I feel life from the words I write despite them being words I slurred over night it's like I fight but my pen is the sword of course I force myself into creative prospects I expect to wreck what in front of me is set
I wondered what would happen if I ruled the world gimme a shot at the top I'm not Clinton I only need one girl but seriously I hate this place controlled by industry it's ****** me up the environment and desire for right went out the window when the dead presidents kept talking from beyond the grave the money you made won't matter so cut it like a beanstalk

DaSH:
And fall into a pool of tears
From all the single mothers over all these years
Tucking youngins under covers
Undercover trying not to let the pain show through
This is the same strong woman that still holds you
Even though you're older and make your own decisions
Its gotten colder in the later years just wishin
You could go back to the beginnin
Back to when **** was simple
And all you had to do was listen
To another bedtime story
Next thing you know you're drifting
Away from all these problems and all these lights
Fluoride will **** our dreams they tell us to brush our teeth and cringe when we say reality bites
But I'm just trying to figure what's more important
Being myself
Or being Your kid
Just another thought from the tortured
I can feel the flames lick my body 'fore the torch's lit
Society's trying to burn us
And if they think they can teach us before they learn us then its straight out the frying pan and flying into the furnace

Nero:
I'm all alone like a watchtower my life turned sour but I'll devour any chance to **** up fools with rhymes perchance I'll leave you entranced with my writings but I'm sliding off topic so dash if you're ready then go a ahead and rip because we're cyphering on some poetic mafia ****

DaSH:
**** clips in the toilet with the ******* safety off
******* blood royal flushing with my king homie Alucard
All your ******* are old and lack any kind of support
So I'll hang em make their back straight with that ******* IV cord
If this cipher is random
Hope they deal with what I hand em
Four grenades a box of tampons
Watch these ******* explode while standing above the commode
Uncan them
The whoopass they deserve
Then im swervin in their hearse
Hopping over every curb
Speeding through every sharp turn
I love to watch their bodies burn
I love to catch every single ash between my teeth and eat them
DaSH is such a beast you freed him
By acting like a priest
When youre a demon in the streets
*******, capish?

Nero:
Alucard the damphir ******* blood like canned beer I'm near my apex others are below I'll free flow like arkham you won't question in a session when I leave your ***** barkin rhyme sparring call me Ali all these fools stay trying to Rock me like cheap Versace but I'm high quality leather built for your pleasure linkin words together you'll take home and treasure like Sinbad I don't sling crack but my rhymes are the pipe because reading this I know your *** got addicted tonight

DaSH:
Slicing high up on their frame
Like I'm aimin for the throat
Lots of gore on the floor
Need a boat to stay afloat
The walls needed more paint
You donate another coat
But I don't need your ******* charity
I'll stumble and I choke
Before I ever let you get to me
Before you start ***** you'll be history
How you ******* plan on ending me?
Just get Gone, Girl, be a mystery

Sophie stands
at the top
of the stairs

her blue thin
uniform
unbuttoned

revealing
a white top
and blue jeans

she waits there
listening
for voices

a duster
in her hand
pretending
to polish
the hand rail

where is he?
she wonders

she pushes
her fingers
through her hair
long and blonde

in the lounge
of the home
for old folk
I'm waiting
while Mr
Mash sits down

OK George?

yes I’m fine
he replies

so I go
up the stairs
to make beds
before baths

Sophie hides
by a wall
as I pass

got you now
she utters
behind me
slipping her
Polish hands
quickly round
my trim waist
nibbling
my right ear

not right here
I tell her
not right now

she nibbles
even more

Sophie go
I’ve got work
to do now
beds to make

I help you
she suggests
make the beds
try them out
we have ***

I remove
her small hands
from my waist

Matron could
come along
and see us
I tell her

she not come
Sophie says
she busy
with others

holding her
narrow wrists
for safety
my safety
I look at
her ice blue
open eyes

go polish
some hand rail
wash a floor
I suggest

we have ***
on a bed
she mumbles
which bed best?

I don't know
none of them
I tell her

I release
her thin wrists

she stands there
watching me
her blue eyes
searching me

she puts her
hands on her
narrow waist
her tight ****
bulging out

go Sophie
do some work
I suggest

she just stares

I go off
to the men's
corridor
to make beds
leaving her
behind me

I go in
to Bob's room
smell of soap
and *****
windows shut
curtains drawn

I draw back
the curtains
and open up
the window
let air in
and town sounds
and traffic

I make up
and tidy
old Bob's bed

I help you?
Sophie asks

I turn round
and she's there
by the door

we make bed
then we ****?

no such luck
I tell her
beds to make
baths to do
take the men
to the loo

you bathe me?
Sophie asks
together
be quicker

I smooth down
old Bob's bed
pump pillows

she watches
from the door

I need ***
she whispers
we do it
on Bob's bed?

got to go
empty this
bedside pan
I tell her
holding a
commode pan

she moves back
from the door
lets me pass

***** smell
filters out

it stinky
she tells me
old men stink
make me sick

best go then
I tell her
waving the
commode pan
towards her

she goes off
in a huff
her fine ****
swaying fast
as she's off
and away

I return
to my work
safe at least
for an hour
or a day.

Decadent choirs bemoan the prudish proctor of the inevitable and decisive test
Profligacy anneals and the knaves repeal the prohibition of the earth’s very best
Despondent clouds tower over a garbled loud and an unapologetic proud
Panache whisks the hallowed cross into transmogrified dross amassing a boisterous crowd
Hidebound ideologies tether the masses to masses and gather the rust of the bustle and bust
Recusant allegiance mocks the science of sanctimony and dissolute lust
Deathless in prayer and breathless in despair rhapsody creeps and percolated ideals leap
Arriving in the limelight of providence, the renegades daunted by the specter of commination weep
Proofs now exist and investment in their emphasis burgeons into a divine cease and desist
But in the hubris of victory and the rubrics of history pleasure wrenches control and importunacy insists
Brisk alacrity and savvy rapacity beseech the death of the stodgy gate
Time lingers in evanescent turmoil satiated only by the fish and the bait
But when the bait runs in low supply the society hearkens the agents of the sky
They pout over water even with verdant temptations escorting them away from the dry
How do you anoint in a world preoccupied with the next joint rather than the next joint venture
Revelations lies to stultify the brides of misadventure
Caprice rampant, society recusant deadlocked in hedonistic dreadlocks
The fools boast of victories never won, and the prattle of yesteryear is stalked
Restraining order duly noted but never imposed
Stygian elements wrought apparel to contribute to indecency in clothes
To the master of destiny and the architect of decency
I advise the future to focus more than just on recent sprees
Ignominy forgotten in tokes, we forget about the labor of cotton
We forget also about the putrefaction of the rotten
Abdicate the uprooted era squelched by disorientation wrought by intensified sensations
And return to the regal promise of prudes living beyond temptation
But who is the fool foolish enough to forswear the hide of the bear in the dead of the winter scare
Lilting in sumptuous praise and reckless abandon this charge and travesty seems unfair
Slanted lies of stodgy disguise revile the return to primitive commode and camaraderie
To loot of the panaceas and nepenthes to the extent of dearth seems a more egregious robbery
But in the uprooted future the past has no say
The primacy of today shines the refulgent and overpowering rays
The sun won’t burn out but the burn outs won’t establish any clout
Even in a world divorced from prudishness in sanctimonious doubt
Powerless in the rout of pleasure over the scourge of dearth
The earth awakens renewed even with the impossibility of rebirth
Resurrecting the indulgences of Rome while abdicating the tome
The theophany astounds especially the most prone
The coming of righteousness working to castigate immoderacy
The renegades listen barely enough to subvert their own profligacy
Shouting over the skylines the rain announces the sentences for the wicked crimes
Of a past forgotten and a future rotten because of an ill-designed time
An ill-designed design leading to wanton men groveling in grime
Time to indulge time to abstain
Either extreme ultimately lame.

You can smell it - when it happens,
and it does,
at the trailer park.
You investigate once, because you,
personally have never seen a rotting corpse.

Once, single use death, as when
one tries to use life too hard, too not
easy,
like heros on TV, not
gentle, as with a kitten or a yellow duckling,
held, in your own soft bowl of fingers.

Bubble, floating for a moment longer
than bubbles would if only water were involved,
-- input, use, grow a known, redistill, settle still

bubbles in the commode,
bubbles in the coffee,
bubbles in the hummingbird feeder, bubbles
in my brain, or my soul, sometimes, I wonder
if one is the other, when the brain is dead,
the soul is gone,
must be, wouldn't one assume?

perhaps here is where the spirit lingers,
watching souls lay dead where a bubble of life was.

when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes

She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;
                                                Almost­.

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering your final
        stalemate
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this simile only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday,
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
Irrationally
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her frailty.
You did – but

it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed,
you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She retreated into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter
in a house you bought.

You answer the phone
                                        breathlessly
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

Open up the hinged false front,
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken–
        behave.)
She has no further use for the things she left behind.

Didn’t I hear you say the lawn I would mow?
Sundays come and Sundays go.

Grasses are taller so are the ****
Season is going where’s the flower seed?

Words aren’t taxed you use them free
Said this Sunday you would clean the chimney.

Wash the toilet scrub clean the commode
Sundays come piles up workload.

Lot of things to mend lots to replace
Why Sundays trudge in leisurely pace?

Why the bed conspires the morn breathes chill
Why must I lie back to get the Sunday feel?

Why Sunday is one day and not a whole week
Comes up the Monday devilish and bleak!

Sundays will come and Sundays will go
*As for my work only a poem or two to show!

The displays

Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;

Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;

Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;

Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;

Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;

Foreground*

Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.

I am writing this from my usual position
For I Am Bold!
I Am Strong!
And My Bowels Keep Me Sitting
Upon This Commode
All Night Long!

there is a child inside her liar
and a liar inside her kid
when we go out to the market
she is actually out on the beach

when we take turns to feed the dogs
she thinks of all those nights
when moon was dark as a commode
and his books were in her sight

we used to drink the coffee all by ourselves
till she discovered a simple fact
His IQ is what matters
for rest she can be a fake

the child has gone away for now
and liar is all i see
the kid will come back in the end
when she finally rids of me

lately i have heard she got married
and his brain is her vanity
I feed the dogs all by myself
and the moon is bright for free

Part One

One day while in high school (am now out of college) I, Mattias,
went over to my best friend Joey's house. When I got there, as
usual, he was working; he's a nut job, or better known as a handy
man during the summer, but keeps up the big old house where Joey's
family, (Mom, Dad, five daughters and one son, Joey, the youngest) eat, sleep, and amortize the dwelling mercilessly where it's in
constant need of maintenance. e.g.: 5 girls, all girly girls and
their mother = 6 females, copious use of the room where one
rests (rest room), an enormous amount of toilet paper with all
that other female stuff that is jettisoned down the commode.
This impaction desperately attempts to navigate an old, cast iron,
privately owned (not city) sewer line and sewage system.

So one can see,
and smell, huge problems, almost daily. Btw: they have five
bathrooms. One can only connect the dots to each one of
these strategic stink-bomb sites and see a pungent, pontifical,  stanky  mess on their hands. Half the time a
bathroom is cordoned off with yellow tape, like, where's
the detective? A crime has been committed in this bathroom
by a bunch of
females.
Strangely enough, the olfaction in this old castle didn't seem to
bother these girls. As long as it was their crap, all mixed together,
they all are of the same bloodline, who cares? It was almost as
if they liked the smell, since it was theirs. It was creepy, but
these girls were so good looking it didn't matter to me. Joey
would laugh as he could see how I was enamored with them all.
Yeah, I didn't mind hanging at Joey's house. His sisters:
their beauty; was through
the roof. They were cool
inside too!

So Joey is pretty indispensable in their household. He has tons
of other jobs, paid ones, to perform, but maintaining the five
bathrooms for these girls and the two men of the household was
a full time non-profit summer job, except for expenses; how quaint?

Part Two

This one particular day I stop over,
                                                       like I do almost daily; cut
through the open garage to their entry.
                                                       Joey knew I was coming
so both glass and fire door were unlocked.
                                                       ­ I walk in, shut the latch
to the glass door and saunter straight
                                                        ­into the Kitchen and
see Joey fishing through his junk drawer
                                                        se­arching for a bolt. He
said he was working on the plumbing in
                                                        one of the bathrooms.

The next thing I know, one of the neighbors in the culdesac of
which they live, Mrs. Turigliato, knocks on the door and tries to
open it but the latch is locked. The old fire door was open, so I
could see her. I waved and walked over to open the glass door.
Says Mrs. T, “Oh hi Mattias.” I reply “Hello Mam.”

She locomotes by me with coffee
in one hand, cream and sugar dripping
on her robe and coffee droplets free-falling
onto the VA tile floor with little splatters.

A tiny planet is being hit
by mini nuclear bombs, yikes!

She approaches Joey; he's scrambling and rummaging
through their seriously versatile junk drawer for the
right size bolt to perform surgery in one of the rooms
with a bath (bathroom). She cackles,
“Hi Joey, whatcha looking for?”

Part Three

Stop here a sec!**

If Joey would have said “I'm looking for a bolt” this story
would be over. In fact, there would be no story except a big house
with a sick septic tank on private property not run by the city.
Instead, he says “I'm looking for a *****?” While we both
(Joey & I ) might have quietly chuckled, Mrs. T's response
was a bit more than I could handle at this delicate age. Says Mrs.
Turigliato, “Go see Trudy, she will give you a *****.” Trudy was
our age, Mrs. T's daughter, and she was hot, but this was too much,
my abs were killing me. It doesn't end there:

Our mouths are tongued tied shut; taut. Unbelievably, Mrs. T
presses on;

“I'm serious Joey. Go, right now, and get a ***** from Trudy.”

At this point we were holding it in, suffocating, choking, yearning
for oxygen. Eggs and bacon started to make their way up my throat. I couldn't take this. We both quietly gather some air.
Not a ******* word from Joey or I,
Mrs. T is on an oblivious roll:

“Don't you want to get a ***** from Trudy, Joey?”

I can only imagine poor Joey's mind, thinking “Yes Mrs. T, but not the type ***** you're thinking about.”

We stay quiet, not a word..... then the miracle. Joey says “I found the right bolt.”
Hearing the word bolt and not ***** evoked an inquisitive, clueless, look from Mrs. T, her painted and pointed brows scrunching up and taking on new formations, but out came no words. She turned around and waved good bye, never saying why she came over or what she needed. Joey's Mom wasn't home but Mrs. T didn't even ask or say what she wanted. Strange ****.

Conclusion

Being a few years later, Joey and I still laugh our **** off when one of us tells this story. Even at parties, dudes and girls go nuts. Maybe some day it will be one of those “you would have had to be there” stories to maintain its staying power, but so far both Joey and I have gotten dates from girls at parties after we tell this story. I guess they like something about it. That's cool with me. Mattias is my name, and my best friend is Joey.
________

as conscious mode,
vague aboutness, it stales romance
in metaphysic stench, this telic sense,
unlike the comfort of a family nest
my locus drifts on wind
i'd rather culture in a jar
on the counter (no secrets there) or even cellared
responding to the world's response, anthophilous
com][part][mental-mania
warehoused too for sticky label stigma-sized
cover-glint akin with stamp of human frailty, resource that i am,
far from pink and snow banana plants
no inward passion of a chimpanzee in chains
though i assume the name
pan troglodytes applies to me as any species, or much more,
riddled with neuroses, caves every each to steal away from being seen,
from open goals to shade concerns, rotted fancies
manifestering the soil by the laundy-bin abysm--
commode in time, this musa media mind
so urgent in its pseudostemming scour
will flower unsterile and so find its fruit
with bunching finger fronding infloresce
and write about it in the bloom

The red car stopped on the arc of the hill at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulevard and let out a young woman with skin a dark brown hue who looked like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode.  
"Thanks for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car.  
"Red and green looks good on your skin.  Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car.  The dark brown woman took a peek under the shades she was wearing and said "Sure baby."
"I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car.
"Yes you will" said Abby.
Abby turned her back to the man driving the red car and walked up the long stairs that led to a four storey brick building.  As Abby walked up the stairs she got all types of stares from the people leaving the building.  Abby made her way through the big glass doors and noticed an odor.  
The smell was the smell of Marijuana.  Abby followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun.  As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand.
"Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth.  Abby took the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and put it to her lips and took two sips.  As Abby took off her white shirt she put the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip.
"I was getting tattoos.  What do you think?" asked Abby.  
"Nice art work.  The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign.  I'm running for Governor.  You have a lot of pull in the streets.  Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun.
"Yes, but I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby.
"Ok Abby where would you like to move?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand.  
"East Ecstasy Street" answered Abby.
"I can make that happen.  With you on my team I'll have the average Joes votes for sure" said Willi Dun.

written by Keith Edward Baucum

Ô temps miraculeux ! ô gaîtés homériques !
Ô rires de l'Europe et des deux Amériques !
Croûtes qui larmoyez ! bons dieux mal accrochés
Qui saignez dans vos coins ! madones qui louchez !
Phénomènes vivants ! ô choses inouïes !
Candeurs ! énormités au jour épanouies !
Le goudron déclaré fétide par le suif,
Judas flairant Shylock et criant : c'est un juif !
L'arsenic indigné dénonçant la morphine,
La hotte injuriant la borne, Messaline
Reprochant à Goton son regard effronté,
Et Dupin accusant Sauzet de lâcheté !

Oui, le vide-gousset flétrit le tire-laine,
Falstaff montre du doigt le ventre de Silène,
Lacenaire, pudique et de rougeur atteint,
Dit en baissant les yeux : J'ai vu passer Castaing !

Je contemple nos temps. J'en ai le droit, je pense.
Souffrir étant mon lot, rire est ma récompense.
Je ne sais pas comment cette pauvre Clio
Fera pour se tirer de cet imbroglio.
Ma rêverie au fond de ce règne pénètre,
Quand, ne pouvant dormir, la nuit, à ma fenêtre,
Je songe, et que là-bas, dans l'ombre, à travers l'eau,
Je vois briller le phare auprès de Saint-Malo.

Donc ce moment existe ! il est ! Stupeur risible !
On le voit ; c'est réel, et ce n'est pas possible.
L'empire est là, refait par quelques sacripants.
Bonaparte le Grand dormait. Quel guet-apens !
Il dormait dans sa tombe, absous par la patrie.
Tout à coup des brigands firent une tuerie
Qui dura tout un jour et du soir au matin ;
Napoléon le Nain en sortit. Le destin,
De l'expiation implacable ministre,
Dans tout ce sang versé trempa son doigt sinistre
Pour barbouiller, affront à la gloire en lambeau,
Cette caricature au mur de ce tombeau.

Ce monde-là prospère. Il prospère, vous dis-je !
Embonpoint de la honte ! époque callipyge !
Il trône, ce cokney d'Eglinton et d'Epsom,
Qui, la main sur son cœur, dit : Je mens, ergo sum.
Les jours, les mois, les ans passent ; ce flegmatique,
Ce somnambule obscur, brusquement frénétique,
Que Schœlcher a nommé le président Obus,
Règne, continuant ses crimes en abus.
Ô spectacle ! en plein jour, il marche et se promène,
Cet être horrible, insulte à la figure humaine !
Il s'étale effroyable, ayant tout un troupeau
De Suins et de Fortouls qui vivent sur sa peau,
Montrant ses nudités, cynique, infâme, indigne,
Sans mettre à son Baroche une feuille de vigne !
Il rit de voir à terre et montre à Machiavel
Sa parole d'honneur qu'il a tuée en duel.
Il sème l'or ; - venez ! - et sa largesse éclate.
Magnan ouvre sa griffe et Troplong tend sa patte.
Tout va. Les sous-coquins aident le drôle en chef.
Tout est beau, tout est bon, et tout est juste ; bref,
L'église le soutient, l'opéra le constate.
Il vola ! Te Deum. Il égorgea ! cantate.

Lois, mœurs, maître, valets, tout est à l'avenant.
C'est un bivouac de gueux, splendide et rayonnant.
Le mépris bat des mains, admire, et dit : courage !
C'est hideux. L'entouré ressemble à l'entourage.
Quelle collection ! quel choix ! quel Œil-de-boeuf !
L'un vient de Loyola, l'autre vient de Babeuf !
Jamais vénitiens, romains et bergamasques
N'ont sous plus de sifflets vu passer plus de masques.
La société va sans but, sans jour, sans droit,
Et l'envers de l'habit est devenu l'endroit.
L'immondice au sommet de l'état se déploie.
Les chiffonniers, la nuit, courbés, flairant leur proie,
Allongent leurs crochets du côté du sénat.
Voyez-moi ce coquin, normand, corse, auvergnat :
C'était fait pour vieillir bélître et mourir cuistre ;
C'est premier président, c'est préfet, c'est ministre.
Ce truand catholique au temps jadis vivait
Maigre, chez Flicoteaux plutôt que chez Chevet ;
Il habitait au fond d'un bouge à tabatière
Un lit fait et défait, hélas, par sa portière,
Et griffonnait dès l'aube, amer, affreux, souillé,
Exhalant dans son trou l'odeur d'un chien mouillé.
Il conseille l'état pour ving-cinq mille livres
Par an. Ce petit homme, étant teneur de livres
Dans la blonde Marseille, au pays du mistral,
Fit des faux. Le voici procureur général.
Celui-là, qui courait la foire avec un singe,
Est député ; cet autre, ayant fort peu de linge,
Sur la pointe du pied entrait dans les logis
Où bâillait quelque armoire aux tiroirs élargis,
Et du bourgeois absent empruntait la tunique
Nul mortel n'a jamais, de façon plus cynique,
Assouvi le désir des chemises d'autrui ;
Il était grinche hier, il est juge aujourd'hui.
Ceux-ci, quand il leur plaît, chapelains de la clique,
Au saint-père accroupi font pondre une encyclique ;
Ce sont des gazetiers fort puissants en haut lieu,
Car ils sont les amis particuliers de Dieu
Sachez que ces béats, quand ils parlent du temple
Comme de leur maison, n'ont pas tort ; par exemple,
J'ai toujours applaudi quand ils ont affecté
Avec les saints du ciel des airs d'intimité ;
Veuillot, certe, aurait pu vivre avec Saint-Antoine.
Cet autre est général comme on serait chanoine,
Parce qu'il est très gras et qu'il a trois mentons.
Cet autre fut escroc. Cet autre eut vingt bâtons
Cassés sur lui. Cet autre, admirable canaille,
Quand la bise, en janvier, nous pince et nous tenaille,
D'une savate oblique écrasant les talons,
Pour se garer du froid mettait deux pantalons
Dont les trous par bonheur n'étaient pas l'un sur l'autre.
Aujourd'hui, sénateur, dans l'empire il se vautre.
Je regrette le temps que c'était dans l'égout.
Ce ventre a nom d'Hautpoul, ce nez a nom d'Argout.
Ce prêtre, c'est la honte à l'état de prodige.
Passons vite. L'histoire abrège, elle rédige
Royer d'un coup de fouet, Mongis d'un coup de pied,
Et fuit. Royer se frotte et Mongis se rassied ;
Tout est dit. Que leur fait l'affront ? l'opprobre engraissé.
Quant au maître qui hait les curieux, la presse,
La tribune, et ne veut pour son règne éclatant
Ni regards, ni témoins, il doit être content
Il a plus de succès encor qu'il n'en exige ;
César, devant sa cour, son pouvoir, son quadrige,
Ses lois, ses serviteurs brodés et galonnés,
Veut qu'on ferme les veux : on se bouche le nez.

Prenez ce Beauharnais et prenez une loupe ;
Penchez-vous, regardez l'homme et scrutez la troupe.
Vous n'y trouverez pas l'ombre d'un bon instinct.
C'est vil et c'est féroce. En eux l'homme est éteint
Et ce qui plonge l'âme en des stupeurs profondes,
C'est la perfection de ces gredins immondes.

À ce ramas se joint un tas d'affreux poussahs,
Un tas de Triboulets et de Sancho Panças.
Sous vingt gouvernements ils ont palpé des sommes.
Aucune indignité ne manque à ces bonshommes ;
Rufins poussifs, Verrès goutteux, Séjans fourbus,
Selles à tout tyran, sénateurs omnibus.
On est l'ancien soudard, on est l'ancien bourgmestre ;
On tua Louis seize, on vote avec de Maistre ;
Ils ont eu leur fauteuil dans tous les Luxembourgs ;
Ayant vu les Maurys, ils sont faits aux Sibours ;
Ils sont gais, et, contant leurs antiques bamboches,
Branlent leurs vieux gazons sur leurs vieilles caboches.
Ayant été, du temps qu'ils avaient un cheveu,
Lâches sous l'oncle, ils sont abjects sous le neveu.
Gros mandarins chinois adorant le tartare,
Ils apportent leur cœur, leur vertu, leur catarrhe,
Et prosternent, cagneux, devant sa majesté
Leur bassesse avachie en imbécillité.

Cette bande s'embrasse et se livre à des joies.
Bon ménage touchant des vautours et des oies !

Noirs empereurs romains couchés dans les tombeaux,
Qui faisiez aux sénats discuter les turbots,
Toi, dernière Lagide, ô reine au cou de cygne,
Prêtre Alexandre six qui rêves dans ta vigne,
Despotes d'Allemagne éclos dans le Rœmer,
Nemrod qui hais le ciel, Xercès qui bats la mer,
Caïphe qui tressas la couronne d'épine,
Claude après Messaline épousant Agrippine,
Caïus qu'on fit césar, Commode qu'on fit dieu,
Iturbide, Rosas, Mazarin, Richelieu,
Moines qui chassez Dante et brisez Galilée,
Saint-office, conseil des dix, chambre étoilée,
Parlements tout noircis de décrets et d'olims,
Vous sultans, les Mourads, les Achmets, les Sélims,
Rois qu'on montre aux enfants dans tous les syllabaires,
Papes, ducs, empereurs, princes, tas de Tibères !
Bourreaux toujours sanglants, toujours divinisés,
Tyrans ! enseignez-moi, si vous le connaissez,
Enseignez-moi le lieu, le point, la borne où cesse
La lâcheté publique et l'humaine bassesse !

Et l'archet frémissant fait bondir tout cela !
Bal à l'hôtel de ville, au Luxembourg gala.
Allons, juges, dansez la danse de l'épée !
Gambade, ô Dombidau, pour l'onomatopée !
Polkez, Fould et Maupas, avec votre écriteau,
Toi, Persil-Guillotine, au profil de couteau !

Ours que Boustrapa montre et qu'il tient par la sangle,
Valsez, Billault, Parieu, Drouyn, Lebœuf, Delangle !
Danse, Dupin ! dansez, l'horrible et le bouffon !
Hyènes, loups, chacals, non prévus par Buffon,
Leroy, Forey, tueurs au fer rongé de rouilles,
Dansez ! dansez, Berger, d'Hautpoul, Murat, citrouilles !

Et l'on râle en exil, à Cayenne, à Blidah !
Et sur le Duguesclin, et sur le Canada,
Des enfants de dix ans, brigands qu'on extermine,
Agonisent, brûlés de fièvre et de vermine !
Et les mères, pleurant sous l'homme triomphant,
Ne savent même pas où se meurt leur enfant !
Et Samson reparaît, et sort de ses retraites !
Et, le soir, on entend, sur d'horribles charrettes
Qui traversent la ville et qu'on suit à pas lents,
Quelque chose sauter dans des paniers sanglants !
Oh ! laissez ! laissez-moi m'enfuir sur le rivage !
Laissez-moi respirer l'odeur du flot sauvage !
Jersey rit, terre libre, au sein des sombres mers ;
Les genêts sont en fleur, l'agneau paît les prés verts ;
L'écume jette aux rocs ses blanches mousselines ;
Par moments apparaît, au sommet des collines,
Livrant ses crins épars au vent âpre et joyeux,
Un cheval effaré qui hennit dans les cieux !

Jersey, le 24 mai 1853.

Stopping at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulvard on the arc of the hill.
The red car let out a young woman with skin a dark brown hue.  Who look like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode.  "Thank you for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car.  "Red and green looks good on your skin.  Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car.  Taking a peek under the shades she was wearing the dark brown woman said "Sure baby."  "I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car.  "Yes you will" said Abby.  Turning her back to the man driving the red car Abby walked up the long stairs that led to a four storey brick building.  As she walked up the stairs she got all type of stares from the people leaving the building.  Making her way through the big glass doors Abby noticed an odor.  The smell was the smell of Marijuanna.  She followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun.  As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand.  "Willie Dun I should have known" said Abby as she walked in his office.  "Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth.  Taking the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and putting it to her lips Abby took two sips.  As Abby took off her white shirt she puts the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip.  "I was getting tattoos.  What do you think?" asked Abby.  "Nice art work.  The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign.  I'm running for Governor.  You have a lot of pull in the streets.  Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun.  "Yes but I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby.  "Ok Abby where would you like to move to?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand.  "East Ectasy Street" answered Abby.  "I can make that happened.  With you on my team I'll have the average Joe's votes for sure" said Willie Dun.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Words tumbled out of an aluminum commode
into a hungry mouth: naïveté.

Libations atop a tin altar
in a squalid temple rife with the stench
of lascivious youth
bemoaned battle cry
transcendent in the sound of forever.

Coming of Age
a cleverly disguised charade
kept in place
by a smile that never breaks
until dawn.

White noise
cryptic static
proselytize
vomiting mucus-draining corpses
a parade of mindless disciples
dancing to the beat
of the heart in a distant star
whose life perished in the forgotten past.

Fabricated promises of maturation
facetiae in the frozen teeth that
only part for the stubborn tongue to
lap up remaining consciousness on the floor
like a begging dog.

By himself he's weak
but among many he's a god.

A song bludgeons the eardrums
"Tonight, tonight, to-night": Repetitio est mater studiorum.

There's a voice in my head but
you put a hand o'er it's mouth
and pried mine open with
the monkey's paw
clutching a rose goblet
containing spiritual cleansing.

I've got a good idea
but bad intentions
and there's enough feculence wrapped in flesh and lies
to make this place feel like Heaven.

Stuffing my mouth with promises and
fallacies
that won't become clear until the
bottle is empty.

I'm washing away all the pain
and the hurt
right?
I'm a man now, risen from the
dirt
right?

I'll put my trust in the siren's call
reaching through the fog to grasp
her by the hair
I fall into the murky bog
beleaguered by strangulating tendrils
wrapping around my frail bones
I feel I'm being pulled under
and I'm all alone
I see their shimmering faces on the surface
distorted
in the reflection
peering into the soul as I
make my descent into the abyss.

Waking up a man with a
battered conscience
Compromise wraps a warm blanket around
me and places coffee between
crusty and brittle fingers
A gentle kiss on my forehead
is the finishing touch
leaving me alone with my baleful torment.

Coming of Age is a charade.

Welcome
Initiate
to the
Big Room
of the Summit
County Jail.
Specialists
will handle
the theft
of your blanket
while you're
watching TV
The game of Hearts
shall be played
each morning
after the pancake
with cold coffee
and the
entertainment
features your
inaugural public
performance
on the alfresco
commode

And I could be a commode...
A common
A common oddity
With Mira Cole
Miracles
Coming out of me
Please excuse my stout
My strut
My s-s-stuttering
Not being ******
I mean this
Wouldn't be missed-ery
I could come and then glow
And the grow
And then go so far away
To expressly convert
I mean overt
Avert from the things I say
And just so the gray
No, the way
No, the day would illuminate
I would rise a ***
I mean above
All the shyness and the hate
I could sleep
I mean weep
Because of the weak things I say
S-stammering
Stuttering
It brings out the worse in every way

Stopping at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulvard on the arc of the hill.  The red car let out a woman with skin a dark brown hue.  Who looked like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode.  "Thank you for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car.  "Red and green looks good on your skin.  Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car.  Taking a peek under the shades she was wearing the dark brown woman said "sure baby."  "I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car.  "Yes you will" said Abby.  Turning her back to the man driving the red car Abby walked up the stairs that led to a four storey brick building.  As she walked up the stairs she got all type of stares from the people leaving the building.  Making her way through the big glass doors Abby noticed an odor.  The smell was the smell of Marijuana.   She followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun.  As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand.  "Willie Dun I should have known" said Abby as she walked in his office.  "Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth.  Taking the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and putting it to her lips Abby took two sips.  As Abby took off her white shirt she puts the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip.  "I was getting tattoos.  What do you think?" asked Abby.  "Nice art work.  The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign.  I'm running for Governor.  You have a lot of pull in the streets.  Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun.  "Yes but I'm I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby.  "Ok Abby where would you like to move to?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand.  "East Ectasy Street" answered Abby.  "I can make that happened.  With you on my team I'll have the average Joe's votes for sure" said Willie Dun.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Is that my mind in the lost and found?,
Oh, nope false alarm, you can call off the hounds,
I'm on my way with nowhere to be bound,
Just walking my legs on this common ground,
Followed my heart down some old lonely road,
The weight on my shoulders isn't such a big load,
I listen to the wind to learn my own ode,
Flushed all my problems down a fancy commode,
On a sinking ship yet won't go overboard,
Is life really so bad I mean, dear lord!,
Did you get my letter about the shield and sword?,
I follow the law of natural accord,
Born mushy as hell with a stiff upper lip,
Born ready to win, destined never to quit,
One day at a time and that's about it,
The elixir of life I just took a sip!,
The best of both worlds is found in this one,
If you think you're finished you've only begun,
We dance in a circle like the moon and sun,
Living out my life and its all just for fun!,
Its always been free to pay your attention,
Every moment contains divine intervention,
Cashed some gold into my spiritual pension,
Stretched my mind with all of this tension,
Blessed in ways i don't understand,
Boy at heart in the body of a man,
Everything happens as apart of a plan,
We're all one tribe, we all are one clan.

A pity Yvonne alas has passed on in a most regrettable way.
She wasn't quite a snit cuz she jus couldn't ****
and hadn't been many a day.
So she sent Ernie out for enimas no doubt
and while he was still on the road,
Yvonne took a chance by dropping her pants while running toward the commode.
In a tangle of jeans, frustrated screams and a splintering bathroom door,
Her *** met the glass as intestinal gas burst forth with a thunderous roar.
The bowl couldn't take the force of the quake,
It rained down like porcelain Hail.
Some people say five miles away it hit six on the Richter scale.
I miss dear Yvonne, now that she's gone, taken from us much too soon.
Sometimes I cry as I gaze up in the sky and wave and she orbits the moon.

I was born to parents
who taught me manners,
those behaviors,
sometimes feeble attempts
at keeping human respect intact.

In fact, most times it usually works.
You should have the seen the faces
of the food peddlars (and their families),
street vendors, surrounded
by squalor & vermin,
when I purchased their wares,
a side order of pomme frites
topped by raw shaved carrots.

The fries were one thing,
cooked clean through,
but the carrots were accepted
only to be a good sport.
I didn't have the heart to say no,
especially with two young ones
tugging on the heels of the cook.
After all, it's only polite
to respect the customs
of the host country,
and I guess
raw carrots on French fries
are a tradition in that
part of the world.

O, you should have seen
the look on my face as I sat,
hugging the commode
for eight solid days
running full speed
with the trots.
I never even got to
see the rest of the country.

Being Mr. Manners
cost me five grand in travel expenses,
half an intestine & most
of my stomach lining.
I think bugs,
lots of them,
still live inside me.
My internist calls them parasites.

I only have my parents to thank,
they gave me manners
& helped me pay
for some of the
three thousand dollars
in doctor's bills
& for all the tiny white pills.

Republican Jesus is not all that keen
on feeding the poor
to tell the truth
food-stamps lead to dependence
don't they,

Republican Jesus winks & nods
at wives on the side
third wives
& trophy wives
oh good luck to you son
on that one,

Republican Jesus hates softness
& gentleness
& just plain kindness
it reeks of communism
& caring
& sharing,

Republican Jesus will **** for Christ,
sleep with his guns,
caress his ammo
his lock, stock & barrel,
tongue bullets
not wafers,

Republican Jesus loves money
loves money a whole bunch
gets excited
over money,
caresses himself
while watching
Lives of the Rich and Famous,

Republican Jesus has a private jet
with gold commode
& caviar,
sips the very best
of everything,
& feels no pain.

Republican Jesus has flipped it all around,
all the love for the destitute,
the feeding of the five thousand,
the humility,
the simple loaves & fishes,

Republican Jesus has the ethics of
a hyena
& the honesty of
the cuckoo bird,
the warm-heartedness
of a hungry great white,
the vision of a mole,
& the promise
of a golden future
built upon the backs
of the less
fortunate.

Republican Jesus is the real deal
isn't he!

A pity Yvonne alas has passed on in a most regrettable way.
She wasn't quite a snit cuz she jus couldn't ****
and hadn't been many a day.
So she sent Ernie out for enimas no doubt
and while he was still on the road,
Yvonne took a chance by dropping her pants while running toward the commode.
In a tangle of jeans, frustrated screams and a splintering bathroom door,
Her *** met the glass as intestinal gas burst forth with a thunderous roar.
The bowl couldn't take the force of the quake,
It rained down like porcelain Hail.
Some people say five miles away it hit six on the Richter scale.
I miss dear Yvonne, now that she's gone, taken from us much too soon.
Sometimes I cry as I gaze up in the sky and wave and she orbits the moon.

Save your pleasantries for someone else.
Another innocent smile.
Another unexpected face.
Let them bask in the light,
Only to find the sun doesn't exist.

I have no more space in my heart,
For spontaneous gestures or overzealous words.
Take that love you fed me, and watch it implode.
You've harnessed the fission of a star.
Only to Supernova... Type 1A.

I've witnessed it all.
Forced it upon my eyes.
Believing that the truth was kept,
Secret through lies.

So tell me,
What am I missing?
As a human or just as a man?
Is it passion?
The thing that exists outside "me"?
I put it on the paper,
I don't wear it on my skin

I let words do the talking,
Without even a grin.
No, I'm much too secure.
Sure of my motives.
I know them thru and thru.
I'll never demote them.

Let me linger in solitude.
I'm never alone.
My sovereignty requires strength.
I won't be placed on your commode.

So, lean over and I'll whisper a secret to your ear.
Because without a whisper, you'll never hear.
The reason why I'll never change.
Because at the root, I'm never ashamed.
Just a little depressed.
Nothing more or less.

So carp all you want,
About your burdens and guilt.
I'll let the albatross fly from my sight.
Till it vanishes in the moonlit night

I clean toilets
with no gloves on
my two tone hands.

I wondered why
I was born.
She told me this:

"So I wouldn't be alone."

I clean floors and
change a commode.
**** fills my nose.

I offer time
in an exchange
for my wage.

"I'm a ***** and
      I was born for this
         companionship."

I wondered why
I was born.
She told me this:

"I really wanted a kid."

Free agent, here.
I'm a bang for your buck.
Want a bargain?
Then you're in luck.

I can change a bed.
(Please take me in.)
I can tend a heart.
(It's what I was taught.)

I swallow.
(Oh, oh.)
I swallow.
(Oh, oh.)