******! dali,
the clock's
sliding off
the wall...
again.

piccasso,
you *******
you blest
me with
three *******...
but nothing to
hold it all

van gogh,
whose
going to
clean up
all that straw
and blood.

and
munch,
do you
wonder
that
i
scream!!!

exposition of my position
connecting epic art of
scifi legend extraordinare
frank franzetta.

from my back to distant Barsoom
A princess of Mars is my captive muse
to a story of a pale blue dot.

where an archer's bow points
her lady-ship has no censorship
unbiased in crowded eyes.

blinking aeons of information
torching elemental tables
undisguised for public record.  

unforgettable this ticking thought of self
Converging lines and tectonic season
Moving over earth with pilgrim miles.

People do not decide to become extraordinary,
They decide to accomplish extraordinary things.

-tc.

Give up the ghost
Pour water to try to put out the sun
5:47 am, take off my glasses
Rub fingers on​ my face
Woke up aching, half on
And off my bed
Stretched, screaming
Awfully upon the rack
" I have pains in my heart which
Have taken my appetite "
Go bow down to Robert Johnson
Godlike
Poet extraordinare
" I have stones in my passway
And my road seems
Dark as night "
Ended up dying on his knees
Howling like a dog
A hellhound on his trail
Well I guess it finally
Caught up with him
I hear it's terrifying
Footsteps, padding, panting
Slavering, enslaving
80 years on and
Little has changed
" I have pains in my heart which
Have taken my appetite "
So, go pour buckets of rain
On the sun
Steal the moon and
Stash it in my backpack
Then run off drunkenly
Laughing
Laughing
Laughing at death
Laughing at life
What else can you do?
When there are;
Guilty lying tombstones
Obscene newspapers
Dead T.V.
The poisoned glass of whiskey
The dying mother
The weeping boyfriend
The creeping boy fiend
Drugs and alcohol
" Stones In My Passway "
Living too slow
Dying too fast
Stealing the moon
******* on the sun
The young girl beaten
And ***** in broken glass
The poisoned death
The poisoned life
5:47 am
Stretched upon the rack

My eyes, insanity of blessings,
He sees smthng in them, from the corner of my lash
To the depths of its vision,
He sees smthng;
An extraordinare , a face so soft to be imagined by a straye-r!!
A french poem woven into a curvey menniquin?
A heart of whom, bounded by endless fumes;
Of needs and desires,
Of countless sattire,
Of upside rotten days and nights,
Of forgotten rhymes,
N still he finds rich beautiful poem in her eyes,
A french woven attire!!

Suddenly she gulps the pain of being forgotten
Tear away the praising letter, turn her thoughts frozen,
Yet, inside cold castle still burns a flame
In lonesome night, of long sung-songs and fame!!!