"predicates" poems
Check back soon to resume and consume
every tight-lipped, slack-jawed fool in the room.
See, it's all what you know
as the fires start to grow
and the future burns slow.
Keep your eyes on the ceiling,
and your antenna feelers feelin',
for when your senses stop reeling,
you will finally start believing.
Kick-back to the basics,
not too far from the basement,
and close enough to show
that **** really isn't basic.
It's another mid-west, ******
******** freak show.
Another evening drinking whiskey
with the seedling's peep-show.
So, it's time to relax and relapse
into acidified broken synapse.
The lights keep flickering
and the couples keep bickering:
***** I am not above homicidal snickering.”
I steer clear of these diversions,
and wander past the sermons,
just to chew up all the crooked talk
and spittle out inversions.
I shovel mockery to hypocrisy,
pin-prick the empty *****
whose passions lack predicates,
and in the background, I'll be complexifying my medic-kit:
ketamine, morphine, ecstasy;
marijuana, mushrooms, LSD.
Watch those ******* jitter-bug college *****
procreate while sloppy drunk,
but keep an honest eye
on the flies that will rise above –
then fall back down in existential angst, like:
“Dear God, why must I be free?
Oh, God! Why is every universal eye on me?
I'm just another acid war veteran,
sneakin' through these gutters
with pestilence and bitter sin.
When they reach the promised land
of golden clouds and holding hands,
I'll be underground with the slugs and the spider band.”
Yet here I sit, sick of sippin' poisons with illiterates.
So, let the skies fall and the buildings crash,
as you stand on the wall with a fist full of cash.
I'll be on the front lawn,
picketing for dawn,
while the night around me slowly ambles on.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.
- For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical ******** So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.
Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes
.rearing privilege
countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******** and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** ******* Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
~
*pre-script
it struck me recently,
our news is built on
heart break, loss, and mayhem.
some call it breaking news,
it may more aptly be called,
snap shot of a breaking point.
a news media article
though not always, often indicates...
no predicates,a breaking point,
the arrival at a tipping point,
an intersection where
we see one at their ungodly worst,
at their lowest ever, and it is here
that the world at large
BEGINS to read their story...*
breaking news
the whole world gathers round
to dine on breaking news,
a feast of gluttonous portions
in shades of black and white;
each and every day, someone new,
the stories tell their dark of night;
the racing forward,
wheels spinning,
furious peddling of
a news cycle voracious,
greets the culmination of
someone’s breaking point;
a wildfire burning ferocious
in someone else's yard.
Jack has lost the family’s home,
Jill’s dreams have been downsized,
dear John’s letter says she’s gone,
Jane’s nerves broke down... again;
grief-stricken mum just lost her son,
a father broken, though once strong...
this breaking-point, colored-news
shades a darkened point of view,
reveals the end of brighter days;
a tipping point that shows the way
to hungry vulturous birds of prey.
i know mine... I think,
but what’s your breaking point?
if i reach mine afore you yours,
as you read the headline story,
have a little sympathy;
trace the path that led me here,
wear my shoes to feel the cost,
read between the lines they write
and don’t check me off as lost
but a few changes
of the script,
consider please,
just as easily,
“this could be me.”
~
what is your breaking point?
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
all the pronouns and predicates
subjugating ******** preferences
grammar is god’s way of punishing us
protecting us from ourselves
in spite of the elves who wish to see us fail
see us impaled upon their tiny spears
dripping form from our ears
i hear their voice
yes i really do
underneath the moss
and in utero
her womb breathes
fresh air
her mouth is warm
her ***** pulses with song
and light
i faintly touch the downy mound
and let venus rise before the dawn
in turn she admires
the way i choose to expire before her
the silence and the razor’s edge
your best friends are your teachers
they never let you see them
they keep you in the mood
wanting more more more
more more more more more
more more more more more more
more
more more more more more
more
more more more more more
more
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
Two birds leave their nest and begin to fly together.
A dark omen in the sky predicates nasty weather.
Undeterred by their state, they choose their own fate.
And fly like one under a lone ruffled feather.
Thunder and lighting echo in the dark of the night.
These birds can sense that they are in for a fight.
The wind begins to shift, their flight begins to drift.
As they soar in the sky looking for a beacon of light.
The winds shift again, the birds caught in its path.
Mother Nature begins to show her draconian wrath.
The birds begin to ascend, precious energy they must spend,
Hell's fury unleash, no salvation for the birds nature hath.
The birds begin to fall, descending to the ground.
But nowhere is safe from the echoes of the sound.
Lighting strikes the Earth, completing the circle from birth.
Crescendoing with the raindrops, death begins to hound.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
To postulate
Species can not isolate
conundrum that predicates
Yearning to be alone
Veiled, to atone
To be far-flung
words being sung
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 7:22 PM UTC