I write in hopes that someone,
Somewhere in time
Has neurons moving
In the pattern of mine.

Hollow words haunt hallowed halls
Of holocausts and hostile walls
The divine demise of dictated opinion
The resentful repulsed by resilient religion
Wrapped in wrath, whispers writhe wildly
Holy hiding henchmen hear idly

Pete and Pauline Porker
Speaking through their snorkles
Double-chinned, wet-lipped
Checking out Facebook fibs
Snarled, yellow,
Tinted-teeth
Buys fudgie-bars
And potpourri
Their greasy-mouths
Spew forth and give
Fountain sodas
of commercial spit.

O' Liquored Escutcheon!
Please aid me in my plight!
I came for a beer,
and now I fear
I'm here for another night.
While the jukebox is puking
the disease-riddled bodies are movin'
I take a bow,
and I fall down
Someone, somewhere was right.

On a sticky counter somewhere,
two friends speak
chewing the fat
and spitting the meat.
They'd like to **** girls,
but they'd rather **** dreams.
They tell me so through
whiskey-stained teeth
And I laugh because
It's just a Tuesday to me.
Yes, I've been a dream
and yeah, I've been a tease.
I can tell they want somethin'
But they're getting nothing from me.

I am a setting
Retired to
At the end of day
and end of life.
I am an ear drum.
Banged on by irritants,
long stories,
bad jokes.
I am a reservoir
for your seed and your sweat
The pocket for your
primitive exertions.
I may be encompassing
But I am not all.
Scenery is never captured
By written word well,
But the artist has been trying to catch
it's smirk for a thousand years.