When grandma laid me down to sleep
she prayed the Lord my soul to keep
and if I died before I woke
she prayed my soul the Lord would yoke

Post-psychedelic black door dreams
monsters climbing in the breeze
Running, falling, flying, stare
yet with the morning not a care
the wafting flow through morning light
Madame’s kitchen fueled the air

The children sang of fresh insight
With voices pure and futures bright:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages


Slipping, sliding, sowing sin
Sipping cider in the sun
Seeking soaring savoir faire
Serenade non-sequitor

Life’s a joke at seventeen
Painful angst, gray misery
With one look the light pours in
Eyes to see, now born again

Fresh squeezed juice is just divine
Grapes and berries off the vine
over easy, over hard
Weeds have overgrown the yard

And all the brothers in their haze
with lifted voices sang their praise:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages


Mother’s teeth and Mother’s paw
Mother’s cradle, Mother’s bough
Mark the day’s devotions done
in the back track He looks on

The Sun is setting in the East,
and though the Magi know the truth
The Book of Lies, lies in disguise
of jagged tooth with mangy hide

The night recedes, the morning calls
Memories of far gone days
Memories of yawning halls
Memories of random joy

Though the hand that feeds we bite
now sing we all, with all our might:

We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages

a shot in the arm,
****** then blood.

one flash of burgundy
touches the mud.

grown like a child
from nothing to dust.

black in the arbor;
it's better to rust.

sicker than tired;
darkness can come.

aim for the wicked,
one hand and a thumb

clutches haphazard;
pins on my tongue.

dumping my innards;
sticky and stung,

not for the rectory;
a person undone.

better than death:
purposeless fun.

holy worlds of culture lie undead,
divided, cocooned,
near and dear
in pristine
hermetically sealed jars.

profoundly deceased artists
greater generations
cryogenically frozen;
wait for disease no more,
erased and forgotten by history.

Make room for new records,
consciousness too
streaming through
your tube,
my tube,
our tube.

Cut and paste:
Save the ****, save the pop-ups, save the ads,
save the text, save the papers, save the bits, save
the bytes, save the one, save the zero, save the site,
save the facts, save the mirrors, save the mother,
and the father, save the dots, save the
photos, save the mood, save your game,
save your thoughts, save the time, save the
plot, save this show, save the world, save
the breeze, save the key, save the music, save this song,
safe advice, save the space, save this spot,
save the ages, save the screen, save your pride,
save indulgence,
save your dream.

Pure, collapsible, indisputable.
Oozing inside with purpose.
Vicious slime invades the orifice.

****** and pulsing;
unfiltered specks;
all untarnished space.

This sprawl leaves it's mark;
stains like blood
or coffee as it drips;
collected into vats;
like flies in the ointment.

The nature of the beast moves quickly:
video games or junk food.
On our eyes simulated,
stimulated, embossed on our souls.

Spoon fed groomed inspiration
pumps direct.
Into sacks of meat
vacant gunk sloshes.
Glommed onto cells,
demanding position.

Consumes virtual reality,
the avatars,
our status,
updated or not.

boards angled,
slanting downward
between my ankles.

front and back,
not on the sides,
solid across my shin,
planted to the spot.

wall behind me;
leaning backwards
with my weight
balanced.

other people too;
my left and right;
don't remember faces;
not interested.

three days
feels like forever.