this precious rickshaw
hiccups

it jolts at slightest expressions
of the roads' flat faces
hick!
and my stomach wobbles up
like an astronaut made of jelly
bounces against the diaphragm
disturbing the cuddly lungs and
the lattice pancreas wince
hick!
the sour liver curses and
noodle intestines startle and then
grumble
and the swish slosh slosh
of my kerosine blood
is light and jumpy
in the ancient pipelines of flesh

my hands unlearn
unlearn
they are chubby preteens
then hesitating littles
now my handwriting
is an infant walking
hick!
crawling
hick!
this wash-machine ride
with an inferno of April breaths
hick –– hick –– hick!
my little dog-heart
shakes
its fur all ruffled and spiky

Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.

†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.

The Horse Race.
The announcer says the horse is at the gate.
There is wee ***** on your just silly;
Patty shes riding cupcake bite.
**** hes on hiccup.
The gate open and they are off. It's **** on hiccup, cup cake and wee ***** on just silly.
As the get to turn one it's ***** on just silly,**** has hiccup at second and patty riding third with cupcake.
In turn two it's just silly,hiccup and cupcake. Turn four its cupcake,hick just silly
And now at the wire you got hiccup just silly and cupcake.
People we have to stop the race. Wee ***** on just silly ate patty cupcake which gave him the hiccups.

Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.

The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.

Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."

But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.

I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.

Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.

you make me wanna...
punch your ******* face in
pop six packs out the case and
drink til im chasing
myself around this house...
you dumb *****
who the **** do you think this is.
**** me all day, then you got a night cap *****?
**** i look like?
some ***** you just kickin it wit
couldn't even put my **** in it
before you switched
just know, you aint slick.
hoes won't learn
til they ******* burn
I hate to be so blunt,
babygirl... it's your turn
so don't come to me on no i love you ****
save it all for the hick licking on your ****.
i don't have time for the games,
shorty you lame,
you wanna bump me down...
***** watch me do the same.
motha fuckah.

I never thought about my whiteness,
other than to realize
that I’m ghost-white
and therefore
not as attractive as some
tan buxom babe.
I thought more
about my economic status:
upper middle class
with plenty
that would give me a leg up,
that I knew I’d never
lack for higher education.
It has gradually occurred to me,
though,
that even though I may have
a societal advantage
being white and all that,
I’m still a chick
and therefore have
several strikes against my success,
or at least a comparable salary.
Not to mention the load of ridiculous
expectations to be
mother, successful career woman,
housekeeper, **** star, and ******.
Hooray for the Bible Belt,
where church is next door to the ***
Adult stores targeted
at hick white males.
Hooray for my mother’s
Texas family
where it’s okay for an adopted
daughter-in-law
to be gay
but nobody else is allowed
and some of them will look
down their noses at my
Indian boyfriend
and ask me why
I’m diluting
my blood with a foreigner.

Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik

Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic

Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic

Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick

(truck-drivers, bar-boozers, loser-bar yokles, blue-collar rednecks will all love this smash hit song!!!)

Rockin country genre

"Big Mouth Surgery"    
  (by david John Clare)

(rockin' country drunk hick juke-box mix)

Wow!  She sure does talk a lot... could almost cause a riot

But we don't get... just what she's trying to say

We could hear her fine before... when she used to be quiet

Guess all them new school-words get in the way

We took her to see... a gypsy-psychic-magician

But he wanted more... than we could pay

So we took her down to see... our local town physician

And here's what old doc... had to say

Boys...

"She needs Big Mouth Surgery"

Her tongue is on the blink

She just talks, sqwacks and talks some more

'Cause she don't know how to think

So please don't be stallin'

Her brain is now corrupt

Can't you see that she has fallen'

And she just can't ''shut-up!"


Big Mouth Surgery

Cause no pills seem to work

Hurry please now doctor

Before she drives us all berserk


Big Mouth Surgery

But will it work without a doubt?

Better make it a lobotomy

Before she starts to shout!


(solo)


Our reputations are expensive

While her talk is **** cheap

You just can't tell her nothin'

'Cause a secret she can't keep

No one seems to know

What the fuss is all about

We're just waitin' for her brain

To catch up with her mouth


She needs Big Mouth Surgery

Her mind is on the blink

She always talks, talks and talks all day

Why can't she just please stop & think?

So please don't be stallin'

Her head is all corrupt

Can't you see that she has fallen'

Her fat-mouth can't shut-up!

Big Mouth Surgery

We need to find her a shrink

Hurry please there doctor

Before she drives us all to drink

Big Mouth Surgery

She's heard north, east, west & south

Who gave her brain a laxative?

Got diarrhea of the mouth!


Big Mouth Surgery

No pill can take effect

Hurry please now doctor

She is a mental wreck

Our minds: she made us loose

Her words: just seem to ooze

It's so hard: to take a snooze

We just drown all-day in *****

Beer, Whisky, Wine & ***** . . .

To wash away our ear-ache blues!


Yip Yip Zip Lip!  ...Yee Haw!

(c) 2009    David Wayne Clare

CLAIRVOYANT MUSIC / BMI

all rights reserved

in perpetuity

"Is there anyone for stuffing?
Well done George, send us down your plate,
Auntie, if you've finished with the cranberry sauce
Could you please pass it across to Kate?"

"Brian can I interest you in my brussels?
There's nothing quite like a good sprout,
If anyone wants anything passed,
Don’t wait to be asked, just shout."

"Richard, will you please sit and eat,
And just stop irritating Claire,
No, you better wash your hands first,
You're getting gravy in her hair."

"Ted, you wanted more potatoes,
What, you only want one or two?
But the ones left really aren’t that big,
I'd better pile on a few."

"Sarah, you're not looking after your young man,
The poor boy's been left to starve,
Go and get him some more turkey dear,
Your Father will help you to carve."

“Malcolm, not too much in Grandma’s glass,
You know what she gets like,
Open another red for Father,
I’ll stick to the bubbly-white.”

"Well if everybody's had enough,
I think I'd better finish the peas,
Richard, don't cough over the table,
Remember your manners, please."

"Ah, make way for Father and the Christmas pud,
I hope he hasn't overdone the brandy,
Saints preserve us . . . Father’s on fire. . !!
Oh, well smothered dear, three cheers for Mandy,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray."

"No, Louise, you can't pull the crackers yet,
We're saving those for tea,
Richard, take that stupid tinsel off your head,
And put it back on the tree.”

“Everyone go in the other room and play games,
Just leave all the dishes to me,
I’ll do the washing and drying up,
While I’m sorting out something for tea.”

“Richard please don’t tease the dog,
Claire don’t pin that tail on the cats,
Lloyd, play nicely, stop fighting with Louise,
You’re ruckling up all of the mats.”

“Hmmmnn … not quite enough sherry in this trifle,
Hick … I think there’s probably more in me,
I’m sure I’ve been working far too hard,
Hick … I’m feeling quite dizzy.”

“They say that Christmas comes but once a year
And aren’t I just glad that’s so,
It’s nice to see all of them for a while,
But it’s even better to see them go …”

I've been trying to poet off and on
now for awhile - but it's hard for a guy
like me, born and raised in small towns.

I've never really learned to swear,
not like a poet anyway. Not like Bukowski.
I mean, what kind of poet would

the world expect me to be? Except that
I'll admit I can drink with the best.
A Huffstickler I'm not, or a Bukowski,

or Etter, or Kerouac - guys who knew the
big towns, the *****, the dives, the rehabs,
the back alleys, park benches, soup kitchens,

flop houses, drug pushers — Humm, come to
think of it, we got all those here. But not
the all-important big town poet attitude.

I'm just this hick, delusional perhaps,
trying to fill a blossoming hole inside
of me that grumbles and claws for more,

and there's gotta be more to life than this crap.
In poeting I used to try and rhyme, like as
in "poor" and "*****", but there's

no rhyme to life, just grab it and clench.
Just life, death, burial and maybe a little
something for the dog afterwards.

The preacher says there's more,
the devil tells me to forget it,
(I'll listen to him occasionally).

So, for me, I'll probe a little deeper and
scrutinize a little harder, perhaps drink a
little heavier, and maybe find a plug

out there that'll fill the hole inside me.
Maybe even put it in words.
Become a poet.
--

The village pump is where she was stationed
Her purpose in life, to glean information
Every morsel of 'news' she'd greedily savour
Though reluctant to empty her head, to fill up her neighbour's

That mucky young *****'s expecting you'll find
I'm certain I know who did it this time
He bought a bike, the crafty young fella
And no good came on it Doris I tell ya

He put one in Fram in the family way
And thas a good fifteen mile away
And if you ask me, he's too fond of his sister
If there's a young'un who's willing round here he'd not miss her

So lock up your daughter do she'll be the next
He'll be snouting round here before long I expect
And look at poor Bob, they say he's frustrated
They reckon his hip bone is half discolated

Same as old ****, see him hick with his stick
All wore up and not sixty as yit
You don't look wholey clever yourself
Doris you really should keep an eye on your health

And Grandma Green has took to her bed
I'll drop by there today, 'cos same as I say
You're a long time dead

Well I should be going, I've said too much already
Cheerio now, and do you goo steady

My country is full of people
too violent and dumb to be anything else.
We value money, bodies, and your stuff
because it is not ours yet.

My flag is wrapped around some
white-trash hick's *******.
You look different than us and
that is ******* terrifying;
please leave while we stay
in your country,
'protecting you'.

My country is home to
religious freedom, as long
as the religion is Christianity.

My country is the world's
greatest melting ***, but
we'd prefer all ingredients
to be the same or die.

My country is a joke,
thinking it's the standard
the world desires to achieve.

My country is the world police,
creating tension, harassing you,
hating you, taking from you.

When I attempt to think about my future, I know I can't. I know, I can only do what I can now to piece together my future like a puzzle. I want to get on T, I want to cut my hair shorter than my parents allow, I want more body modifications, I want to have a completely flat chest, but at the moment, I can't imagine what I'd turn into. A butterfly I'm not able to picture yet. I am at the moment, a small catapillar, not being able to pass for the gender I wish. She's. Hers'. That's not what I want directed towards me. I wants he's and they's. Male and neutral term are what I want my friends to use. Not my birth name, Kit. Kit Lucas Zachary is what I'll become when I get older and scrounge the money together to make that change possible. I must change myself and bold myself into what I want to be happy, even if that means I lose people, I can deal. If they don't agree with how I feel, they don't need to be in my life anyway. I can't say that I'm a boy yet, I can't say I'm pansexual yet. The violence that is occurring against my LGBTQ+ people locks my lips together to my parents, and possibly some of my friends, because I don't want them to be my demise. In this hick state of Texas. My chest binder must be put up due to high summer tempatures, it's too hot to have on so I can't feel at home in my own body. I hate my feminine face, and my father uses double standard, making me shave, making me feel naked and incorrect. I feel incomplete, like I haven't had my right growth spirt, my right puberty. "Oh yeah, she-" makes me want to put a bullet in my head, but it I pulled the trigger I know my family wouldn't understand why. "Hey girl!" don't look, don't turn, they aren't talking about you. But, once I'm an adult with a steady income, I hope to become the person I wish to be.

Down at the end of Charters Street
In a dim-lit part of town,
There stands the old Alhambra and
They’re going to pull it down.
We warned them up at the council, but
They said it’s a waste of space,
There’s not been a film for twenty years
Since the Carol Ransome case.

Carol was found in a pool of blood
By the curtains, up on the stage,
Somebody took a knife to her
In a crazed, death-dealing rage,
They never discovered just who it was
But the cinema closed right down,
Nobody wanted to go again
In this hick, one hotel town.

That was the end of our childhood fun
Our own theatre of dreams,
No more Saturday Matinées
Or milk shakes or ice creams,
Nothing to do in this one horse town
But to chase the girls in the park,
And get some serious kissing done
When the day was getting dark.

So Al and Joe and Mary Ann
And me, I must admit,
Broke on into the cinema
And found ourselves in the pit,
Right in front of the dusty stage
Where the curtains hung in shreds,
Barely hiding the giant screen
That was covered in old cobwebs.

We’d played in there for an hour or so
Running between the rows,
Making the Hammond ***** screech
Like a fat man touching his toes,
When suddenly there was a swishing sound
And the curtains began to part,
And something flickered up on the screen
As if it was going to start.

We stood stock still and we held our breath
When the speakers grumbled and groaned,
‘It looks like we’ve got an audience!’
A voice on the speakers moaned.
Then faces peered from the ancient screen
From the days of black and white,
But there wasn’t a single projection beam
From the room where it used to light.

A shimmering glow from the screen fell on
The first few rows of seats,
And one dimensional girls appeared
With ice creams and with treats,
The figures spilled from the silver screen
And onto the wooden stage,
Dracula, framed in black and white
And Frankenstein in a rage.

We were all of us petrified by blood
And Al was thinking to run,
But ‘Don’t you move!’ said an ugly hood
On the screen, and pointing a gun.
They made us sit in the second row
And paraded their long-gone fame,
Bela Lugosi’s fangs and cloak
And the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Then as they faded a woman walked
From the wings, and out on the stage,
And a man that we knew as Grocer George
Flew suddenly into a rage.
He knifed the woman a dozen times
And he beat her down to the floor,
And over the screams of Mary Ann
We made a break for the door.

The screen went dark and the stage was bare
And the curtains hung like shrouds,
We said that we’d never go back in there
As we lay, looked up at the clouds,
But we each went in to the grocery store
And we whispered, ‘Carol’s back!’
‘We know what you did,’ said Mary Ann
And George’s eyes went black.

He chased us out of his grocery
And he closed the store for good,
Then policeman Andy found him hanging
Down in the Maple wood.
They’d better not take the Alhambra down
Or the ghosts of the silver screen,
Will all get out, and they’ll roam about
Without a theatre of dreams!

David Lewis Paget

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related

Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
                                                           - the Toe-cutter

You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.

You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.

You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.

Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****,
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****,

or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.


Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-*****,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.


We ride!


Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, ****, yer a hick-****,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?

The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.


Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***,
or all muscle
in ****-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.

The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.

As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.

I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate

I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel

You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with  B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine

Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew

Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!

I feel apart of this hick town place
Breathing in life, through open, clean air
Trapped by my mind in a wide open space

My granddad showed me on his Gum tree
The marks left by moths and beetles alike
I went to touch them whilst he let them be

The Scribbly Gum tells the same story
Our lives intertwined in memories
The aftermath of destruction, can be beauty

My chubby hands admire what my eyes miss
like a blind man hungry for the verse
I feel the indented trails, lead me into the abyss

I envy those tiny critters, hiding away
creating art without even knowing
One day I shall  join them and there I shall stay

Dancing glimpses of times past
The smell of eucalyptus sticking to hot air
Pulling, aching strings of my childish heart

I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******* like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.

How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy neo-**** ****-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .

Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the ****, why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.

Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.

They buried our Heroes

This piece comes from a bad place the shooting of the congress woman in Tucson but I will not let black hearted soulless creatures
Win so I choose to saddle up and ride into yesteryear a mask man rides a white stallion with the William Tell overture playing in this
Mans portrayal of this western hero we learned and knew what it meant to stand as an individual and that alone we could fight and
Win you’re not always able to be surrounded by friends and family battles some time require we strip down carry only bare essentials
This was the requirements of the real Texas rangers that Clayton Moore portrayed they were sent out alone with only a horse and a gun
And hardship was their constant companions they were asked to do extraordinary feats as we ourselves are now being called to do
Civilians at nine eleven were the first Americans to hear and answer the call we all have been served our fighting papers from just a
Fictional character we were trained in childhood to now be ready as adults to face an altered world where madness can pop up at
Anytime they buried Clayton in the attire he wore so well a true hero who in my thinking laid out a picture perfect formula we are
A free proud people our roots run deep in independence walk tall speak softly but be ready at any moment to rush into the breach
To fight and even die for freedom we are well represented and rounded it isn’t all about being austere we can enjoy life and have
Laughs along the way the next hero when buried had a multiple burial known as the clown prince Red Skelton went to the grave with
San Fernando Red, Cauliflower McPugg", a punchdrunk boxer, Clem Kadiddlehopper, a hick who was identified in at least one sketch
As being from Cornpone County, Tennessee, and "Freddie the Freeloader even speaking of him brings a smile but he was not just a
Funny face he was a principled man he didn’t have to do shock comedy he had talent that kept you laughing and coming back for more
This is part of our armor laughter is like a medicine sometimes the hurts linger and make a waste of a life you have to fight back
You have to defeat the negative in us all that will accept this kind of prison we must mourn and know sorrow but not as a steady diet
Can’t leave Red without telling one funny story the holidays were approaching Red was scheduled for an operation he was sedated
Wheeled into the operating room the surgeon probably almost dropped his scalpel he took the sheet down and found a note that said
Don’t open until Christmas thanks for all the laughs now for a local hero well two a father and daughter well daughters and wife but here
Just one at first Jack Jeffrey is a hero if you knew him it is evident with or without a fez he has a bearing and honorable sureness that
Commanded respect in life and carries on into death I am about to do a total selfish act in my mind since I don’t know where the car
Is or if it even exist anymore don’t get down on me for this act as I played this first in my head before coming over here to write it I paid with
Hard tears and pain maybe that still doesn’t give me the right to intrude but I came back to this country a whipped disabled defeated
Person and then Queen Donna lifted her scepter over my life by speaking of this hero I was able to find my writing voice and live once
again so any way there is something about a man and a car and a manly drive I would get into this car lovingly put my fingers on the
Stirring wheel where his used to be put his put the radio on his favorite station look at the passenger’s seat see this beautiful daughter smiling
As they slowly cruise quiet by ways they have known two minds and hearts bonded at the deepest level by love scenes flow by the
Windows old realities revisited the car filled with a mixture of vibrant memories then and now textures that only a father and daughter
Can know and share by the way I got out back a ways this is their new year’s ride together Happy new year Donna

It don't take much to make me happy
'Cause I'm from the south
I just need some good soul food
To cram into my mouth

Or I can sit on the creek bank
With my best fishing pole
Casting my line expertly
Into my secret fishing hole

A moonlit hike into the woods
Will soothe my achin' soul
Them city folks don't understand
It's better than silver or gold

When Sunday rolls around it's time
To get myself dressed up
The laying of hands and speaking in tongues
Will come if the Spirit moves us

There's a glamour to the south
Like a work of art that's living
Even the poorest of the poor
Open their hearts and are giving

So call me a redneck or a hick
It doesn't matter to me
I'm proud to be a southern girl
There's no place I'd rather be

cover up dear,you've got to remember the uglies.
she said.
but i strip.
and there is the wind ,
i hear the waves,
what comes will be the rain,
and i want it too,
impale me, strike me,
unleash its fury,
i know its free

i see her still,
backwards hick,
*******.
you do not know me,
you never wanted to
but i bring the uglies to the water
i strip because i was born to be inhabited
you cover me with the lies of your lovers lost
but i will not be defined by your backwards mind
the inverted hope you that you try to rip into me with
i dive into the sea it always welcomes me,
its my lost lover, it caresses me ,
it weaves around the tattered corners of my heart and heals the rough parts
i accept the waves as the rock me and i listen to the tempo and i move with in its embrace

He wants to tell her of a story he read once
About that gorilla who could sign
And taught its baby to sign
How when the baby died
The flailing of her fingertips
And the movement of her hands
Said more about loss than anyone ever cared to know

She looks at him
Hot pho steam moistening her face
There is a man pacing outside the windows of the restaurant
It is a whole in a wall
In a small city
The city is *****
Next to the restaurant is a bar
They listen
Juke box bass hick thunder through the walls
She ***** a noodle into her mouth

“Is this a date,” she says
    If you want it to be
“It’s not exactly romantic”

He smiles
thinks about what it means to be romantic
Remembers the list with the boxes to check off
  Of will she **** me later

It’s all too generic
And we are so talented at romanticizing the trivial
That people forget how to be charming

He thinks of death-beds
And what she might say to him

Maybe it isn’t now. But later, you’ll remember this guy
And you’ll think of that weird place he took you to this one time.
It wasn’t exactly romantic.
But for whatever reason
You will remember me for doing things like this.

He wants to tell her of the gorilla
With the sad hands

His own hands tremble

He thinks of languages people spend lifetimes learning

She sips her water
Wipes sweat from her face
She smiles
It is beautiful when she smiles

He smiles too
Shivers as the doors open and the cold comes in

Maybe in some other universe
The words would have meant more to her
They would have made sense

He fills the silence with the sound of soup
She looks at him again
The thunder through the walls stops
And all he can think of
Is the gorilla who learned the language of love
And lost the need to use it

it was uncomfortably
hot out today

i put my cardboard box
down on the pavement
and squinted into
the midspring sun

grateful for the
knowledge
of the truth
the ukulele truth
and nothing but
the truth

like i could
scream every
johnny cash song
i've never learned
at every pathetic smoker
disobeying the signs

and i understood
oh but did i
understand
why they're always
pushing friday
on midweek radio shows

it's thursday
at 3pm
and guess what?
now we're free

(to roll in the grass
and soak up the sunshine
or maybe just
take a nap)

tell your winter
clothes where they
can stuff it
and your hick
christmas lights
to get lost

there's a pitcher
of unsweetened
ice tea with just a
dash of lemon juice
waiting for me when
i get home

and a cracked
front step to
nod off on once
it gets cooler

and even these
june bugs
out in may can't
bring me down.

Did you not take my breath away

The one gift
you can not give
and still stay

Tethered born
from belly
connect
and belly torn

Did I not thrive for life
suckling sure
gulping love
sipling strife

Were we not
all apples
before what eyes

Before the fall
of yours
and mines

Sorry apples
nuts and rut
would ***** come
poured down
the thriving throat

What is regurgitating
other longing
re urging
swallowing
submerging

To diaphram
disruptive
falsely claiming
urgent distractions

What is to liver
becomes malaise
all jibberish

Shoot me
some adrenal-ish
before i get in
or get out
of that monster
fish

Fry me
in your pan cre-ole us
to the suet of your filet
digest me
your way

Something in this burpling
will no longer
pass thee usurping

Hick upped
or gassing passing
selling poses
of the sweeter
smell of roses

I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work

It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they “****”
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me

As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights

I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same

Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness

Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy

“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”

He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand

I am young but old
Not chasing the singing dragon out into the night
Dumping the dragging lull of liquor into my being
Like it will fill the cracks in my psyche
Thwart the emerging of my being like some slick spector in the recess of my mind
Gobbling up my intellect one atom at a time

Relevant only to the tantilzing beat of the bass
The ghetto melody making me elated to the fact that
A white hick hippy want-to-be can never be a ****
I am young
With the knowledge that time is in my favor
Wild wanton ways of youth touch my limbs with excitement
Too much drugs and drunkin dancing in the streets of small time city lights

Where I float on the blissful bubbling blunders of slurred words
And harmless touching that we all know means more than the numbing
Fuzzy fingers of inhibitors want us to believe
I am young

But I grow old
With the acheing feel of gritty mornings
Class time drool-drolling onward towards the final accumulation
Of my efforts
How the liberation of my mind feels fresh and shiney
But at once I feel a regress into old thoughts old beliefs and the worn out mentality of those older
I am old

In that my soul longs for the love that it is denied
Beaten down by the distance that holds it hostage
My tendancy to find rust and petinal signs of age beautiful
Long talks with my mother give me joy
I am old
In that I taste the test of time and see wonder in the generations past
Hoping for the sweet lull of a good nights sleep

Feeling and emoting a progressive approach to a dieing dicotomy
Loving
  Hating
   Saddended by things that will never change
I am growing receeding and more importantly changing
Looking to renew the implications of the word normal
But above all the old
The young, fresh and vibrant
I will forever more be
And always be me.

Dog days fly dust to dust over a hick
pit sardined between corona bikinis that house
the unmistakable stench of lukewarm apple
sauce in the c-cup padding and toothless
******* sitting indian style. Graveled friction
fading the back pockets of their overall
dungarees. Amongst them a settler on their native
turf accepting a Jim Beam peace pipe while above
the influence commercials march in protest claiming fried
egg consequences from engaging in the act. The culture
shock is worth the weekly once-in-a-lifetime chance
to sip the tabasco-glazed opening of my chemistry
teacher’s flask while he schools me in perfecting
the cotton eyed joe. A muffler spontaneously
combusts, melting the raybans off the face of a tragically
hip spectator taunted with “that’s why dad named you Joe Dirt.”

Yes It is I the Notorious Break Down Queen
Been to every big city and every hick town in between
Broken down more times than a little bit
All I do is hurry up and wait but most of time is just sit

Waiting in the shop to get my truck repair
Must have open Pandora's Box. does anyone care?
clutch rod bent, steering rack and pinion went to crap
stuck in a truck that's a rolling death trap

Finally I get rolling thinking this must be a curse I'm under
Good God what that sound? My engine sounds like thunder
The Truck God's are against me I just know it
I'm so mad right now I could just spit

Injectors one through five and the turbo just blew
oil and fuel all over the hood and wind shield resembling something like glue
four days in the shop in San Larenzo California
3600 dollars later repair guy say "hers a nice little bill for ya"

Not long after the breaks got hot and the air chambers took a dump
must have had happened when I ignored that **** speed bump
now what all the indicator light just came on and my oil is low
maybe I should set fire to it and watch it burn slow

this is perfect I'm just in the nick of time
get into Gallup N.M hit the nearest bar and order a corona with a lime
My truck is fixed and I'm ready to roll
I just pray when I back out I don't hit a poll

In Arkansas In a town of population 12 and one **** dog
Hung up on the rail road tracks due to the heavy fog
Two cranes later they send me on my way
a rock hit my wind shield I guess in Chicago I'll stay

Sick and tired of the hotels motels and shops
trailer lights are out get escorted by the Indianapolis city cops
Broke down again and not a penny to my name
have a water leak which I cannot tame

Held captive  against my will in Atlanta for I am pleading
only for them to tell me i have a low voltage reading
will it ever come to an end I will never freaking know
almost in Minersville, PA plowed in by 9 inches of snow

A mixture of all the minor and major stuff
This makes my job that more tough
the little fixes and the big repairs in between
Now you know how I got my name the
Notorious Breakdown Queen.

My **** country accent.
Why?
Why do you make me sound like a back woods hick,
With no education?
I know that in the town I come from,
You cant go a mile without seeing a cow field or a church,
But cut me a little slack.
I aint country like yall.
Do I look it?
I dress in black.
My hair is straight.
Eyeliner is my bestfriend,
And Converse are a necessity.
Why must I sound like yall?
I may speak the same,
As you back woods,
Out in the holler,
Country folk,
But I aint like you.