I spent so many years just counting minutes in my head
and chasing after Time in ways that almost left me dead
I pushed the pedal forward harder than I knew I should
the faster I could get through this, the better, for my good

I followed ticks and tocks of clocks wherever I would go
and learned to read their exit signs so nobody would know
that in my head, an hour more meant many hours less
with all the things I know I need to face and not forget

…

Have you ever been drunk,
and submersed in a funk,
as if trapped in a trunk
but then asked to write junk
in a poem which stunk
though your mind has been shrunk
by a psychotic monk
who’s been beaten punch-drunk
and if not a slam dunk
as a poet you’ll flunk?

The world today is split in two
… or three... or four... or maybe more,
but nonetheless, one must confess,
all wage their wars as heretofore.

While blunderbusses prey for us
within our world where gods deceive,
atomic war, white phosphorus
and na-palm gel that burns, bereave.

Yes, Tweedledumb oft beats the drum
and pokes the pig and baits the boar
while tongues are wrung as songs are sung
distorting hymns of ‘Nevermore’.

And all the while the hordes defile
forgotten ghosts who haunt the coasts
awash in tears of crocodiles
who’ve lost the least but rue the most.

And Tweedledumber, somewhat glummer,
fills the sheath with claws and teeth
to arm the hacks and maniacs
who’ll dance the dance that death bequeaths.

Though blood runs red amongst the dead,
along the track the holes are black
and filled with human flesh in shreds -
for wily worms, a midnight snack.

In distant days, hell’s breeze ablaze,
death’s final wreath will sink beneath
ould yahoo’s wicked words that raise
the underworld from underneath.

But Hannibal, implacable,
is something weird and far more feared
by captured pawns within the squall
of sorry souls who’ve disappeared.

The devil deals the dead man’s hand
to Tweedledumber, Tweedledumb
who gamble in the promised land,
fill kingdom come with martyrdom.

Both Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber
slaying for more living space
have churned the chum throughout the summer -
carnage in a crowded place.

They worship warships, tanks galore,
cool macho stuff that’s sent to sn-uff –
along the shore the cannons roar,
some loud enough to call God’s bluff.

While passing over fields of clover,
every breath still smells of death
that’s dropped by drones and other rovers
shaming freedom’s shibboleth.

When phones explode and lawns are mowed
while Tweedledumb, the reaper, strums,
royal boats on River Styx are rowed
by moneyed men with calloused thumbs.

When Tweedledumb can’t overcome
the famished flocks midst sands and rocks,
or clear the slum to rid the sc-um
he’ll talk the talk to hard-nosed hawks.

And they in turn, with naught to learn,
will flap their wings and pull the strings
of those who yearn the quick return
of sandbox kings that victory brings.

Yes Tweedledumber makes him happy
sending BB guns and bombs,
maintaining armies tough and scrappy
killing kids, their dads and moms.

Because the Tweedles have no qualms
effacing foes’ knees, heads and toes,
the pious pray and sing sad psalms
the while that thousands die in throes.