She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.

Just wonderin’… if surrounded… as you are… by the ramblins… of visitors… and the offerins… of hangers-on… and the jokes… of the wanna-be-funny… and the excitement… of your beloved basketball… and the rowdy…  of your down-and-***** football… even tennis… when it’s Venus… and her earthy growls…  and ya girl Serena… with her thigh-strainin’ swing… hell… even hockey… if that’s all there is... playin’ in the background… mixin’ just fine… with children laughin'… and he still flirtin’… after all these years… talkin’ a little *****… after all this water… under the bridge… makin’ you smile… coaxin’ you to…  hang in there baby… to take…  just one more bite… to take…  just one more sip… to smile…  just one more time… I’m just wonderin’… how are you gonna do… when they put you in that place… for sick people… with no loud children… no beloved husband… no bad jokes… no fried chicken in the air… no sports commentators… no big band drums… no somebody screamin’ TOUCHDOWN… for you to… if only for a few precious minutes… wake up to… how are you gonna do…in all of that silence…?

There’s nowt like some rapping
To get my feet tapping.
Alesha Dixon’s the *****
That got me mixin’
Today.
Saw her on a recording
Doing rap for Piers Morgan.
That might be pararhyme –
At best -
But who gives a dime.
Just feel like rhyming
With impeccable timing.
Let’s shimmer and shammer
And give it some hammer.
Alesha’s sure got glitter
There’s no gal fitter
No wonder she is
All over Twitter.
She’s as smooth and silky
As a pint of bitter.

These rhymes
Like chimes
Make me feel so fine.

Well that’s me done now
I don’t quite know how
This mood came over me.

It is infectious
She leaves me breathless
But hey I’m out of time,
What a crime.

Paul Butters

My mama said its just a phase
I just wanna get you high
Look at the bright lights
Pop a pill now I'm zoning
in the sky make you fly
sip slow on that poison
not sure where I'm goin
I'm dialated
the popo keeps starin at us
the locals keep glarin at us
these beans keep me near sighted
that *** got me so excited
I bite the bullet
I keep the rifle close
I got the spins
but I got to fight it
but I think I'm losin my mind
but it could be worse
I'm sure that I'm fine
as I check the time
I cant remember the night
I pay the price of giving my life
flying up high
and they all around me
**** *******, some bomb *** ****
mixin up my potion
marijuana stay potent
pop a pill now im zoning
I'm zoning, zoning

Mixin' up these potions, entering the snake bite into my veins.
Playing you like a puppet as I unleash the venom.
Tell me how it tastes...
Lick it, **** it.
Voodoo dolls playing games at your feet and controlling you like you have nothing to hold onto.
I'll have you, and own you.
I'll be your worst nightmare.
Feel my pain, tormenting you.
Infect you, I'll kiss you, I'll **** you.
Consume me, consume me, consume me.
Bite my venom into you neck as you howl in pain.
Like a frost bite, ice cold as the teeth sinks in.
Worship me, your dark goddess.
Voodoo.
Pinching needles through your chest and laughing at your cries.
Aching, the pain throbs.
The pain you made me feel, back onto you.
She cheated you, the next one died.
Who's doing was that?
Karma?
Step on the glass, staple your tongue.
Cries become mere whispers malevolent to your despair.
Eating cotton candy as your heart begins to tear.
Apart.
I wanna, end you.
Why arn't you scared of me?

Intimacy is a hell of drug;
When I see you peripherally,
My thoughts are done.

The way light hits you
Just makes me nervous,
Bouncing ‘bout in my retinas,
Mixin’ with spirits.

Which, you might say,
Are oppressing my brain,
But I’ll misattribute you
All night and day.

Takin’ that serotonin,
Puttin’ it in your name,
As you run your fingers
Down my face.

Because, these impulses
Are shootin’ through me,
Driving my prefrontal insane.

I try to regulate feelings
That have no name.

I want you tactily, in-fact-ly
I want your intimacy,
‘Cause if you’re into me,
I want that dopamine.

On oxytocin, I’m choking,
These emotions, are roping,
Like I just overdosed
And am dangling,
Floating.

So if you’re itching,
I’ll fill your prescription.

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up down under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Worldwide Bestselling Poet

Lounging on the porch steps of Dylan's old--
Riding the wind, trying to catch a drift home
Waitin' for the moment when all the dust gets blown
Down in the ground, mixin' around, never to be found
History is hidden even from the cunning
of the Fox and the Hound

The crumbled past is unwritten as the future
Just waiting for the master to piece it together
Every moment holds clues of what to do
of what there is to be done
and what there is that was done

So fire the gun and have some fun
Let the lead fly leaving ripples in the sky
Dissipating, as time blows by

These gusts give life to our strife
The tension of lust
Bends in its motion
back and forth
the instrumentation of accumulation

We'll go grab some coffee
from the place down the street,
where the old wooden floors
creak just beneath our feet.
Then we'll take our drinks out
for a walk through the park
where the moon shines enough light
to see each other in the dark.
We'll start mixin' things up
with the flask inside my coat.
The breezy wind ain't bad
once the heat hits our throats.
We'll share drinks at a bench,
joke about people passing by
and we'll hide behind trees
passing a bowl, getting high.
We'd explore a bit more
then watch an indie dramedy.
We'd forget about Trainspotting
and focus just on you and me.
We'll lie side by side,
as we will the rest of the night,
thinking of things to add
to the list of things we like
like all the chemicals
that make our bodies hum
and the facts that we are free
and that our nights are always fun.

And I am beating at the windows,
banging at the door,
clawing at skin,

and I keep talking,
hoping you'd hear me,
and let me in.

And I don't know where you're going,
I don't know where you've been,
or how we got here,
and your breath was my breath,
and I don't know how it got so bad,
I don't know how I'm still breathing,
and I re live every hurt,
every pain,
and you've run along,
you mixin' passion and lust with new addictions,

I just wanted to save you,
you were searching for destruction,

You never loved me...
you never got past the pain.

You never loved me babe,
I'm not even sure you know how.

Son of A Gun in The Wild West

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up going under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood no Kanye clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…


∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

past and future mixin in the present
makin everything we do and say more relevant
slippin could mean enden the lives of the innocent
the ones who live side by side by the life but ain't in it
never did the dirt we done but to often there's a crying mother holding her dying son
who was truly too young
never wanted the fight and was afraid of guns

i blow a cool kiss
to the boiling ***
(lest it bubble over)

joyously cooking
mixin' and masterin'
stirrin' and spinnin'
sealin' and servin'
meals wrapped up all
tight

mmm.. tell me the secret
in how it tastes just like
love every time ?

for the odd flake...
somewhat...
summary..
"joke"...
  yeah.. one of those...
bon jovi... mixin'
         ryan barnes
and b+coz+matz...
and quitters l'ov-ups...
all the qualifications
for john adam's
basic prints!
sour me ups for
the basque
in blister...
         nq... bq...
              q/b...
lay-around...
hibber-tiq...
tiqqy-whacky-
smart-y-y...

    ­ capsizing doughnut crust!
         ******* winded comment
sections...
bew zealender -esque
         and an 'obbit
of fame...
to 'ort 'f... c'oh;
roxette...
              and...
no... no grieving....
no beef'ed up
besides...
it will never be...
        1994 four weddings
and a funeral...
or sliding doors...
or...

                there's the culprit...
there's the... skim reading
of a belief in perfected
1990s...
and the vulture...
    always the vulture...
the skin of skim-reading...
the...

                          it had
to be such an ouch of
perfection...
because there was never
a stripend of a restart...

good enough
to savour worth of
elephant ivory and...
always that vague and...

y'ah... kiniky 'n' kinz...
born pride i'vy...
      dull phillic'fun'time...
ellis...
this new egyptian...
the best better bred...
sat-nav...
             zis nuo:
zer heir-of-r'ysh...
or z'ed:
the woad...
******* flake..
'n' dubliner...
******' paddy towing...
cackle" evident...
you 'ucking
evident...
your / you
cackle evident
you buckett
you bouquet...
           pierluigi collina...
charles bronson...
you twisting toy soldier
sow g.i.joe...
         you fickle
goodie-tinsel-tied-tow...
and the mr. watt...
smuel beckett...
calls a shoe and a lace...
and the both: trickle
a tickle and towing...
a tie: you 'ucking
baron broad a grim
a brittle khaki...
y'ah 'ucking "off-shoot"!
n'ah...
you best be kept
greaving the 'ucking
sinker...
you ****** load-o-*******!
you 'uckin' dim!