I was driving
And thinking
(Dangerous, I know)
Thinking, hard, fast,
And even, slow;
(Did I slow down)
That is a question
Best answered for
Another poem.
(My driving?
My thinking?)

You distracted me.
I wish you would
Please
Stop doing that.
Sheesh.

I was thinking about
Robbery.
Of the armed persuasion.
Why 'armed' robbery?
Weaponized sounds better.
More exotic.
Forearmed?
Elbowed?
Wrong limb classification.
Handed robbery, unless
Prosthetics are involved.
Hooked robbery?

Unarmed robbery-
(Unhanded? UnHAND, me,
Sir!)
Is that just simple
Theft?
And is a simple
Theft ever really
Simple?
Ah, the philosophy of theft.
I think I want that,
Therefore, I exist,
Because want cannot
Exist on its own.
(Or, maybe: Want
Has pre-existence;
It is VIRTUAL
Minus the virtue-part
Until it becomes…
ACTUAL)

I’ve stolen over
My years.
I’ve taken things
That pretended to belong
To someone else.
They belonged to me
Even less.
Ad Victorum Spoilas
(To the victor, goes the spoils)
Spoiled is right.
I still feel
Residual guilt over
These crimes.
I’ve never witnessed
A violent crime.
Never been in the holdup
Of a middle.
Never seen a man
Wearing a ski mask
Running perpendicularly.
(Why are women never
Mentioned running?
Away from the scenes
Of robbery?)
Heels.
(Men are, I mean)

Stanley Kubrick Scenes
Of Robbery:
The Shining: Uncut
Take 146:
“This time, Jack,
Pretend you're a ballerina
Holding up a
Leotard store.”

I cannot wrap my
Mind around the thought
Fathered by the impulse
Grandfathered by the
Desperation of needing
Wanting
Something so badly you’d
Wager your ability
To wander, to mosey on
Along the boulevard, up
The hill, past the
Graveyard that you only
Remember was the dead
Sleeping a mile past it
In the car with which you
Are legally able to operate.

Hey! I think I’ll grab
This gun, and put bullets
In chambers, and possibly
Hide my face behind
A silly mask, and then,
Possibly, point it at
Bank Tellers?
Pregnant Ladies.
Clowns.
Mimes.
OK, I can see threatening
Mimes.

Besides appearing to
Be the most harmless of
Professionals,
They get paid peanuts.
And they get guns
Stuck in their faces
All the time.
So step 1 goes with
Hitches, glitches galore.
Video surveillance.
Dye-marked money bags.
Security guards lurking.
Dudes with cameras.

So you’ve stolen
The public’s money.
You’re in the getaway
Car, ineptly named,
Because whatever the
Percentage
Of bank robbers who
Free, clear, and cleanly
Get away has to be
Impossibly low.
What do you have, now,
Now that you have
What you risked sharing
A cell with Bubba
To steal?

Sadness. Grief. Guilt.
Stained hands.
Equally stained heart.
(And oh yeah, lots
Of marked/unmarked
Bills)
Do you feel anything
Anything at all?
Having your fun
Stuffing bills into the
Garters and ******* of
Bored strippers?
Buying expensive alcohol
And, later, waking up having
Vomited and voided yourself
In the back of a limo
That has, on top of it,
A giant chicken?

None of us,
Not ONE of us,
Knows the time of
Our demise.
We will be gone
One moment,
And Here before Jesus
The next.
At the Foot of the
Judgment Seat of Christ
Himself. Almighty God.
Quaking, trembling,
Feeling the truest form of
Respectful fear,
Fearful respect.
Shed of our human skin
Our spirits filled with the
Substance from the choices
We omitted and committed.

I know Jesus Christ
As and Is My Savior.
The god of money
(Mammon)
Will not be there
To Judge me.
God has ears, eyes.
He sees, hears.
Every thing.
ALL THINGS.
Little gods are both
Blind and deaf
(If the blind and
Deaf can be said
To exist for non-
Existent things).

Jesus will recognize me
As one of his own.
Satan might be skulking
Around, looking for
Those who chose anyone
Else but Christ as
Savior.
(Like the green cottony
Stuff that many think causes
The world to rotate)

The sweetest words I’ve
Ever dreamt of hearing
I will hear from the
Mouth of the Man who
Created everything
By speaking it aloud.
The ore in the ground
That eventually went into
The gun that I never pointed
At someone else
While taking things
That didn’t belong to me.
The trees that yielded
Some of the paper
(Most of it’s linen)
That was the money
In someone else’s
Account
From the bank I never
Robbed because I was
Too afraid of the
Consequences
Of
Theft.

Selene: Goddess of the Moon, dweller in the Abode of Sky; Her Symbols are the Crescent moon, pearl inlaid chariot pulled by a black bull, flaming bright torch, billowing cloak. By her boyfriend Endymion, Selene has Fifty daughters, and Pandia and Ersa by Zeus; her Parents are Hyperion and Theia; Her Siblings are Helios and Eos ... Selene's Roman equivalent is Luna ... In Greek mythology, Selene (/sɪˈliːni/; Ancient Greek: Σελήνη [selɛ̌ːnɛː] "Moon") is the goddess of the moon. She is the daughter of the Titans Hyperion and Theia, and sister of the sun-god Helios, and Eos, goddess of the dawn. She drives her moon chariot across the heavens. Several lovers are attributed to her in various myths, including Zeus, Pan, and the mortal Endymion. In classical times, Selene was often identified with Artemis, much as her brother, Helios, was identified with Apollo. Selene and Artemis were also associated with Hecate, and all three were regarded as lunar goddesses, but only Selene was regarded as the personification of the moon itself. Her Roman equivalent is Luna.

Women's democracy is a good thing in the north. This card can be played. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of the Mexican Army were a movement of parties, people who, in 1964, participated in the continuation of the Colombian armed conflict. It is known that they use various military reserves in various ways, including members dedicated to terrorism. The Government of the United States, William Hill, the European Union; The ****** of the European union of ****** and the Spanish government. ****** take vitamin A and Muhammad is very good. Thanks to the stars. Both Kings, Canadian Design and green ***** Greenwich Vicky in recent years, learning other languages. It is a very sweet drink. Ringtones of green and black ******. For example, John replied that he would return from the north. Answers abound 2: Igors, Igor Coincides with Blue Shadow, William, Vitamins, Offices, Gold, Blue Products: Gloves for artists and songs. The American ****** of Tom's and the Christians in the western part. Shadows blue ******* and arrows of Russia that you have turned into Russian tonight. Churches of the north ****** and Christians, parks and gardens and the results of our churches. These letters are similar to the ones that were born to from German ****** from China and to ***** for Sir William's Relations in Europe and Asia, Eurasia, European ***** and volcanoes in Spain and the United Kingdom. Vitamins utas and Muhammad Who are you? Diabetes is obvious, green, animals, wild animals on the street. In other years there are other languages. The mouths are very delicious black. North The mistakes of many athletes are related to possible radio waves and stars. The Americans These cards are similar to the ones that were born from above. Activities such as the ***** from England, Asia, Europe, the United States and the European Joy of Europe, Spain and England. This is the life and soul of the Welcome to the prophet Muhammad. For example stars and more stars. The Statutes of the Royal Government of Canada and the **** greens of Arabs of the sleep controllers and the two ******' half masters. In recent years, other languages. It is a very sweet drink. Bell green and black bell. For example, North Africa, North America. Taste, aroma and vitamins and a body under green gangrene sitting with an astronomical fireplace exposed in a ***. The women said there was nothing better than a response from the Northern Island. There is no peace incentive. From China's cities, towns and churches, come workers with prosthetics, and diseases into Europe, and ****** from the Middle East. From the time of Spain, this is the life of Muhammad's poor ******. Women's democracy is good in the north. The letter may be to the Revolutionary Armed Forces of the US versus the Army of Mexico, a guerrilla movement; the people involved in 1964 continuing from the Colombian armed conflict of 2017. They are known to use a variety of military, Reserved in the past in various ways including membership in terrorism; The United States Government of William Hill, the European Union and the Spanish Government. Vitamin A and Muhammad are very good for you. Thanks to the stars. The two kings, one of Canadian design and green, the other a pair of Greenwich Village Vicky's. In recent years, other languages. It's a very sweet drink. Central networks green and black Bell. For example, this John replied, the way of the north will return. Answers: About 2 Igor; Igor matches the shade of blue; Williams; vitamins; office gold; blue Products: Gloves for artists; fish songs and a meal. American Tom and Christians in the western part of Blue arrows. Russia grew Russian for dinner. Northern and Christian Identity churches, parks and gardens are the results of our churches. And these letters are in common with those that are born. Germany and China as well as those for peace and the merchants Sir William's Relations with Europe and Asia; Europe, Asia or Europe, and the volcanoes, Spain and Britain. Vitamins and Muhammad, Who are you? Diabetes is obvious; greens, animals and wild animals on the street. In recent years, speaking other languages. A black Mouth is very tasty. For the north. Many athletes make mistakes associated with possible radio waves and stars. Americans. And these letters are in common with those that are born. Activities such as those in England, Asia, Europe, the US and the European countries of joy, Spain and England. This is the life and soul of the Vitamin Enriched Prophet Muhammad. For example, stars. The Statute of the Royal Canadian Government and Green Arabic Greenwashers, kind of Master Masters in two and two and a half. In recent years, other languages. It's a very sweet drink. Central networks green and black Bells. For example, North Africa, North America. Color, taste, aromas, vitamins and holidays, a body under the green Selenonic gangrene 's astronomical fireplace exposed in the ***. Women said there was nothing better than a response from the North Island. For peace is not encouraged by certain rules. In China, cities, villages, church workers, donkeys and diseases in the Middle East and Europe. Spain time. This is the life of the poor and Muhammad.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

a cult novilist in Blackpool
watches Martina Navratilova
throw sugar lumps
at passers by
as captured teardrops
in a teaspoon
call, plead, for understanding
perhaps release
for they’re not the
obsessive prize
once hailed as trophy
but simply words in the air
that execute that which never comes
causing a retreat from an ordinance
of nothing
where time defiles itself
a red speckled jersey
whose arms, once occupied
are too small, limited
like abandoned prosthetics
leaving rotting flesh
to slowly scald the earth
with a vaporous experience
of emotional contrasts
like that of mesmerising serpents
whose visional embrace
stares deeply with such a charge
of ****** energy
that causes the air to weep
and poses the question
who shall give me leave

Tile floors.
Blood in the creases.
Plywood boards.
Arterial releases
I nail you to the ground,
This soul in you.
Phantom ghost of specter.
I will never leave you.
I will eat what you ****,
And be your skin.
Parasitic symbiote of prosthetics,
Entangled by bailing wire to every bone,
Our union refines combine tarsals.
I am you like the liquor,
Like Jesus' nails.
We rob stores,
Skip stones,
In the alley.
Mirror eyes mark your stretch marks.
Deep scratches of size.
Your iris is mine.
Becoming you is my charge.
In your innards I gorge.
Metastasize.
I want to feast on your skin.
Eat your flesh till your thin.
In the raw.
Exploit all your ****.
I want to haunt your house and lick your thighs when you sleep.
Press through your skin.
Bend it out with my lips.
This last invasion will curse you for life.
I'm a cancer forever.

Hiding in your basement.

Pick, tweeze, pull, pluck:
   Glance in the mirror for my next tuck.

      Here's a confession: it's a horrible obsession.
         My beauty is no longer in my possession.

I'm manufactured; a walking billboard of cosmetics.
   I'm but skin covered metal and prosthetics.

     Try as I may, reality will never meet my ideal distortions.    
        I no longer know my natural proportions.

In last night's movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan
the place I was priced out of. But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love, because of love,
the love that brooks no serendipity.

Here, in my family, love is taken for granted
except when it's withdrawn and then even the trees lose all meaning,
familiarity. Now it is almost dawn:
this and that must get done in committee or alone.
Don't reach, go slow as the day will allow.
But that's not what I came to say.
Perfect rest v. having a destiny.

A complete breakdown in self-discipline.
It begins by saying nothing I do matters under the eye of eternity.
Hamlet x 5 centuries.
Add to that all the science--chemistry, physics--calculus and music
I don't know. I have sat next to, at weddings,
brain surgeons and robot engineers. I hit the street
choosing a church on Fifth Ave. or Trinity Cemetery, walking the
      heartless city.

In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt provides us
with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness, that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
In this way the seasons have been circulating for eons via convexity.

I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway.
You trust in genetics, God, prosthetics or prayer, whatever
gets you to the morning. That's when the sun,
a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second
warms your bones.
You may remember an old lover who's gone before
or continues to exist on another plane, in another ecstasy.

Having installed a new toilet seat
and made a few philanthropic donations
I can kick back tonight and watch movies, right?
Not. I'm ridding myself of another addiction
like illegal drugs via caloric restrictions
getting enough sleep for two people or more
and reading none of the dry words in books from the library.

When there's nothing to do, when I'm bored or dreary
I'll sit still and watch from the window, I'll wait
for the weather to change, which it will.

In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars.
Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause.

And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost?
Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost?

In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars.
Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused

And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong?
Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong?

Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides
but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes.

We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King
We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything.

I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today,
would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away?

In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all,
except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball.

Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say,
then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away.

Or if you do things differently, even as we once did,
then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid.

See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart,
sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art.

"My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999.
£150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year.
£150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions.
In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.

once android prosthetics advance beyond brain capacity;
like any software, brains become obsolete; minds transfer
from android to android via electric wavelength impulse;
in this evolutionary step, mankind becomes one w/ that
background radiation which is the factual Heavenly City

I cant wait to show
My contempt of court
Contemplated much more
Thank lord
The latter was chosen
I swear to him
My swears wont be as
Offensive
As the unmentioned
Alternative
Of this present contemption

My hand told lies
Like prosthetics
As it handled the bible
Like an oath
It would take
If it weren’t for the one nation
Under god
Underdog
Dodging the law
Of the land
Biting the hand
That feeds him

Hunger strikes
Like a match
Thirsty for air
The explosion of emptiness
Fills the stomach
The feels
Become more ill with each filling
Like mercury deposits
Positioned
From molar drilling

A mouthful of ailments
Spewed across the room
For the judges consumption
But the cancerous banter
Spread like foreign bodies
And the jury took injury

The whole world
Agrees
You’re the most hated
Alive
The “not for long” followed
Like the gavel
As it swallowed the courtrooms
Silence
A sentence of death was relayed
Without a period
Of contemplation
As my great contempt
Of court
Is overshadowed
By the ******
Committed by a jury of my peers
Reenacting
The passion of Judas
While I’m crucified
In the name of my father
By men who shoot
The messenger

Remember me at my worst
And my best
Will always inspire
Death is not as bad
If you can give a few truths
Before you expire

It's there.
Some small
inconveinent
hindrance of curiosity
You see,
at night I like to lay
flat on my back
on the cement
and stare up at the night sky.
Make fun all you want
but this nonpareil view
of the stars
holds so much possibility,
so many endless and unexplainable
things
to ignore it is an insult to mankind
and your gift of consciousness!
So there I lay
trying to do my humanity
a favor
but my head
as oblong and mishapen as it were
with that flat spot
always rolls to the side
forcing a limited view
of the city!
Pfft! There is nothing to gain
from the working of other people!
I've tried building many
prosthetics for this problem,
Once,
I molded putty to my head
to make up for this tragic flaw
but it didn't work
and it looked terribly absurd.
So I suppose
as much as I imagine the universe
to be completely perfect,
the fact that earth is a part of it
makes it flawed
(which yes, I realize that includes myself)
Furthermore
as much as I like
to think of myself as perfect,
that flat spot will always be
the earth
of my head.

A new land, a new plan
Freedom dawns upon man
He stands, right hand
Pressed on his chest to stress
The strength he dares to possess.
Through revolution and regicide
Through intolerance and genocide
A mile walked, ten miles left behind
Creating a beautiful painting
Drawn on the canvas of time.
His life benign, followed by crime
Because he’s unfit to limit himself
Another nail driven by itself
Into his coffin that’s been waiting on the shelf
Since he fell away from himself
Corrupt beyond any help
Another mile walked, this time
Only a foot, left behind.

So we can see truth to the prophecy
And the mad prophets cackling with glee
Another tragedy, yet another symphony
The imagery is really sickening me.
What is there to be
In this world, if not free
What is there to know
If it’s all just a rolling joke.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spoke
Who knows, I don’t.
But there’s no point in standing down
While my feet are still on the ground
My hearts beating now
My brain’s thinking loud
And my voice is proud.
Another free verse to vocalize
The fact that we’re all demoralized
By the lies, by the times, and the ties
That keep us all alive.

The mistress
She missed it
It’s the bullet
That kissed it
Bloodstained garments
That flaunt it
And a blood soaked flag
That haunts it
Silhouette of a cross
That watched it
Symbolic of a trust
And we lost it
He never wished it
And couldn’t have dished it
He always told it
But couldn’t have sold it

Again and again I hear the same words
Patriotism isn’t part of the verse
Fascism couldn’t have a bigger hearse
And capitalism couldn’t be a more deluding curse.
It’s diseased at its roots
We’re deceived by the loops
And twirls that make it spin
That make us forget our world.
And it hurts
Because these material prosthetics are all lies
Democracy is an illusion
And it seems these days, free speech is a crime.
You’d better get back in line
Listen to them preach the divine
Watch them drink all the wine
And then, let them hang us all out to dry.

These dragging power lines shackle her
Shock until numb, and heart stops
After beating too fast and shattering into
Oblivion (that is, the rest of her perception)

The percolating *** holes *** shots about her
*** and shots and shots and cigs
Crimson twigs rooted under business standards
Loathes the world's beauty standards
... *******

These dragging snakes constrict her vision
Of a better place, of a better time
Stronger the vignette view, the stronger the
Struggle,                         to
Separate tar from her feet these streets bought her
Clipped her wings
Told her to grow up and forget to fly
(Though flying is her worst nightmare)
So she assembles wax imitations
And plans to amputate

I'd tell her to stop
But she'll say there's prosthetics
And I'd rather see her tango in the wind
Fall to her death
Then go cold with the arms of a mini golf champ

She was a trap built from
tigers and rusty pieces.
Feral, rotten, effective.
Eyes me like prey,
and I am.

I am falling slowly,
so slow they think I can fly
so slow they think I glide through
life and love with my feet on a
carpet of marbles and oil.

21st century type.
Sharp like a knife,
but not like a suit.
The music is so loud
it’s muffled.
It is smothered by itself.
I lost my wallet and limbs,
and they were replaced with
alcohol and prosthetics.

Gheists flooding
the contraption,
singing mantras
in tongues.

Now I seek a greater machine;
Skin carved from marble,
and lips from bleeding
citrus fruits,
acids becoming
nourishment.

It’s not talked about in Hollywood
Certainly not among the pretty people
I’m referring to when an actor actress in bodies a role so well you generally don’t recognize them

I’m referring to their acting being so convincing that you see only the character unfolding,
even if it was only for a minute before it clicked
I’m not talking about minimal physical transformation, not heavy, prosthetics or CGI for example which would obviously disguise a person.

When an actor immerses themselves in a character
They are taking away their character completely
In doing so they’ find myself in a paradox
When does acting end and their character begin

They train all their life to be a believable character
To personify little idiosyncrasies to define depth
Part of this training is believing you are
who you say you are

At gatherings and parties they try
to be themselves But who is that?
They’re celebrated for other characters
they became, does that character remain
Are there attributes that glam onto
their psyche soul that won’t let go.

They become more unsure of the real world and their part in it. People accuse them of acting.
A pugnacious member takes issue argument, transpire the actor in a quagmire
Fight or flight what characteristics to prevail

Is it any wonder why a significant number of actors actresses, run to psychologists or psychiatrists for years of therapy or psychotherapy?.Major decisions rehashed for other’s opinion what should I do?

Think of the movies where an actor changed himself so much for a character that
you did not recognize him. if only for a minute.
I could name a few.

Keith Ledger as The Joker( his last role)
Fellow Actors said he was so scary.
They couldn’t even say their lines.
The darkness that came out of him

There are others, but these readily come to mine

Heath Ledger in Batman
Dustin Hoffman in Rain man
Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade
Matthew McConaughey in, The Buyers Club

Christian Bale in Machinist
Jake Gyllenhaal and Brokeback Mountain
Sylvester Stallone in Rocky

People’s burning desires come to California
To become a star, follow their dream they’ll go far
Life is not what it seems broke, sleep in the car
Are you willing to sell your soul to become a star?

Can you survive The Harvey Weinstein‘
Movie Mogul  type the casting couch slouch
Roofie, **** drug without  consent
or The music scene P Diddy type Hell bent

I encourage you to watch some of these movies where the actors are so far above the rest


Inspired songs
1) Vogue live MTV awards YouTube1990
By Madonna
2) American woman
The Guess Who 1970
3) mama told me not to come
By Three Dog Night
4) The long and windingRoad 1970
By the Beatles
5) evil way
By Santana


BLT Webster’s word of the day challenge
April 15, 2025 pugnacious
Someone described as pugnacious shows a readiness or desire to fight or argue

Bark like a dog that can’t bite
You’re a rerun, redundant
Idiot shouting at staples on trees
Guns to a pillowfight, pillows to a massacre
Why can’t you learn the perfect place to sit

Your eyes look handsome when your mouth is closed
Talk until your lungs become heavy with air
But know that not a soul listens to you freely
Your only audience is a captive one
We encourage you to try anyway
Someone out there must be into that sort of thing

Try drinking and feeling more and less
Be the coat hanger that everyone else loves
Talk to me, I want to know how you’re running
I don’t want to hear about your prosthetics
But the guy standing next to you sounds nice

Have you tried to end your life lately?
You might smile more if you think about it daily
We liked you more back when you were smaller
When you were close to the edge of that thought
When our clothes didn’t fit you
When we liked you even less

I recall many years ago...
An acquaintance who through misfortune and misadventure had severed three toes from his left foot. Although he eventually recovered and adjusted to this misfortune he always walked thereafter with a pronounced limp.

Several years after this incident he had the further bad luck to be involved in a cycling accident and this time he lost four toes from his right foot. Once again with the aide of professional help and prosthetics he was able to adjust.

Although he made physical adjustment he could never let go or refrain from telling of these two incidents on every possible occasion. In my mind it became his key to acceptance and seemed to be his way of gaining some sympathy for his hard done by life. I became aware and felt quite ashamed of my lack of empathy and was alarmed at just how irritated I could become whenever around him. I determined that I should seek help of my own... to discover why I felt irritated so irrationally.

I consulted with my GP and explained the circumstance in detail. I related how over the years the more I witnessed his actions and attitude the less restrained I could be in his presence. I would become both agitated and borderline aggressive when he would enter the room.

My GP listened and after brief pause to ponder upon the story I related to him he reassured me that my reactions were quite normal and were not as uncommon as I thought them to be.
I asked him if it were a defined medical condition and did I have need for concern.
He replied.... "you are quite simply lack toes intolerant"