After the departure of the Romans
we were our own bosses again
at war with each other

The sergeants took over
first the peripheral areas
then the middle land

Only behind the mountains
the residents still resist
longing for a king of their own

as once
his sword shone
his sword shines

immovably stuck
in the eyes of the people
dreaming of a peaceful life

a passed-on promise, for once
but unfortunately
the sword has disappeared

the paved country road swells under the heavy footfalls of the weary warrior

it is the dawn of march and the roses will remember the blush of death no more.

no more that is due to the sullen rock which the freshly smeared crimson slumbers upon

no more that is due to the holy droplets hauntingly trailing their way home from the sky

like divine reprisal

the heavens cry the loss which will be remembered no more that is due.

no more that is due to the village folks strutting about

rejoicing the return of the weary warrior

and his dripping sword.

no more that is due to the chaste maiden weeping in the wet meadow

for her freedom is gained

and another one’s lost.

the weary warrior moves along the muddy path still

while the dripping drizzle heartens his tired soul

for he know that someone does weep for the life which has been forcibly and heartlessly taken that day

that warm day of april struck by lightning and  thunder and fragile fury.

it is said that to slay a monster creates another

and to save a life a debt is repaid

for the cost of life

is a life still.

and yet the warrior moves along and does not weep

he’s coming home

and does not stop his heavy footfalls nor the beating of his erratic heart which has been yearning for it.

the fire will burn the remains of the day no more

but the fire was home too

the fire was life

and it has been extinguished.

the wary long-battled warrior is coming home through the cave and the meadow and the country path

for he has seen and lived it all and can never turn away from the scorching tear in his chest

and the village is his home no more.

the village is water and rain and it will not stop just like his tired steps

the whole world has sank away into the water

therefore the tired warrior does not return to the world

and instead he decides to return home.

How much is too much,
doing those Emily Dickinson numbers,
almost to #2100,
doing with words what was previously unheard of,

the Andy Warhol of pop poetry,

will continue until even the Atheist Haters believe in me,
I mean if they ever again believe in anything,

&,
I’m on track,
to not look back,
all I’ve gotta do to be great is not die,
or do something stupid and get locked up,
like lose my cool & Triangle Choke out a fool,
just for acting rude,
doest that mean I have a bad attitude,
I don’t know that’s why i’m asking you,

used to have nothing to lose,
now I’ve got nothing to prove,
Game of Life you decide,
pay the price roll the dice win or lose make your move,

I made mine,
by choosing to write these lines,
created my own style & gave it a title,
end every piece where it begins
so the thought’s are complete & the piece comes full circle,
add a few pop culture references & call it Pop Poetry,

& no one known is excluded,
I include more than a few references to saying & names,
my work is an encyclopedia of idioms,
it’s our entire collective Contemporary History literally explained,

& artistically rearranged to keep their attention & entertain,

& I’l write until I write every last thought right outta my brain,

how much is too much,
doing those Emily Dickinson numbers,
almost to #2100,
doing with words what was previously unheard of,

the Andy Warhol of pop poetry…

∆ LaLux ∆

Cali, Colombia

July 2018

The Inferno devours the infant,
Blaze towering the callousness,
The envelope of Innocence innate within,
Collapses under the Wrath of Hell.


The Son of the Divines fails to rise,
Wobbly and tiny are his limbs,
All alone in the cruel world,
His snivels muffled, by the Hands beneath.


Years into the Netherworld,
The Phoenix reduced to gruesome ashes,
Screaming scars donning the lad,
Made him stronger in spite the cracks.


It was time for the Sun to burn again,
For the ten steps of Hell would be torn apart,
The Bloom of the Phoenix from the ashes burnt,
Would quench the Blaze and obliterate the lust.


And so did the Phoenix rise,
Darker than Satan, yet brighter than The Light.
Breaking hell loose on Hell itself,
Wrecking the cages of the Living Dead.


He spread his wings, embraced the warmth
Born of The Light, raised by The Dark
But as time passed, people forgot,
The Legend of The Dark Phoenix.

A combination of solo acoustic guitar solo,
and dubstep trap hop electric heavy metal,

never settle,
because I’m never settled,
have always felt more judged than more loved,
ever since I was called black by the Kettle,

cut your nose off,
if it grows like Pinocchio,
no strings on me though,
nope no Gepetto,

no fairytales,
no cartoons no make believe,
just me alone and us together,
in this Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy,

and I love you,
whatever that means,
just trying to stay awake long enough,
to make it to another night of dreams,

hold me,
but don’t keep me to close,
see I want to want to want you,
but I’m too high to fly anything except solo,

a combination of solo acoustic guitar solo,
and dubstep trap hop electric heavy metal,

never settle,
because I’m never settled,
have always felt more judged than more loved,
ever since I was called black by the Kettle…

∆ LaLux ∆

Los Angeles, CA.
October 10th, 2018