent this will be the last time, you gave yourself away
The trash men carry it off
Barrels of garbage, the waste of the week
Rotting, molding apple core
Worthless reams of sales circular
Advertising *******no one needs
Books of tame philosophy
Books of lame poetry
Covered in half-burnt grease
Sophisticated scumbag
**** of the earth
Hauled to Gehenna
Where the dead litter mounds of refuse
Reduced to ashes in perpetual fire
Kept burning by priests who can keep a secret
Dustbins overflowing with trash
All that is ruined
By use or lies
Naive I suppose to believe
There was a garden
But now it's a dump
And there you are swimming in the middle
With a blissful smile on your face
Everyone is gone
They are never coming back
You will never see them again
The breast stroke is the best
You've got a long way to swim
From this wretched refuse reality
To your under-populated heaven
I would loan you my life jacket
But you've already stolen it
What, did you leave it at home now you need it?
Sink then
Never stop smiling
Next page