Well, and that doesn't even account for having been buried with Mum's remains.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCCLXVI)


Rain...lo, the ditches were quite full cuz thence
All could but hardly drive, and in betrayl
Slid off the roads since ice was that detail
Upon all lanes, police too, for intents
Cast in such straits, ah we discussed it hence
To put my visions of that party's bail
Thus on its ear like plans are fragile, they'll
Assure me, "you might hafta find defense."
Therefore I pray, as she sends out in tour
Reminders "It's tomorrow!--" (yes, I knew)
And "...don't forget!" like Janry is not poor
For such things here in Lincoln's Land.  We do
So much, yet for what cause?  To sweetly stir
Souls is't?  Friends:  I'd forgotten joys' thin crew.

07Jan18b

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up down under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Worldwide Bestselling Poet

Sometimes, before bed,
I try on the outfit
I have laid out
for the next day
in front of the mirror.

It’s like
peeking through the
wrapping paper
before Christmas Day.

Sometimes
that outfit neatly tucked
in the corner of my room
by the closet
is the only thing
that will get me out of bed.

After already hitting snooze
for three hours,
first class skipped,
lunch date cancelled,
self-loathing amassing
at an alarming rate—

those neatly folded clothes
look like a savior atop a
carpeted Sea of Galilee.

To mistake it for vanity
is to be the one who
has never feared
once their feet left the bed
they would drown.

I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.

There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.

I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.

So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.

No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.

Paul Butters

i never knew that
i'd wear jealousy
so well
that my veil would
perfectly match my
broken in heels
or that my eyes would be smoked
with various fumes
or that when i spoke
your world would continue
to move
unlike the first time
that i met you.

she
is the only
one who brings her
own wine
to the party
and
it's always cliquot

she
is that girl,
find her perfume
on your supreme hoodie
but she will leave,
and you know,
she fears nothing

she
is too white
to wash out of your
duvet, too rich
to devour whole
and too bougie
to ever live a normal
life

she
is the space
between her thighs
and nothing else
her eyes are as empty
as the macy's storefront
but she's better than that,
louie v all day, every day

she
is urban,
the hypebeast,
the sneaker head,
the cool girl
she is everything them
white girls want but don't
need

she
is a nightmare,
the disembodied hand
sends a backhand slap
across your cheek,
the mother who drank too much,
the mother who's jewelry
blinded you

she
is a poem that
rambles towards the
last stanza, just like
this one, and she
is my elusive lover
*she is a ******* goddess