Blue skies, timeless
hover past my skin
indifferent as a grader bypassing
that watery definite sky of yours

Here were a few laws of space
hate music this cannot block
escaping the ear of an Illuminati can
leaving temporarily, and fading
unlike static earth plummeting near

Now isn't she gone in the wilderness
I can sit against death
not so blessed cat-wired, nothing
then, and was, given
to a few destinations

You have lifted your hand up
out of  that den of garters
from fixed seeds either not to be kissed,
that isn't complex when you rejected
to be caressed to death.

"A little nonsense now and then
is relished by the wisest men"

Does anyone still play guilty pleasures?

OKAY!

1. Troll 2 lady.
Too. Fun in Balloonland Narrator lady.
3. "Any" drum majorette.

"Speak roughly to your little boy
and beat him when he sneezes
he only does this to annoy
because he knows it teases."

Fore! Nance Peterlini, shouting obscenities.

"Silk, do you know an atomic trigger from a Balgarian *****? Because I sure don't."

5. Slingshot and P.J. in a swampside threeway.(only halfway guilty...three-quarters?)

"A ****** talking baby alligator, that's purple, and has really big jaws?"

Sicks. Honor and Glory...after Honor gets a nose job.

"Harlem is the experience playground for all people interested in becoming detectives."

7. Wanda Duvalle...*******...in a shack.
Ate. Lynn, from The Dark Power.
Nine. Colonel Hogan's...Secretary(?)

"I want to stop dreaming about fire from heaven, and melting men. Lasers."

10. Ming the Mercilesses' Daughter.

I lost a world,
I never owned.
A fleeting isle
of blood and bone.
I walked eight miles
all alone
down the broken glass strewn
black sand shore.

I cut off a limb
I no longer use.
I sung a hymn
to a skeletal muse.
I lost a world,
in the blink of an eye.
Down near the waterline
where dreams go to die.

You can't cry off a metamorphosis,
you can't buy back the light
swallowed by the abyss,
you can't lie through lips
locked in a kiss.
I lost a world,
I wish I missed

Hard and fast
the line is secured.
To a forgotten dock
my boat is moored.
I lost my oar,
when I jumped overboard.
I lost my place
in the world of my past.

Gutless ghouls
haunt this hellish wood.
I'd rant and rail,
it would do no good.
If I tried I'd fail
to be understood,
I lost a world,
and even if I could
I'd never go back,
to the ship of fools.

I can never come back,
I will not be your ham-hock,
a bone to be squabbled over,
and buried as a trophy,
gnawed and *****.

Its the hound dog moaning,
when it loses the battle
that grinds me up the most.
The avalanches of sadness
heaped up like earth
kicked up by a dog,
who is  searching for the bone
it buried so long ago,
leaving muddy holes
all over my once pristine lawn...
that is what hurts the most.

Its better to be the dog
that loses the fight,
than it is to be the bone.

Help Yourself!
Examine the lumber yard
squatting in YOUR eyes.
Take your srf books,
and burn them for warmth,
because this is all they are worth.
Do you know the words I share
with the spirit, in the dark hours?
Do YOU presume to know
what the most high condemns,
what is required by Our Father?

Now is the winter of my bitter content, for yet I lack,
and what is necessary is near,
but Not Present.
Your fumbling armloads
of Books, books, books
will not ***** my fire.
What logic could ever convince you
that this could ever be so.
You assume...
Let that sink in.
You assume
you have carte blanche to condemn, and your digital life preserver
is even going to work.
All that will work
is yet to be.

Soon is the spring
of my boundless bliss.
Who I need, will be found.
Until then, help yourself,
and stop ripping off the bandages
I wrap around myself,
to keep me
from grabbing a cheap date,
when what I have coming is a mate.

He makes concessions
where we are weak.
And demands
where we are strong.

A fire that might spread beyond
and devour the grasslands,
far away from the hearth
where it belongs,
must be tended,
and fed,
inferior wood...
until the proper bundle arrives.

Save your self help books.
They are not the fuel
that this fire requires.
I have all the help I need
it dwells inside me,
and it understands
what you are incapable
of comprehending

In a dream I walked
 through a small town in winter,
snow was drifted all around,
building after building was dark,
 empty window shops, abandoned.
At the heart of a naked strip mall
there was a tiny boutique,
Chinatown style.
Cheap throw away electronics,
plywood guitars, plastic purses
fast-food clothing,
and wall to wall glass cases.
It strikes me now, it was not a shop
but a museum, filled with relics
of the oh-too-recent past.
Homemade cassette mix tapes,
with pink bedazzled stars,
and neat hand written script,
zip disk encylopedias,
mildewed black moleskines,
and much more, the mind
it could not take it all in.

I was wrenched from this museum,
back into the waking world
by a full bladder, and a cold crown.
I slipped on a cap, but I hold it in,
desperately I try to convey
 the frozen tragedy I have witnessed,
with moist unblinking mind's eyes.
The shadowy windswept streets,
the random half broken neon signs,
the peeling sky blue painted storefront,
and the tiny boutique, a dream place,
that could only ever afford
to pay the rent
in the depths of my subconscious.

It strikes me, that I am blessed
to be a tail-end-member,
of Generation X, the last generation
that can remember the corpse
before it died, to have watched it die.
To have lived through this death,
to have watched the desiccation
and to have seen the dead body
***** by heartless robots,
to give birth to a Mummy Earth,
a world without a soul.

Soon I will be forced to go downstairs
and relieve myself,
on the ground outside
For now, I lie on my side,
thumb typing, shoulder aching,
 from supporting my weight,
sore eyes assaulted
by the too-bright-white screen.
I lie here, trying to capture it;
 the feeling of strangled despair.
Not for myself, but for the children
who have inherited a dead cyborg,
devoid of its humanity.
A corpse culture, with perfect teeth,
glistening hair, fair skin,
cloudy eyes, and the faint stench
of moldy leather and spoiled spices.

They do not know what it is like
to feel, to have beauty ripped
from their desperate dream hands,
like children dragged away
from their arrested mother.
They inhabit a foster home
for the spiritually bankrupt,
the true tragedy is
they don't know any better.

I left my heart in our broken city
deep beneath the dark and crushing sea
In the cold and crumbled streets
where you and I used to run and hide.
We'd stick each other with syringes,
and ****** black eyed waifs
from off the backs of violent giants.
Set them free for a taste of their blood.
We'd listen to Django and Stephanie
on that old Victrola,
while we snacked on chips
and drank pilfered gin
 from the busted Circus of Values.
Because, your tightwad *******
brother, couldn't spare a dime.
I still have that snapshot,
of you with your Tommy gun
mowing down splicers,
a puddle of Eve at your feet.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it in the half-flooded sections,
were we hid from Ryan's rampage,
before he made me smash his skull.
Or was it that last gene tonic we split,
after the reactor went supernova.

Somebody Rapture me, already.
I wasn't made to last anyway, my lovely.
I just wish I could have lived long enough
to see the girls grow up,
under the cerulean and cream sky.
But, all dreams are destined to die,
the fire and freakshow was fun
while the liquor and shotgun shells lasted
The only thing I know for sure,
is that what they call freedom
is just Dystopia waiting to happen.

We will falter, they will ****
upon the altar, blood will spill
The blade will fall, and heads will roll
One and all, will sell their souls
Drop your knives, close your eyes,
kiss your lives of peace, goodbye.
Fires falling, buglers calling,
I wish we had more time.

Left behind
the me, I never could find,
blurred negatives,
burned.
The smoke conceals
all the False Positives.
Stop Praying
if you refuse to believe,
that mirror is a liar.
Instant Karma came to get you
but you were Too Far Gone.

The ice times have past
now is perfection,
the garden spot,
dream times.

Gather up your gear,
spear walking time is here.
The young yarrow is still sweet,
shoots and sunshine
journey back in, time.

Too much of good things time,
never should of sold it
time.
Now
the wishes made
will all come true, at this time.

Time you must be grateful,
the silver lining is gilded,
and their is pleasure
by the plateful.

I keep a cruel collection
of wicked torture devices.
Gathered together
in a faux manila folder,
labelled with a crudely crafted symbol
of birth to death
oppression.
I occasionaly use them
to flay my gray matter.
And as I stare
at the visual razorblades
and white, hot, pokers,
I can't help but think:
is anyone else using my image
for similar, sinister purposes?
And if so, I wonder,
should I be appalled, or flattered?

You cannot understand.
You see
what is,
and only know
what was,
in fragments
gleaned
from pilfered tombs.
Like shredded tomes,
whole,
but unintelligible.
What is it
you think you know?
Who do you see
when you review
the logs and docs?
Who
do you think you hear
muttering through
your dust caked speakers?
An angel
touched vessel?
Cracked
but not yet discarded?
Useful
despite its flaws.
Can you feel
the strain?
Can you taste
the stain?
Is it really precious,
or is it as false
as the piles of transcripts
dog-eared
and finger-smudged?
The prophesies
that have all fallen through.
Like the blue eyes
I was Promised.
The water,
a cliche.
A voice,
spoken to a child
in a bright
and steam-filled bathroom.
What is it you want
to discover
to uncover
to recover
from the pit
of past moments
and what makes you think
that any of it belongs to you?

where there was shortage
there is surplus
whers there was famine
now there's feast.
Where there was doubt
now grows a burgeoning belief.

Regret is a pack of Coyotes;
A howling dirge of cacophonic noise.
But, relief, and repentance
they are a dampening field.
A wall at which every single mistake
and mispoken lie, is forced to yield.

I am led to wandering
and diverted like a river flow.
But no matter the barrier
or engineered feat
I am steady going
ever onward
towards the valley of belief.
And If you believe it
you will receive it
faith is only as strong
as the angle of descent.
I am steady going downward
and I know that at the bottom
I will find paradise.

You are so dynamic, darling
I fear your flames
might be raging too fiercly.
You are a fireworks display.
The light and noise
can astound, and dazzle
but you spread yourself too thin.
I would rather you focused
on the blindingly beautiful bursts
you show me every so often,
than burn your fuse at both ends
and bury your gorgeous sky flowers
under barrages of bottle rockets.
I understand that your displays
are not crafted for me alone.
But, I know the spark
 buried inside you
and it is that fire than ignites my desire,
but the packs of jumping jacks
you toss at my feet
only serve to distract me
from your far more brilliant offerings.
I know I cant afford the ticket,
but either way, I will watch the show
from the other side of the tracks.
And launch one of my mortars
like a sympathetic shout
whenever I can do so,
without sacrificing my own sound.

I have always denied you this life
would be under your window. 
Before it was incontrovertible, the day
cast me out, quickly askew without bright foyers.

Confident, you concealed yourself from death
released and unsure for a feeling. Gradually, you saw a striding, fully accepting who you wrote out, thoughtless as you heard some people crumple… 

Places your ears can contain, rather not cease to avoid.
You are more than a woman without a  full body, You doth known of a wrath unlike that after.  

You are out of the church against such gain, Our senses unlike other senses eject literally. Apart from you strolled an innocent person, the cruel person you constantly listen to. 

Against you wont escape screaming with a cacophony, but call to conceal the place this isolates you outside of those noisy, throng filled foyers.  Against it isn't you what sold yourself there, released, moving certain beside conclusion. 

Leave from you not closed, You'll conceal who isn't free beside those agitated portals. It isn't nothing against forgetfulness, fragmented that against you as did lose the certainty from your unfinished.

Flee from the mundane without my feet narrowly closed.
Leave your freedom, It isn't mine to drop.  
Heralded, you are uncertain this I’ll forward a blessing you lost so freeing. 

Can't I see us whispering defeated? 
Drawn out of a desert of fellowship, oh that isn't what it numbs.
You are before some complete. 

Wont I give to you the brick you new from sprung the Macaw enslaved? 
Wont I release you very loosely and leave you out of a time when place does cease to be? Call against you the music you most certainly could

Since you prejudged me
as a Crypto-Jew
all you've done is moan
the woe is me, **** the system
"I have been through more than you"
tough chica, broken bone
I possess more wisdom
than you do
Angry, lash out
impotent hate-filled
been done before spew.
I sent a dove to stick a branch
in your bear trap
and you laughed at me
and mocked me
like the angry, hypocritical
infant you are.

From the incrimination of the whole
they gave us a paved road to nowhere
the Victorian homeless cougars
have only recently found their hearts
(undoubtedly to the honkys)
and who escaped
for the sky
was not alive
or sopping
or green

this miserable workplace
over the edge
for butcher's lines
~was not raven black
the spoons
or forerunners
(from dazzling peninsulas)
left alone
off the center
of the parking lot

the real city
of buggy stalled wanderings
~was not flesh stained
off the front of
private beaches
stood resplendent bottoms
sprung off low ebbs
for the dark world
and our fathomless silences

trumpets and banjoes
and electric mandolins
are thrown from the solitude
ear studs
and obscurity
out of the footsteps of
spontaneous supporters
the vital blood arrayed
without moonless stasis
and desert buckets

woodlands unkempt
against the mountain run
halted plains straightened
after the catch
***** martinis
and stiff bowlers
valley the single marcher
shetlands
and peasants
see clear to the horizon

When falling into a Hero Trap
always bring your First Officer.
Nuke some backwards Aliens
and you can be sure they will
get back at you with a vengeance.
Forest moons
are made for Death Games.
Bloodshed and deprivation
belong in front of the cameras.
Technology is for tyranny
and ***** princesses look best
in blood red bodices
when they interview perimeter guards.
You Will Marvel
at the spectacle
of a ******, a badass, a chubster
and a gunface
storming the set
with flint napped spears
and a hijacked  hover-camera.
Sit in spinning Jenny,
and pass me the crisps.
You touched the cone,
and Enhanced women know,
York is hot.
Somebody get the forklift,
the Biggun is down,
and the fraggin' BBC wouldn't know
a solid gold classic
if it crashlanded in their laps.
Some say he put on all the weight
after it was cancelled.
At least we got some Hot Fuzz,
and the only good Zombie comedy...
Ever.
Artefacts were made to be forgotten.
But I wont fall into that trap!

A man who is hungry
is incapable of stealing bread.
Theft is a sin of desire.
The bread does not belong to the baker,     the sunlight and soil, and the water
that nourished the wheat
belong to God alone.
If the baker is not hungry
then he does not need the bread.
But the hungry man takes to fulfill need.
The bread is not stolen,
but provided by God, to fufill our needs.
Their is no sin
where there is need fulfilled.
It is only poverty of faith
that brought him to his hunger.
And poverty of faith is not a sin,
but a most high blessing.

Stop.
Please stop,
with the little blonde
with the short hair,
doe eyes, like chipped ice,
and the tall slim blonde
with the gray eyes behind
glasses, and double braids.

Stop.
Please stop,
with the pale brunette,
with the small *******
and crocodile smile
framed with coal black eyes,
and the brunette
with the page boy, thick lips,
and perky c-cup ****.

Stop.
Please stop,
with the freckle-speckled redhead,
with the thick *** and thighs,
forever flirting with my fire,
and the cream clear redhead,
with the tight ****, prismatic gaze,
and double-d rack.

Please.
Keep them away from me.
Or I will be forced to use
what you gifted to me,
to make them mine,
if only for a little while.
Please.
Tell me which one I'm supposed
to walk with, from now on
until the sun swallows the earth.

Or, **** me where I stand.

Dear Jesus, I beseech thee.

Trapped in a 90's british pub
with a wide open tab,
for the duration of eternity.
Curry chips, and curly wirly's,
and pint, after pint, after pint.
Karaoke, and loose bints,
bangers and mash,
bang her in the loo, and a dash of bitters
in my scotch and soda.
MORTAL KOMBAT!!!!!
Too.
Chain smoking ****
that Cannot Cause Cancer,
and slamming my stick
on the Snooker table.
Where did you come from?
Where did you go?
Where did you come from?
Cotton-Eyed Joe.
Where's my friggin' Thai food!?
Look into my Magic Eye
and you will see Heaven.

Blind men don't even know
the blessing that they own.
I cannot describe the agony
that enters my brain
through my wandering eyes.
Tormented by the permutations
that assail me,
from a million different angles.
Perfect darkness
is the only thing that soothes me.
But, even in the depths of night
I cannot blind the eyes
in the chasm of my mind.
The neverending eight millimeter reel
of things I'll never touch
skin I'll never feel.
Why must I have eyes?
***** out the stars,
so maybe I can finally hide
from everything I cannot have.

A Mushroom
Is a Flower
that got tired of waiting
for a gypsy sun
who had found other pastures
to spend his time shining on.

What is it
that you have convinced yourself
that I have,
that you need so ****** deeply.
I have nothing worth tears,
nothing to give
worth a single sigh.
Nothing
that cannot be found
on the bargain rack,
three for five.
I am not a life preserver
crafted of verse.
I am not a panacea
distilled from words.
I am a fleeting shadow
easily snuffed by a sunbeam.
I am a songbird
frozen, and dying
on a cracked tree branch.
I am worth less
than the sum of my parts.
A bag of organs,
valuable only to the sick and rich.
Rothschild might want my heart,
but it is not as deep a vessel
as you make it out to be.
You can do so much better,
than pathetic old me.

I am a bug in a bathtub.
After trying to climb the wall
twenty times
and sliding back down
twenty times
I believe I am going to wait
for that mysterious hand
to reach down
and carry me to safety.
At least until I catch my breath
and have another crack
at climbing that wall.

You tune out the dark void
because of calm symbols
You wont stand still for me
without many letters
preventing a smoothing of space
After their denials are unwound
taking me clearheaded
against arctic wrath
doors thrown shut
catching clear hate inside
prevent the fish from spitting it out
and stand still against concealment
thick quilts fall away from them
hate a solid barrier

Listening to that satiated home
for eternity

Without the rudeness of permanant dawn
They sigh from their purified hearts
Without any of our waking anchors of the evening
Against the science of flawed carbon dioxide 
They hover off of wild doubts of still air
Their minds more than lead planes in clear skies
Floating beside the Poirot
Outside that transparent declaration of ngyzma they are more than kings
Relieved without the weightlessness of drought
Those stiff torsos more than deny they are not unjust automatons 
Without a rough march of hope
The birds pass by naked to admire and denounce them
And they remember our cruelty 
But it is a disgusting screen, an obfuscation 
Robust in their certain church of ingratitude
But still here was a window, shutters, ears
And they Cannot walk completed to that chamber 
And sink without waves out of shadowed churches of the body
Where nothing is impossible, where everyone is impossible 
Here they are not free beside the temples of their torpor
And the entertainment either wakefulness this withdraws them without its awakening
They have ceased destroying, no longer withdrawing downward
To darkened definitive forms of trunks
Their plastic against the most hideous of toes

The sun just kicked a hole in the clouds
to look me in the face,
as hail like sea salt pelts my windshield.

Please!
Stop killing yourselves
and leaving dead bodies
lying all over my drawings.
They are already pitiful enough,
and your corpses pull focus.

I would place my hand on your breast
dig my fingers into your flesh
and pull the taint out of your chest.
 But, magic's a gift I don't possess.

True Magic
belongs to greater men than me.
I cannot even conjure a simple cantrip.
If I had a bottle or lamp
I'd rub it for you.
But, I have so few possessions,
and I don't think any of them are magical
If a song could invoke or enchant
I would play all day for you,
but I fear it would be wasted energy.
All I have to give to you is prayer.
and prayer is just surrogate magic,
and it doesn't always work.
But, its better than nothing.
And the truth is, it has worked before.

I see you there,
with your hands
clamped around your ears.
Your eyes chained
to your walls of distraction
you mutter and babble
trying to drown out the screams.
I tell you true, it will not stop,
because the howl is in you.
It is your own spirit wailing,
and it will not end
until you reclaim your savagery.
Then you can start living again
the way you were born to live,
and deny the fiction
you were cast into.
Open your mouth,
check under your tongue
the key to your shackles
has always been there.
Unlock yourself from the lie,
 step outside into the sun
and sing louder than the gale,
until the birds stop and listen.
Or shout at the sky
until you feel human again.

Or, you can sit in the dark,
hide from the rays,
forfeit the day,
and submit to decay.

Smash all the lanterns
burn all the books
Pawn all the keepsakes
cut up all the paintings
Rip up all the ribbons
chop down the kissing tree
Bury all the skeletons
knock down the cottage

Leave nothing behind
when you turn your back
and wipe the dust from your feet.

Compassion is the cruelest curse
a painful defect of my birth.
Day after day it just gets worse,
it floods me like a dam that's burst.
An endless dirge, a tragic verse,
a starving babe without a nurse.
Like new seeds sown on salted earth.

New fallen snow on an icy road,
this path I stumble along.
I shake the branches,
I can't take any chances,
but still I fall beneath the serpent song.
Two weeks pure, sacrificed,
a single day to purge my vice
to lay my flesh upon the ground.
Two bluebottle flys, saved,
and two stinkbugs, revived.
Seeing the dead, curled up things
come back to life,
I am certain I will survive
any trials that might assail me,
in the frigid gray sky days to come,
before I finally lay this body down.

Never trust a man
with clean, and baby smooth hands
unless he is a corpse.

I have no alms to give
a yoke is set around my neck
I serve a different master now
I serve my master until death.
I have no coins to share
This poverty is who I am
Now you must learn to love yourself
and I must kneel before the lamb.
You cannot understand
for you still sit upon your mount
and I lie on the ground
too many blessings yet to count.
Remember what I said to you
you're lovely and forever loved
there's nothing more that I can do
I serve a different master now.

All the blood I've shed,
all the fears I've fed,
all the paper hearts
with these boots I've tread,
all the sacred smiles,
I have dashed apart,
all the burnt up files
all the slashed up art,
all the tearful pleas
I have laughed right through,
are a burning bridge
between me and you.

On the stormy seas,
sailors go to die,
in your tiny hands,
mated dragonflies,
share a sweet disease
seen through lonely eyes,
on a moonlit strand,
in a land before time
moved and left you here,
stripped of your disguise
I only hope my dear
you'll forgive my lies.

I know it may sound queer,
but I still can't stand
to see of you in pain,
a severed wedding band,
my phony alibies.
Yet you cannot see
your beauty in the mirror
and you cannot hear
 all the melodies,
 I sung right here,
before the memories
 all disappeared.

If I could tame my tongue,
coil it back up
put it back in the basket,
snap my flute,
and chuck the basket in the river,
I would.
If I could rewind every time
I threw a barbed dart,
or struck out with my hands,
If I could repair the bruised facade
of every temple I have marred
in my misguided wrath,
and make whole every soul
I have carelessly ripped apart,
I would.
If I could recant every callous oath,
If I could retract every snide rant,
If I could heal every wound
and soothe every mind
I have ruthlessly injured,
time after time,
I would...
But, I cant, so I will have to settle
for saying I am sorry,
and hope for your forgiveness.

Steel still feels cool in this balmy room,
while rain spray spatter paints temporary patterns on the table outside.
The droplet wreathed pines seem eternal.
Sentinels offering shelter
from the wet curtain exposure.
Cloud sprites cavort in the open
reaching under the meager cover,
like the cold wet fingers of a long dead lover, or a drop of regret
from another life...
I'm glad I am warm, here, inside.

Yes, it is a slave I wish to be,
a slave to Love all encompassing,
a slave to Justice for All.
I offer up my wrist
to the Righteous manacle,
my ankle to the Holy shackle.
So that I may know neverending,
my dignity and freedom will be forever preserved, by the inviolable compact
of loving parent, and obedient child.

The spruce boughs shake
like rattlesnakes
as I brush past them, down the path.
Winter's fighting for his life,
but Spring has her hands
clenched firm around his throat.

T-shirt clad, in the dead of night,
 I revel in the raindrops
and I can't help but wonder
will February showers
bring March flowers?
Will my Dandelions return,
before the Spring solstice?

Warmer than usual
is what they say...
The hot breath of our death
is what they mean.

If half of what the doomsayers say
truly comes to pass
(we all know that it will)
one loop will feed the other
as the grasslands burn,
and the icecaps become fairy tales...

Those ****** Chinese
and their self fulfilling hoax's.

You cant stop the coming holocaust
my dear sweet sunny Jane.
So pack your bags for world war three
and put a bullet in your brain.
The lonesome whistle's blowing
and you'd best not miss the train.
The rain shows no sign of slowing
and every martyr dies in vain.

no more kind words
not one word of praise
the blood of the wolves
has washed away
those memories of better days.

no more sleek machines
their all rusting hulks and crates
the sweet strings are frayed
the beds been made
the chord's between the blade of fates.

Their teeth are poised for slaughter
the wheel of death has turned
our flowers choke on ashes
and how and where the children burn
its none of our concern

The best of the best
jumped ship like the rest
pigs gather for their feast
the deserts spreading, ever west
the great now kneel before the least

You might steal an hour of peace
even the devil needs to sleep
to rest his wicked head
So when the quick have all dropped dead
keep an axe beside your bed

Babylon is burning
and the firemen have fled

I was born in that tragic year
America slit its own throat.
I've never seen this fairy tale
that you call the land of the free.
All I see is unfettered exploitation
In the name of the green cotton god.
Mad dogs bark and whine
out of two different mouths,
tugging at the leashes
held by porcine fingered monsters
perched high on their thrones
made of slaughtered sheep bones.

But, you had me fooled for so long, America.
I spent five years afloat
supporting your neverending crusade.
If I knew the truth then,
I would have never raised my hand.
How can I support and defend something
with one hand,
and strangle every single word
with my other.

Your a battered woman,  
my motherland.
The land of the free?
All I see is an endless train of cattle,
blindly marching towards the abbatoir.
We can all smell the blood on the air,
but, until the hammer crushes our skull
we never consider the reality.
We eat the flesh of our fellows
while waiting in line to die.

Home of the brave?
All I see in every pair of downcast eyes
is the despair of cowardice.
I'd rather starve, all alone,
than lockstep towards the slaughterhouse.
I don't care about the hungry billionaires,
I refuse to be a delicacy
for your flag-slaving masters.

I see the starbursts of incendiary bombs
dropped on civilians,
and the stripes across the backs of countless slaves,
in this flag I once saluted with pride.
Before your hypocrisy finally opened my eyes.

Who are you really, America?
Are you a ghost, or a puppet?
Not really there,
or not what you pretend to be?
An eagle with clipped wings,
or a temple caught on fire?
Tell me please, I must know
why you have turned everyone I love
into a pathological liar?
If I turn my back
and walk away from you
will you even wave goodbye?
Do you ever cry, America?
Cry, like the beloved starlet,
who first notices the wrinkles
forming around her sparkling eyes,
like cracks in the foundation
that has covered up the truth
of her lined and blemished face.
Do you ever feel afraid, America,
that these may be your final days?
Or are you resigned to your fate
like your pathetic fawning children
are resigned to being psuedo-slaves.
Were you ever really the illusion,
or have you always been this way?

Do not deny it
the scent of the simmering ***,
bubbling with cravings,
a ghost in a dream,
a room, or a few,
with defiant candles
and shouting embraces,
and wine that flowed
like blood from the stump
of Marie Antoinette's neck,
at least that is how I remember it.

Sanguine avengers descend
like self-righteous saints
who themselves orchestrated the disaster.
Rouged cheek,
blood coated lips,
Argonauts lost in a sargasso sea.
You and me,
separated at the tongue,
joined at the groin,
drowning together,
because neither will touch
the oxygen bottle.
Incense cloys,
around the edges of our history,
it's no mystery,
this cannot end well.

If the trees can feel sorrow
then we have reached the apex of sorrow.

It is a screaming sadness,
a swansong shriek we will all be singing soon.

It is a howl that must be savored,
for when the screaming stops
that's when the pendulum drops.

No number of armed guards,
freeze dried mre's, and cold concrete
will protect your neck
when the blade descends
to the point of termination.

There is more energy encased in this clear bead
that crawls inexorably out of my eye,
than a million, billion universes
of millions of billions of bright burning suns.
I can see the chains of glowing power
split in the prismatic lense,
surging outward, and ******* inward.
Each quivering beam of dazzling radiance
cuts across my blurry field of view,
like a flitting glimpse of a naked nightmare
that lives beneath the skin of the sky.
All these things I have seen reflected
a billion, trillion times
in the shattered crystal shard
created by a single drop,
snagged in the net of interwoven eyelashes,
brought together by a spasm of joy.
As the liquid prism dangles,
an eye-sickle, drawn downward,
it explodes in a saline cascade,
and in the moment before the droplets reach my lips
I see the face of God, reflected in the surface of my tears.

A story by tiger body

By All Means Increase Your Hate For Sculptors
they won't conceal the sour lies
they are silent on the subject of biting, vinegar tangy
and their hands over your eyes

take my body to a mathematician
they will not revive you
they will empty your mind of jagged ruggedness
and deny you the sun

Surrender your mind to an accountant
carelessly ignore the lead and leaf
denying you from horrid hellholes
they are unlikely to conceal and bore

Be selfish with you're disinterest of painters
you're no better off as enemies
they still the whirling innanities
in a one act play, that changes every day

By All Means Increase Your Hate For Sculptors
don't believe the silence they keep from you
they have lost their ropes and nets
later and momentarily

if you're out of hate for politicians
you are unaware of the validity of it
once in a while the path is blocked
to leave this hatred behind myself

I am the sear of steam
I am the blackness of the pit
I am the killer of mothers
I am a dull razor
I am a red dirt nightmare
I am an unyielding cruel desert
I am a black and white, dead fire
I am one of many hated
I am the naked winter branch
I am the teeth of the serpent
I am the dry and desolate plains
I am the bile bitter phlem, you spit out
~~~~~~~~
You will hate me
In the flicker of an eyelid
You hate me
As the hail pounds everything
back into he dust.