Late night walk.. at peace under the stars and street lights. That is until I hit crossline street. No streetlights Just dark road. Its at this point the stars show themselves true. 10pm clicks on through. I see a white line in the sky. Its very faint and barley visible. I think its a chemtrail maybe a long thin cloud. For 2 weeks I see this white line at 10 pm and finally realise it to be a beam of light. It shines for but 2 minutes and then turns off. I decided to go on the otherside of town one night and see this beam of light brighter arc across the sky. I also see this light is coming from above the hills. On the next night I wait at the hills.. and at 10 pm the light shined on through. From a trailer window alone up here I find a girl whom had been missing for three years.. this was no white line.. this was an s.o.s that I found in darkness without streetlights..

The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.

I found a way to make it painless, to make god good, to make myself good, to make myself god—me—Joshua Jerome Hutton, sound familiar?  

God I hope so.

I found a way to make it painless in the checkout line, while the bleary-eyed maidens of South Moore, one in front, one behind, talk 3 a.m. rallies and resurrections right through me.

I found a way to make it painless at the eternal stoplight, watching the eternal Vietnam veteran in eternal rags holding eternal cardboard, summoning crumpled bills from anyone other than me.

I found a way to make it painless during the photo shoot, a way to place my chin so thoughtfully in my hand, a way to look into the middle-distance, a way to imply self-deprecation, a way to find near perfection—only under ample light, of course.

I found a way to make it painless in the soup queue, amongst my fellow unshaven, shamed naked, shamed to the bone, shamed pure, shamed to one flybuzz drive: I must consume.

I found a way to make it painless, to make it to the center of the white space, to suspend, inking out the worst parts of me, an all caps ATTRACTION, impossible to pinpoint, all for the review of books and the cabal of the slowed-down and insane still reading the review of books.

I found a way to make it painless by never breaking eye contact nor speaking a word as you talk yourself deeper into what you hate about yourself, and I stir my drink with a black cocktail straw, and I clear my throat, and I hahaha to myself, and I say these little issues just seem like problems. Just wait. You just wait.

I found a way to make it painless, to eek out of my own borderlines, to meld with the air and chemtrail across the sky, to observe from a holy distance the tightrope walker, the controlled demolition, the desperate young men lagging five feet behind the elusive loves of their lives, firing every clever phrase, hoping for one to land, to glean one little pause, a moment to catch up, and here, I must admit, it gives me great relief to be this removed, this far gone, this far god.

And the ships were fogbound for three days
Their hulls split smiling wide by the spray of the channel
We're hovering with them in the dimness of a drunk sun crawling under
A dusk devoid of color
Welcome rainclouds follow countless bouts of bleakness
Slate-gray miasma of refinery exhaust swirls
Mingling skyward with the overcast scene and all it's gulls and cranes
Cawing in the dampness toward their roosts under jetties
Those frayed hurricane tarps on dilapidated rooftops
Laid creased and faded by morose Texas suns
Epitaphs blotting dismal landscapes of copper and olive
And smashed concrete begging to be reclaimed by nature
As all of it is when the seasons heave
Our interim footnotes disguised by the power of purpose
The notion that one day our role will be to make life better for each other
(Oh, how we loathe being found out)
Instead of grimacing, sage-like, naked and angelic in our blindness by the mirror
While each shred of truth oscillates into blue ruin and we shake, shake, shake
Mesmerized by houses where we once lived and stories we must have led in them
In varied and skewed alternate realities, and in dreams we once had
Some of which paint homage to our own grim summers here
Some in which where my roads leading home were less obfuscated
Instead being laid out like the chemtrail creases drawn solemn on our brows
(We won't notice them until our thirties)
This far south, everything is the ageless vacuum we've known since conception
Thusly we're bound to the irony of it all by dull tradition and the will to break it
Among all other shams bred real by the ambitions of confused white men
Their warring remains reigning evident within my crooked heart
Under whichever corner of earthen floor it may be buried
Your guess is as good as anyone's

The sun on my face distracts me from my father,
as he yells in my ears how much of a disgrace I have become.
His voice, shadowed by the dark clouds that hide the sun,
becomes a tiny speck of mud. I stamp on mud on a hill run.
The smell of stella artois spills from his mouth,
as he warns me of the dangers of birthing a dark child or none at all.
His impatience grows louder, as I gaze at the white streak in the sky above,
internally questioning whether it is
A. a chemtrail, that casts nauseating ignorance, as evident by the neanderthal beside me
or
B. a magic carpet, that could transport me somewhere else; somewhere the sun shines and the clouds never have to come out.

nothing organic
barely human
the organs duly report (what they’re told)
disgust
nothing could be more free range
than a chemtrail

disinformation camps
with fences unseen
no concentration
in this wealth of the obscene
buried heads
scratching for the next thing

nowhere to hide
from this deathly poison
of ignorance
of intent
of idiocy

The Path to a Distant Land

The fascist lie, a shroud so tight,
Keeps minds in chains, obscures the light,
It molds the fools in fearful ranks,
And drives them deep to terror’s banks.

Their hollow cries grow wild, insane,
A twisted choir of grief and pain…
Yet still they march, yet still they kneel—
Blind to the fate they help to seal.



---------------------



Mammoth

Mammoth gone? No, mammoth stays!
Lies still guide his twisted ways.
Since the rules were first decreed—
Only he may learn and lead.

All alone, he claims the right,
Blind to truth beyond his sight.
Scorns the sense that whispers near,
Yet without it—lost in fear.

Sense is light, but he obeys
Black-and-white, the mind’s decay.
Trapped in logic, cold and grim,
Doom is certain, bound to him.

Falsehood fades, its time is done,
Truth will rise with morning’s sun.
A new world will shape and grow—
Where intuition reigns to know.



---------------------



Cupid and the Riders of the Apocalypse

Cupid, fool, your aim is wrong—
Love, when all won’t last for long?
Hooves are pounding, cold as stone,
Be their herald—ride, be gone!

Let your wings bring news to those
Pure of heart, still sensing fate.
See and check—the end soon shows.
Curse it loud, but don’t be late!



---------------------



The Eternal Song of Blatherskite

Suicide’s a wicked sin—
A waste of meat, yet he keeps driving
The herds to slaughter, kith and kin,
For ages—Blatherskite’s surviving.

He shifts his shape, he hides his face,
Yet still his song remains the same.
A traitor dares to shun the race
Of chains, enclosures, death, and shame.



---------------------



Roulette of Pseudo-Life

Odd and even, even, odd—
Yet this roulette seems so flawed:
Whole numbers spin—oh, can't you see?
I would rather bet on Pi.

Golden ratio haunts my mind,
Not a day it stays behind.
Every thought comes back to Phi,
While the world just sighs: "Oh my!"

Cash and status rule the game—
Roulette’s flaw remains the same.
So I place it all on zero,
Though it shines, it isn’t hero.

"Yes" or "no"—a mere machine,
But the world is in between.
Trust your senses, look around—
See the shades that can't be found…



---------------------



Twist Them Tight!

"The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure, and the intelligent are full of doubt."
— Bertrand Russell


No doubt! No fear! March on, be bold!
Our leader guides us to pure gold.
And if you’re not with us—beware!
He’ll raise his hand and shout: "Go tear!"

We’ll hunt them down, we’ll break their backs,
We’ll chase them, sniff out all their tracks.
Those clever fools—we’ll make them pay,
They’re spineless worms—so bend, obey!

Twist them tight and don’t delay!
Drag the nearest **** away!
A worthy foe is what we lack—
Once all those thinkers hit the sack,

Once madhouse doors and jails are filled,
We’ll march ahead, we won’t be stilled.
Against outsiders, strike and burn—
Our flag will fly, our ways will turn

Into the norm for mindless sheep
Who trust the lies, obey, don’t weep.
And those who dare to doubt—beware!
The weak in war have no place there.



---------------------



Brutodrome

Glad to serve!
Why observe
All those foolish dreams of mind?
In the FILTH, I'm feeling fine!

Bow and follow, praise the lie,
Evil wears a saintly guise.
Eat, breed, babble—don’t ask why,
Live it up—till no one dies…



---------------------



Distilling Rot into Rant

The system rots—it’s nothing new,
For centuries, we’ve watched it stew.
But now the rot itself has fled,
All that remains is stench and RANT.

Beyond this RANT, so few survive,
Once more, we’ll build—bring back to life
A world that’s torn, consumed by blight,
Worn-out, exhausted, drained of light.



---------------------



Humans and Humanoids

Ego will lead you into the void,
A hollow world, so loud, yet empty.
The worthy few stand unalloyed—
But who is real, and who pretends be?

It isn’t hard to tell apart—
Their eyes will shine or stare so lifeless.
Divided deep, in soul and heart,
Though outward marks are blurred and sightless.

That emptiness… it weighs us down,
Without paradox, life’s just fiction.
Darkness will claim its rightful crown—
CowID’s the test: the mice show friction.



---------------------



Chemtrails Reflect the Sun’s Fierce Rays

They spray the skies with chemtrail streams,
Not at night—so faint, they fade from sight…
By day, a silver veil redeems
The air from sunlight’s burning might.

The raging Sun keeps turning cruel,
Its scorching beams will leave no trace—
It burns the world, no shade, no fuel,
A prelude to the End of Days.

And fools stand blind—they cannot see,
No thought, no reason, none will heed.
The ones who think—not just agree—
Are cast aside by fools and freaks.

For those who know, one path remains:
A Spirit’s Road beyond this lie.
When this zoo burns in crimson flames,
Their souls will flee to worlds on high.



---------------------



A Touch of "Madness" for True Knowing

The Mine of Death—
A well of lies.
Go test it, lest
You pay the price.

The mind goes blind
In halls of lore—
But cracked, it finds
A sharper core.

Less of "facts"—
More sense, more feel.
All true knowledge
Drips, not spills.

Yet intuition, strong and wise,
May turn the trickle to a tide.



---------------------



Marine and "Nerd"

Marines—
They win.
The troops—
All in.
The "nerd"—a joke,
A pawn, a clown.
The bureaucrat—
He wears the crown.

A traitor’s praised,
A king of lies.
— Who needs the Lyre?
— It slowly dies...

The scholar, the crook,
The jester in power—
They poison the souls,
Make masses cower.

Deception reigns,
Truth is denied.
Who needs the Lyre?
Their life’s designed—
From bistro to the latrine aligned...



---------------------



"School"—So They Say

Memory overload’s the key—
To rot the school intentionally.
A fool’s no fluke, but just the rule,
As nonsense turns the mind to gruel.

And all the manners, all the grace—
Just tricks to keep deep thoughts erased.



---------------------



Rejecting Evil

We resist—yet we obey,
Bound by fear, we walk astray.
Then we stumble all our lives,
Turning all the world to dust.

Evil’s vast, corrupts the soul,
To reject it makes us whole.
Dare to stand, refuse to bend—
Cast the Darkness to its end.



---------------------



Intuition

To wake from coma—
Means to rise,
Leave the familiar
World behind.

Step toward Spirit—
Life is there.
Sense it, feel it—
Poets dare.

Push perception
To the brink.
Hard at first?
Just act—don’t think.

Mind surrenders,
Turns to steel.
Not by learning,
But to feel.

Answers come
Through keen insight,
Crushing nonsense
With its light.

Rant is coma—
Time to wake!
World’s a tumor—
Bend, you break.



---------------------



The Upside-Down Mountain

The pit grows deeper—digging down,
Still chasing bedrock, far below.
It’s damp and dark, no light, no ground,
Yet miners toil—their task is so.

The money flows? Then dig with pride!
They’ll carve a hole both vast and grand.
And books will tell the kids in time:
"That mountain once stood tall and planned."

A new pit comes, and youth will learn
To dig once more, to carve the past.
And doubts will fade, as echoes turn:
"Those men were heroes to the last!"



---------------------



"Choice"

A squirrel runs—round and round.
They shout: "You’re free to choose!"
Yet in her mind, so tightly bound,
Lies nothing but obtuse.

Pick a bar—you get to choose
Which one will keep you spinning.
Trapped in lies, they chase the ruse,
Convinced that they are winning.

Young ones learn to jump and race,
Never pause, just keep on striving.
No one dares to say: this "choice"
Is nothing but conniving.



---------------------



Sheep’s Strong Bonds

The ram obeys—his shepherd near,
No fear of staff, no horn to chide.
So too with men—through faith or fear,
They're bound by God and laws as guide.



---------------------



To the Artist

Forget the crowd, the board, their praise—
It's better to write and let it stay.
No need to bend, no need to stray—
Eternal works may find their way.

For watching the masses, fearing their call,
Where slaves are many—free minds are few,
Will turn the artist, the writer, them all,
To traitors lost—their talent through.



---------------------



Entertaining Chemistry, or "Nature’s Crown"

This chemistry is quite the art—
Not for school, but for the feast.
They twist our minds, they tear apart,
And turn the crowd into a beast.

The dumbing down that schools begin,
The rotten media refine.
Forget your will, give up, give in—
Your mind is nearly out of time.

For reason fades where fools are vast,
And idiots now set the tone.
Free thought? Too rare—it couldn’t last.
And fascist claws keep growing strong.

The future? None. A twisted tale
That nears its grim and final part.
We’re not the same, we’re bound to fail—
The crown will rot, then fall apart.



---------------------



Amidst the Filth...

The heroes took another way
And lived a little more than most.
Now only **** and rot remain—
Dark years ahead, a heavy cost.

The CowID, the war, the stage is set,
The filth expands, the chains grow tight.
With bravery gone, the Spirit spent,
There's no one left to stand and fight.



---------------------



The Dead, or The World Unmasked

No disguise—just "FAS!"—the call,
And fools rush in without a doubt.
Fascism suits us, after all—
The dead now freely walk about.

The living lost, the dead run wide—
No thrill or feast can break the spell.
And in their joy, they **** their ride—
For walking corpses, all is well.



--- Total 22 poems. ---