Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped
out of an air-conditioned car, a
journey Berlin to Bombay as the
Dream merchant of Utopia
metamorphosed him into a subhuman
white bearded national bourgeoisie.

The third world girl who was climbing a
tree without Motorcycle-
Diaries hung to her clothe looked
like an Engelian mistake possibly
not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia,
certainly not a Soviet artefact.

Alienation, self-affirmation and all
unlike modes of production confused
his surplus brain. The dichotomy
of imaginings and reality with the
girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued
him an added ****** struggle.

A shift in his struggle with a smile
on her lips gave a  hint of welcome to her
Animal Farm. He did get inside.
The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle
and the lacking exploitation
left him a disappointing proletariat grin.

She opened her mouth, blue words
did not discharge. Neither the mid wife
nor the revolution pumped her conscience.
He got up, disappointed, alarmed,
cursed the chap who misdirected
to a class-less renewed pattern.

“Comrade” she said shaking his hands,
the blood did stir for a moment but
the fight less slant , **** suits and
her distant reality pained the rationalist.
The amusingly alienated young Marx
jumped into his car and left for utopia.

(You made this monster)

invented by provided feelings of reverence
forced to difference without relevance
with resemblance to hands of elegance
evident difference, deliberate severance

(it is so hard to ****)

envious enemies with torches of treacherous
eloquence lost when pestilence is generous
serpent like in genesis, tenaciously venomous
fighting the exodus against shields of credulous

(and the tower burns)

ignited by chemicals of nominal assessment
tower of suggestion is now infested
where questions and statements are incessant
born by resentment, this basement investment

=====================================================­===

i walk the streets with arms outstretched
never meeting touching grace
i haven't met a decent monster yet
the greenest monstrosity in this place

we are all only pieces left
stitched organs, sewn parts
a dug up heart in my chest
could come alive with some sparks

i haunt these streets of broken dreams
another life to survive
i'm just a being, beyond their screams
it lives, it's alive

I'm not that bad of a guy
at least no one can say I never tried
is there something wrong with my mind?
just because I cry when I watch Frankenstein?

I find myself walking around blind
sometimes I see them run and hide
"look out!" "he's not our kind!"
I feel their torches burning from behind

maybe I'm just ****** up inside
people ask me if somebody died
I tell them "that's what I'm trying to find"
the body of Frankenstein

https://soundcloud.com/gary-loftis/the-body-of-frankenstein

Smoke under your clothes
Who’d know?
Summer died beneath you
In some apartment we ****** in

Man is the only being who knows he is alone

This morning, let me drink the silence
Let me swim in my own solitude
Being the profoundest condition
Of my humanity, you’d think

I should get to know her better
Intimacy and silence, that’s all
There every is, I cannot often
Penetrate another being with my love

Since surrender must occur mutually
And there are times my emotion
Does not require reciprocity
This morning, let me forget about altruism

For we all deserve the dream
Beyond myself, somewhere, I shall
Then wait for my own arrival
The slow enlightenment of lifetimes

Because two bodies, naked and entwined
Soul and body, mind and heart must somehow
Learn to live together and leap
Over time, we are not invulnerable

However in the silence of today
I realize there are no yesterdays, no names,
No you and I and no tomorrow
This morning, I want to give myself up
To something higher than I ever was.

The geosynchronous
Geppetto One
With us orbits
Round our sun;
Blinking down,
Ringing up,
We're on lines
Like marionettes;
Transmitting selfies,
Receiving otheries.
Time to be Pinnochio,
Cut some ties,
Get up and go,
See eye to eye
When toe to toe,
Watch how small
Our noses grow.

I started with a mirror,                                      
with questions of who and why.
But he just stared back at me,
reflecting what I already knew.

I met with a prophet,                                
who gave me a what:
The illusion of God,
and He was the only way.

I searched for a philosopher,
but was met with several.
Each had conflicting whys,
but none a who.

I moved on to science,
and it gave me a how:
It told of creation,
but never the why.

I read some books;
each had their own why,
And each character their own who,
but it was just fiction.

I looked at old photos,
and found an old me.
But I could not see who it was,
or what it all meant.

I turned to self help,
which told how to find who;
But this notion was sold to me,
and I lost more than I gained.

So I went back to my mirror,
and I broke it.