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Keith J Collard Jan 2013
The smell of excrement,
is the smell of a  rose,
but a thousand fold.
where you see grey,
the sparrow sees gold.
deadly volt,
and thunder loud,
does not come
from dark cloud.
but from predispostion,
in poem, must be missing.
look to the woods,
you cannot see the wolf
in winter's morph,
with bleak at its worst.
these are invisible things,
that rely on more than sight,
that a poet must capture,
before he writes.
there is no party, nor seal,
or cause for zeal,
that can make this poet kneel,
except how poetry makes me feel.
For I,

hear the wolf,
smell the rose,
feel the charge of the cloud,
before it rings loud.
I see the sparrows light,
when I write,
and tree or incline,
no obstacle like "NO TRESSPASSING" sign.
Be a poet, rid the seal and sign,
leave all false laws behind.
lighten the load for the incline,
and all carcasses will be roses,
and bleakness a sparrow hue,
speak to the woods, and
surprise the wolf following you.
Keith J Collard Jan 2013
"Wow, what a mansion!"--Albert Wesker RE1


Gothic mansion, where every warrior lost it,
head, heart, and soul--as Faust did,
there walks a scientist who's blood is acid,
with glasses that turn to shade--death reactive.

" Who dares touch my holster" he says bombastic.
as walls evaginate victims, send out vines,
it is from Jesus' in the crowd--Mathew--his lines.
the sight of thorax, stinger and fang,
******* the slain,
do not phase him, for he is phase-less,
turn off receptors of pain, and all is pain-less.
A fallen teamate, still and a'swarm,
the black shades do not mourn,
as thorax crawls ontop of her
but laughs at the irony of a female,
impregnated with ovipositor.

He helped design those creatures,
and--he is her traitorous leader.

Howling night forest, awakens the staff,
as if they sleep facedown in saltwater tides,
shuffling and whale moaning, as if  harpooned--
going to lonely depths to die.
then there are the hunters, reptilian apes,
can open locked doors with skeleton claw,
move to quick in hallways,
why pump buttstock you saw.
Pepper the **** on the bed with full load,
with zombies fellating down to bone,
scream through your muzzle,
slide room apart in jigsaw puzzle.
then watch your six for the hunter,
it is stalking you, wants to put its foot on your face,
and dig in, then kick its leg--and rip off your skin.
retreat from hunters and faces bloated with cadaverine,
find a safe room to safely scream.
Sit down at the bar, pull scotch from its coffin,
on counter, rest pump and Colt python,
do not think of the things you will die from.
there are three darts in the bullseye,
in William Tell style,
but the board is in fashion of an atom,
with electrons in orbit,
the  numbers are the human genome,
and a surgical marksman has scored it.
He is Wesker, and this mansion is his tester,
blood and bone is both colors of his litmus,
horribles awaiting in dark room pay witness.
his muzzle flashlight's rooms with hot spark,
entry beats claw swing, shades now clear in dark.
they say in total black silence, one will go crazy,
from the sound of their heart.
but "My trigger that squeezes within,
charged from pupil's firing pin,
sweet semi-auto strokes of violin."
as he vaunts over dying beast,
and darkness returns to his shades,
from moon light through window,
reflecting knifes on wall from moon in wane.
he slicks back a loosed strand,
locks the door behind him, and continues with his plan.
" In my father's mansion are many rooms,
" I'll go prepare a room for you." he mocks, as he walks,
with parabellum hollow points and acid round glocks.
This is his mansion, he is Achilles loosing knees,
he is warrior and scholar, a student of Thucidydes.
team-mates--out air holes in jungle boot bleed,
blood seeping through pants--
olive drab uniform now fatigue.
rooms: blood grooves running down your bayonet--
traps-- channeling you to your death.
prop open  oaken door with knife, hope  it will hold,
walk to the far side of parlor,
the sound of medieval bolt.
door spits out knife,
just scream through keyhole.
The iron maiden taper is coming slowly,
do not let it go through non-vitals,
a slow way to die,
take it through frontal lobe behind eye.
alas a team-mate hears your screams,
in the sepulchal hall,
door swing, and out of deaths thrall.

Charley Mike: continue mission,
and paint the walls black,
with dead flesh backsplash,
gun or nerves jam, then die a ripping death,
smell a cannibals breath.
Be it known, the man in black and strap,
laughs off exposed rib cage slats,
with only a scrape to his pistol belt.

Enter the man in reactive shades,
Picture a alligator, calm, age old in the everglades.
One in the brain, and none in the chest,
those extra shots for rooks, without prowess.
" Wesker, you'll pay for this treachery," invoking Karma,
but the man in black measures her tears as he harms her.
So all that enter mansion portal,
and reach the basement, before becoming morsel,
finally catching up with Wesker,
no more trail of labotomized minds,
and jaws and eyes in epileptic shock,
from a calm trigger squeeze of glock.
Face to face with the master of the saxon race,
mastering gunpowder under the scope,
and you hear the hunters off distant,
primal howls and hissing.
Listen to what the man in black says,
the mortal contest is over,
and he has a virus to offer,
" Die here, and your death will be longer than your life,"
says the man, who's shooting hand is the reapers scythe.
" But live with this virus, and you will never die."
but watch the sun burn out in the sky."
You can refuse him, and face the nightmare creatures alone,
adding your skeleton to the calcium of mansion stone.
or take the virus that invaded the first cell,
invading mitochondria,
making 'other men' the meaning of hell.

" Come decide, lest I go prepare a room for you".--
From powder burns,  your tears are black,
eardrums ring from screaming contest of
chrome python against giant asp.
shoulder numb from combat loading shotgun,
thumbing shells straight to chamber--
almost cyclic.
blood in boots: not much fight left.
your friends are dead, and you answer,
" I rather die forever traitor, to rid the world of your cancer."

In my masters mansion, are many rooms,
dying, crying, moaning: eternal tombs.
how resident evil the movie should have felt.......I only cite the 96 video game, which only shared the setting with my poem.
Keith J Collard Jan 2013
Regret and I have slept,
and walked,
since the days she was teacher's pet.

Now, I wish my life hence,
resting my back,
on sharp finial fence.

As I sink on barbed fleur de lys,
waiting for my life to cease,
I behold my stars of Gemini,
and it is she and I.

My last vapor on the cold night lake,
dresses the stars, and I hear her say,
" Would you like to dance?"
and this time I say "yes",
as body slides down heart shaped lance.

I am heart to heart with lys,
and begin to cease,
but heart to heart with her,
in the night lake above,
grasping upward as I succumb.








"
Keith J Collard Dec 2012
War and peace, no difference to be had,
Slave or private will 'fire the house and the bath.'

And in that Georgian mansion,
with the candalabra dancing,
A kiss upon the lips of the beautiful belle,
one of the flames,
only military torch can sustain,
because life is war, and war is hell.
Keith J Collard Dec 2012
I was in a bar, smiling so,
a beautiful girl looked in my eyes,
and said "let it go",
who she was, I do not know.
Keith J Collard Dec 2012
I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends
Keith J Collard Nov 2012
When a poem hits you, treat it like ***** under the front porch.  Yell " *** out da dere dam *****, ***, ***." And those ***** will scamper, and you'll think they're gone, but they will scurry right back, bebopping right under your pensive stare to the sunset on the front porch.  " ***, ***, dang, *****" and they bebop away, then you'll think it's fate , and you'll wait up all night, to catch the fat mother lollygaggin back, and you'll say " *** undah dat dang porch, ya dang *****," and you'll stare at the moon on that porch, saying" dang moon, *** ***, give me that dang sunsit."
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