The aliens are already here
The aliens- hip, square and clean
The runaways, they've disappeared
Down pipes and drains and holes of
Sewage garden, gangs and green

There's a silent anarchy stirring in the heights
From it flows a saturnalian wine
For this free country
Can't stop drinking
Stretching its mouth to indulge in extravagance
It must be everyday, it must be more-
Take it all
Create a proxy war
And as the black *** sits and waits,
The kettle cries wolf

I pledge allegiance to the grandest of institutions
Where the last, best hope on Earth is hidden underground
Where only married fools are allowed to divide and conquer
And make gracious dents of our lives

Keep marketing death
And selling hope
Chips in our heads and
Veins full of dope
Mental warfare
Gangster mentality

The revolutionaries you hired are losing
So you better add more fuel to their fire
Till you got newspaper gods and TV messiahs
And all the innocent ones are pariahs

Capitol I and little u
Here's a free copy of our corporate Bible
Don't read the fine print
You Dead Peasant
Cause we might just put a policy through
Our Mammon's still hungry
Mommy's little terror

Bed right and woo
Bilderberg *******
Underground railroad of hate and hypocrites
You sell prison Gods
And sunny asylums
A life full of plastic
To die wrapped in plastic-
No wonder the blues originated here

We would have settled for the Silver Age
Even if it was Iron in disguise
But you kept it out too long and let it rust
Telling us it's ok-
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

We believe in something
But it's been called by the wrong name
For thousands of years, we've been insane
(What's in a name?
Your fascist-military-papal gain)
Dropping bombs on the peers
You've pressured before
Going off to make new friends
***** diamond

Wish you a water burial when alive
So you simmer in your beloved element
Better be mindful of death
You'll never die
But beware when that elixir explodes in your face

All we want is a world where sinners sin sincerely
And the narcs are narcoleptics
And the dearest of the devil dare to see more clearly

Let's put the prisoners in a church
The congregants in a prison
The crazies in an art school
The students in a parachute-prism;
We'll send them off to all four corners
With crayons, canned goods and doves (for the mourners)
In hopes of one day seeing a world
Where expression is survival, the beggars twirl,
(And no one goes hungry with a palette of rainbows
On a day when only true praise is hurled.)

Art is made to forget we're slaves
To show the world's flaws
With a tinge of beauty
So it's bearable
How ****** up things are
How we need change
But the true lovers
Are not at the top
True lovers' passion lies in bottomless alleys
Seething baths of sweat
Relieving sins imposed by a lonely man
A ceremony of the streets- Not your false ritual

"You're all talk and no action-
Where are the answers?"
Well, sweet inquisitor
We just don't have the power
And those that do are pinball wizards-
Deaf, dumb and blind,
And friends of time
Why should they care
In their own little Edens
With fortresses of gold
And platinum eyelashes?

Aquafuck and Aquafina
*** and water
Rings called sacred
But profane down under

No Xenia, no refuge, no candle in the dark
Pyramid pointless
Your fascist brigade claims its people are fasting
Least you could do is use your paper wisely
Add impresario to your resume
And let us have our heyday

It isn't how it feels
But how it looks
We could've been healed,
But they burnt the books
Better get a gun
Technology won

They say war is over when you want it
So I'll sleep in bed all day
Throwing pennies in my dream-well
Letting my weak flag fly

And I wonder why Africa, Egypt, Eden's eating me
As the host to a ghost they pray so sweetly to
It all boils over in oil to who's royal
And what ever happened to loyalty?
(With no boundaries)

Powers that be
I need to put you out of my misery
So here's your shut-up money
Your gilded cage becomes
My blank page
Your sedition becomes
My intuition:
The last standing land mass- No woman, don't cry
Ain't that a gas?
Better take to the mountains and the trees
Before you say this too shall pass

We all bleed the same
Cultivated and wild
Fragile dust
Abandoned by a mercurial God
Waiting to be saved by a beaten sailor

It started as a shade of green and blue
And golden sands and cosmic plans
Transformed to the home of me and you
Where 100 shades of grey steam the sky
And colors fly to a place we'll never reside

Wonders of the world
Don't require human hands
A heart is all you need to plant seeds
And touch the sky
A mystery it was
And a mystery it'll be
Even if it's all dust
And matter and debris

Still, I wish I could pull a brick
And watch the whole thing crumble

I've walked through the locked doors of a mental ward to go and visit someone considered a danger to themselves. Half starved girls make short steps past me and I double take to check if I'd seen a ghosts.
But ghosts are the ones looking for their mortality not the ones looking to drop it. So I turn my face away... And despite the nature of where I am I manage to crack a smile because somewhere on this floor was a small room with lost and found and I had some misplaced love to turn in. The young women on this ward have been here anywhere between weeks to years and they considered it a hell away from home. But the Afternoons I got to spend there will continue to be some of my greatest memories.

There's a lot going on up stairs. Between our 10 fingers 2 eyes 5 senses and 1 voice we're going experience this place one way or another, and your experience will be unlike mine and mine will be unlike his but we can go to sleep knowing that what we felt was real.

So I imagine it's scary being told by a medical professional that some area of your viewing experience is not as it seems. There's dead pixels in your screen. You've been meaning to redeem the warranty on that broken dream of a reality you've been living. But the company that sold you your world is out of business. That is to say when you check into insanity, there's no reception to show you to your room. Every spoon you're fed tastes real, but the people sitting across from you sees no meal. You feel scared.

And yet through all the poor unfortunate souls to behold on this ward one of them taught me beauty in the crazy, and seek these lessons in all of the other people. I want OCD to teach me to arrange my audience in such a way that you all look perfect. I want ADHD to teach me speech. Let me cradle impulse in every corner of my mouth and when it finally flows out let it roll about like a newborn who had it's mother craving haribos and red bull for 9 straight months. I wanna start speed dating for the narcoleptics and insomniacs and see if either can sleep on their wedding night. Watch them grow old together and have no concept of time passed because who the hell knows what time is is when your sleep patterns been ****** with. I want tourettes to teach me that this feeling is uncontrollable let our hearts be uncapped, every open armed come back, every face to face sweet embrace you give to those you love feels so natural that words like 'can't ' or 'no' become unfathomable.

But I can't pretend that these are easy gifts to accept, so many tears gave for the labeled and named, asking what's inside my brain, can I be called sane?

So my friend in the lost and found department of the ward taught me, recovery and stability are part of the beauty. Her dress size was the fine line between happier times or a cut short life. But now the time she's kept out of hospital grows like her smile. She's come miles and miles and and all the while is a living monument to the phrase 'things get better'... and that's all this is. Despite reality itself being an uncertainty and and the skies throwing all kinds of weather in the end, we're all birds of a feather that flock together and we need to remember that the sad times aren't forever, so this is a handwritten love letter to the things that get better.

oh, god bless america,
the nation of narcissistic narcoleptics,
and protect her from harm
while she takes her afternoon nap.

oh, god save the stagnant,
all living to die,
so their bellies may be crowded
and their hearts pounding
so fast,
so fast,
for you, heavenly father.

give us this day
our daily fourty-four ounce soft drink
and quarter pound burger...
and don't forget the fries.

and forgive us our intolerance,
just as we...
err...
nevermind.

forgive us,
for we know not what we do.

amen.

For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.

For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.

For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.

For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.

For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.

For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”

For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.

For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.

For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.

For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.

For my people-
the poets and the lost.


~SES