born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes

shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit

brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times

barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now

an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze

i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge

free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation

floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun

you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound

you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul

dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly

©2016janetaylor

vegetarians rock

we don't derive satisfaction
in skewered meat, spit kebab, meat buffet or a banquet
we are told of how much we are lacking in nutrition and protein
we don't mind to eat tempeh,tofu,lentils,eggs,diary or skewered vegetables
we are vegetarians of family preference, religious reasons, animal rights or health issues

researches found that your love takes twice more
requires so much energy to digest
more energy less fatigue and stress
to live long without stroke, heart attack, high blood pressure or diseases of kind
well I'm not cynical, eat small pieces

just because we don't hear
just because we don't see
doesn't mean it's not there
the pain these creatures we domain over feel
heartless humans without hearts to feel
maybe we open blind eyes
maybe we turn deaf ears
to them
but I tell you it's there

we hear and
we see
we are different from you
we are different from the ways of the world
we love it
we are vegetarians and
we rock!

How do you feel about this and that?

A cockroach stealing your children's dreams of a bright and peaceful future?

Watching a mongoloid getting backhanded by a ******* with a heart of gold?

The unknowable can't be evacuated by an atomic bomb.

Knowledge cannot be enthralled by microbiology.

Peace CAN & WILL shatter into fragments by the use of clinical drugs.

Fun finds the cure for cancer in a twisted upbringing that you and your siblings will never be blessed to experience.

Trust can trigger an avalanche of facts, AND satanism should generally avoid including sexuality.

Mary Magdalene turns boring things into ****** tension like peace inspires fundamentally skewered acts of protests.

Our world leaders briefly researching painful mutilations in an ancient garden in Greece, while suggestively grabbing handfuls of lost gifts in a church made from human bones.

How are you feeling about this mess of words I've sewn together?  

Televised revolutions are deeply advertising etched foreskins of death like Disney World sells us dates with Mickey Mouse and his muse Minnie as Donald poses as Adolf ******.   

Watch your friends fade and die as they disobediently blow away blue swamps at your feet, never even bothering you with a decent goodbye.  

There's a supply and demand on our radios briefly warning us of fearful flesh in the background of a dark ash filled sky, gently driving away from mysteries spied through a peephole.

I would have cried briefly, if worshiping premonitions in the shadows was good human behavior...But it's not..

Your sisters are daintily self-destructing emergency shelters dancing w/ both hands in your pockets while vomiting their lunches into fine porcelain. Aren't we lucky?

I am happily reusing substances
and creating electrifying populations with clay and words. A seamstress of sorts I suppose.  But I'm no artist.

Pentecostalism might be able to rid the world of a nightmare and your wildest dream might have been known to lead to a disorder that hasn't yet been but already has five matter of fact cures.

The Bible courses through the veins of vengeance like physics can be used to detect our long-term relationship with Santa Christ. Satan and I think this is exciting!

Complex religious designs can be combined with gracelessness in the name of American eye-candy.  We can be uncomfortable if it's entangled with destiny. Of this I am certain.

fade into a crowded bar,
smoky, wispy;
three bar stools,
empty.

enter our three heroes
(or our three victims),
strangers.
they each take a seat,
throwing sideward glances lightly, curiously.
they hail from three different worlds
(but they're three sides of the same die).
and they all
hurt.

"shot of jameson."
the words seem to come from the stool,
only reverberating through a man in his forties.
two strangers glance sideways again, nodding slightly;
both gesture sideways with a wave of a wrist
and a point of a finger
before looking back down to the wood paneling
which seems to swirl and crack into a world all its own.

the jaded veteran of life is the first to get his drink,
followed by the frizzy haired young woman,
and then the boy who could be no older than twenty three.
three shots laid on the counter;
gulp.
three shot glasses clinking empty against the counter.

we all drink to forget, i think
(and the man, the girl, and the boy are no exception)

the man isn't happy
(and neither is his wife).
his world is woven of arguments and broken plates,
lost and tarnished love.
the burn of whiskey is nothing new
(more the burn of alcohol on a fresh wound).
his bar visits start with a head scratch and a sigh
and end with a taxicab back to his musty pillow
(and his musty love).

a tap on the shoulder,
he turns to look behind him.
"jesus, ****, bob! i've seen prettier expressions on train wrecks!  come sit with the guys."
he chuckles,
they stand
arms around each other's shoulders
to a darker corner.

the man needs to forget his life
(and the frolicking through meadows he thought it'd be).

two shots on the bar,
two empty glasses thud.

it burns, but she's had worse.
the girl hasn't been so lucky.
thrown bottles and cigarette burns are her world,
and the liquor is her respite from remembering
deadbeat dad
and mom,
who
(bless her heart)
wasn't there to stand in the way.
but she's better now,
all on her own
(or so she tells herself).

the ring of a cellphone pierces the chattering of the scene
briefly
before the click;
she answers.
"oh hey.  your flight's in?  sure, be right there."
her heels click against the floor,
the bar stool legs creak with her exit.

the girl needs to forget her jagged recollections
(though they pull from her like barbed wire from a corpse)
so she can forgive.

a lone shot on the bar.
a lone glass full no more.

his mouth stings like a newborn's being rubbed with the *****.
he won't ever get used to the sting of good liquor
(or of wanting her at his side through cold nights).
he didn't want school or work,
striving or achieving,
or his name in print.
just their fingers intertwined, or her head upon his chest
(because secretly, he can't fall asleep,
no,
not when she had the most lovable look in her snooze).
but his affection spans mountains, fills trenches, trails from rockets blasting through the galaxy
even though his sleeve-pinned heart has been skewered without remorse
more times than he could count when he was six years old
(so, why does it come as a surprise to him that the same couldn't be said of her?).
he tells himself he'll learn how to **** and not love
(so next time he won't have to drink himself back to normal).

another
shot.

*he drinks away his future
instead of past or present
(because he needs to forget how to love).

a butterfly caked with dust
a cathedral black as rust
an **** of satanic lust
but who, O fool, can you entrust?

you prance and sneer, put on a frown
call Believing people stupid clowns
in moors with bogs to drag you down
a place of darkness where you drown.

Marilyn Manson had his kicks
devil's music, Satan's licks
laugh, say Jesus is for hicks
ignore the goads, ignore the ******.

we're all worked up? in a stew?
while you scream like skewered shrews?
kohl your eyes with blackest goo
party's in hell?

THE JOKE'S ON YOU.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/13/2015

Nightingale was a hunting lodge
At the time of Baron Blood,
He was holed up there for a month or so
While the Tamar was in flood,
His knights went after a suckling pig
That they brought back to the Hall,
‘We’d best be merry and feast, my Lord,
Or there’ll be no fun at all.’

The waters rose and it cut them off
By the monastery at Bede,
So they made to raid the Monk’s own stocks
And they carried back the mead,
The hounds lay panting around the hearth
And the knights caroused ‘til dawn,
But the waters of the Tamar lay
Close round them every morn.

A cottage lay on the old floodway
By the side of a river wharf,
The waters drove a yeoman out
And his wife, a pretty dwarf,
They made their way to the hunting lodge
And begged that they might come in,
‘I’m Olaf, you are my liege, my Lord
And my wife is Tamerlin.’

‘And what do you bring?’ said Baron Blood,
Who looked for a little sport,
‘We’re all entombed ‘til the waters fall,
‘So what do you bring to court?’
‘I’m simply a yeoman, with one hide
That’s drowned in the river mud,
Along with my only ploughshare…’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Baron Blood.

‘What of the geld you owe to me,
And how do you think you’ll pay?’
‘I throw myself on your mercy, Lord,
To pay you another day.
The river flooded the pasture, and
My crop lies under the mud,’
‘Perhaps your wife has a way to pay,’
Said the musing Baron Blood.

‘You’ll wait at table and serve the mead
And carve the suckling pig,
And feed the hounds at the hearth tonight
While your wife can show a leg,
We’ll have her dancing from dusk to dawn
Each knight can take his turn,
For Tamerlin pays your geld tonight
If she lasts from dusk ‘til dawn.’

Then Olaf looked at his Tamerlin
And he brushed away a tear,
But she looked bold at the Baron Blood,
‘I will stand the test, no fear!’
They helped to set up the feast that night
And they whispered soft and low,
‘If one should harm a hair of your head
I will ****, before I go!’

She put one finger up to her lips
And she whispered, ‘I’ll be true!
I’ll not be whirled off my feet by one
Who is half the man as you.’
She took a skewer and she stuck the pig
Right through to the other side,
‘I may be small but my heart is big
And I’m still your darling bride.’

The sun went down and the mead came out
As he went to feed the hounds,
The Baron called on a lute to play
From a doorway to the grounds,
Then Tamerlin had begun to dance
And sway as she said she would,
Her dress had swished on the earthen floor,
Out where the Baron stood.

The knights were steadily getting drunk
And the Baron stood and swayed,
‘Now hitch that dress to your waist,’ he said,
‘If you want your geld to be paid.’
She dropped her eyes and she blushed, and cried
But she lifted up her dress,
To show the legs that were short, deformed
And the Baron laughed, no less!

The Baron laughed and the knights had laughed
At the legs of Tamerlin,
She dropped the dress and she burst in tears
And she cried, ‘You’ve seen my sin!’
They didn’t ask her to dance again
But they drank until the morn,
Then fell about in a drunken swoon
As she lay apart, forlorn.

A silence fell as the sun came up
When she rose and took a skewer,
Walked to the sleeping Baron, and
She ****** it in his ear,
She ****** it in til it came on out
All blood on the other side,
‘You won’t be laughing again,’ she said,
‘Or shaming Olaf’s bride!’

They took a skewer to every knight
And they did the same to them,
In, and out at the other side,
A Hall of skewered men,
The waters, they were receding as
Her head, in pride upheld,
Remarked, ‘It’s time we were leaving,
We have truly paid the geld!’

Nightingale was a hunting lodge
That sank in a sea of mud,
You’d have to dig right down to find
The body of Baron Blood,
The woods grew up in the pasture fields
And covered the grisly tale,
Where lovers walk and will cease their talk
At the song of a Nightingale.

David Lewis Paget

Parable Megaron Dodeká Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin, and acrobalistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and his six Para Sinuses appeared who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling in the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes, in twelve Swords that multiplied in advance by thousands, before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant and virtual dimensions, foundation lines, acrostics of Thessalian steeds on their palfrey, mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve armor wings with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was skewered in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands, they carried the curved sword Szabla, to conceal the tacit target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical-unknown enemy but if outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed on the impulses of deadly resistance and betrayed ancestry. On the roof that pointed to the southwest, the light of Orion was reflected by aerial forms of the Orpheum in the Aegean, riding on the high seas with the Exvotos or offerings of Cyclamen and Red Poppies, looming in majesty and in their nomadic obtuse compass of the Rapsodas Orpheming epic elegies, of those venerable and revived triumphs that were stretched out on the banner of glory and on the bed of epiphany.

Rapsoda proclaims like this: “In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags, in our steppes harassing their wailing in blood wars, framed in large sections on the thresholds of the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk"

How much there is to be fed up in the Polish cavalry of the seventeenth century, that, upon glimpsing of barbarous sounds, the temple approached the altar of the Virtual Megaron, shining in acquiescent ceremoniality and counter-revolution of bloodless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortals- living creatures, who posed in the rear of twelve thousand slain officers in Katyn Forest, like gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here, in this place, the winged horsemen, snorted were by fate when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions galloping on their heads and sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with their lion and tiger breastplates with deterred claws.

Procorus, observed in the virtuous imaginography as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron, in a battered super existence and trance of historical architectural pavement. Here on Patmian soil, each of the officers who was assisted by each Polish cuirassier of the 17th century with fierce wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there in their likeness, with interwoven discrepant blood fogging and executing apocryphal witnesses who covered their faces, overflowing evasion and delays of bodies stained with mourning and grief, in quilts of red poppies scattered and bordering a naive disarmed forest. On exalted memorandums and with secret cries of Adrastea procreating with the nymphs of her kind, they drowned the cry of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing on their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of the putrid hopes, of those who beat them for the back, in analogous vexation to Katyn's heroes. Here neither Crones nor Mother Rea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for their backs; unburden them of the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise up, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head, in the manner of twelve thousand Winged Horsemen caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed at the waist of their head, not being expired by bullets, rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors that would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies.

“The red and fiery mist of the forest led the souls of the Hussars to pass through the sabers of their compatriots before they were slain by the Soviets, so their apostolate souls will be catechized by Zsablas of air stained of Red Poppies turned into the air of respite from the heroes of Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden-Winged Horsemen of the 17th Century ”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard and differed in the volatile and explosive sabers metals, at present they were extinguished in their crooked breastplates and in their Polish beings, in the rear that finally Procorus settled them in warps of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies crossed by their forehead, before being shot in the cortex and occipital lobe, forging themselves in the golden sabers and of transvestite cenobites who received them in their arms in the sublime stench of the effluvium of their blood and their hosts, never left and desisted of the bubbling by the figures of the acroteras near the Megaron, idem in the same Katyn Forest, surrounded in a string of the Rosary that was splendid in Procorus prohibiting them)

He turned around and looked at me
And his vision made me sick
So I ****** his eyes out of his skull
And skewered them on a stick

Roasted on an open flame
Turning evenly to toast
Hoping as his pupils pass
It's me he sees the most

Tongue chewed from within his face
No screams of discontent
He tried to say, "you're beautiful"
But lies on the tongue ferment

His rancid meat is useless
So I feed it to the worms
Now, wasted words are gasps for air
And no longer my concern

He tried to write, "I'm sorry"
With fingers drenched in blood
So I chopped them into pieces
And spread them through the neighborhood

So as I whispered in his ear
Of all his evil ways
I saw that bitter molten tube
Grow solid as it swayed

So I ground it into sausage
While it was still attached
And wondered, quite in passing,
Why unto me he chose to latch

So here we are me and my feast
And him bleeding on the ground
As buzzards rend the flesh from bone
With me laughing at the sound

frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present

most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
      these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
  that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises

he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones

he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation

splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute

From the skies came the howling screams
And the malevolent weather
Casting the hands of shadow over my world
The loveless giants and slack-jawed executioners
Laughing and drooling over the wicker baskets
Filled to the brim with severed heads
Faces frozen in the final moments of their
Demoralized longevity

While the others
The innocents and deceivers
Hung from the peeling trees
From their necks
Their bodies swaying with the
Winds of the howlers; the hoarders and rising dead
Ravens and winged monstrosities feasting on the
Available tissue of those left behind in the dusk
Of lesser men and greater demons

I wept and cowered like never before
In the swelling, audacious fields of fallen brothers and sisters
The air was moist
The earth was damp
I pulled the black garments of butchered priests
Over my coarse back
Covering my punishment from the eyes of God
And his Angels
His divine bystanders
And jealous endeavors

Draped in the cloth of the papists  
Drenched in the accumulated fluids of the slain
I wandered the wastelands with no name
No home
No family
No soul in the moment of sought mercy

The drying of blood and tears hardened the stain cloth
Against my healing body
Pulsing and throbbing over my senses
Turning me into something more
A vile and vengeful entity
Walking among the land of the dead
A ****** of my sanity

Through the cascading water dripping from the sky
Souls and ghosts of the battlefield
Clung to me, touching my feet and hands
My path was followed by the impaled
The disemboweled and the murdered
For the name of such clerical disambiguation
Promising to be absolved for the crimes against His name

I wandered from the true path

I came to the cliffs above and looked over the carnage
Of a 1000 warriors and people all sewn together
In the skin of the earth.

Riding a phantom steed over the trampled bodies
Clad in otherworldly armor
And sweltering chains
The Horsemen of War walked
Among the covet children of his wrath

Not even knowing if I still roam the land of the living
I proceeded down from the cliff
And approached the Rider of War.

His crimson helmet hid his face.
Horns protruded from his brow
He carried a blackened shield
and a fiery Sword crafted from the pits of Hell

Striking his sword into the mound of dead
Rivers of blood soaked into his blade
It fed off the butchered, the murdered
The mutilated, the skewered, the molested
The sodomized, the swallowed, the reaping
The cowards, the fools, the thieves
The liars, the transgressors, the headless
The victims, the prey, the engorged
The envious, the gluttonous, the wrathful
More and more of the blood, the souls and the mess
Collected and gathered into the sword
Feeding the beast, the instrument of war
Fueling another plague of sinister dismemberment
On a once green land of kings and sires.

I picked up a walking stick from the woods
Walking through a darkened world
Where another noble shall claim me
As his moniker of death
In service to **** more men
God’s children
Mother Earth’s children
Who rip a part of each other with metal and teeth
Against the palms of titans and angels

All gambling on our victory or defeat
Where lives and words are mere tokens
It is not our lamentations or penance that is counted

Can I bear the attrition of my own nightmares?

Clad in the shredded papal garments
Soaked in hardened blood

I shall roam and absolve.

Whoever is worthy
In the bleak war of man
And his End.

The smoke circled halo,
Bent smiles and summoned demons,
Brimstone come a reverent silent
And obeyed sort of way.

I let my left eye avoid.

I’d let my right dream,
As I munched skewered calf,
Innocent, slaughtered, salivated
And my only excuse – Survival.

Toe-to-toe with
Home-field advantage
I nodded from shadows
To the one who scented venom;

Lace tucked slightly thigh,
She’d wink and hours later,
The demon would meet the Devil
And she’d devour –

All I’d known,
All I’d ever know
And all we’d ever be.

The sadness continues and hilarity ensues:
With a close eye on the test tube, I burn down my venues.
Foxes and diamonds from the cancer within you
Grace my ****** health with phrases that spin you and
Body-parts scattered beside collapsed ladders with
Hair torn and tattered and dog jawbones shattered,
Deceived by a tarot-card-reading man with a hook hand
Who said the scam was a means to increase public demand
Before walking through sewers to see old friends skewered
On trees made of wire with leaves like computers
From Silicon valley rejects who were top of their classes,
Oblivious to the fact that they're dead to the masses,
Who only want cellphones that tell them their names,
So they can remember who they are and from whence they came
And how old they will be on their final birthdays,
When sunlight and skies will be fluorescence and X-rays
And children will tell all their mothers to die slow,
Because they're looking for something more loving than "I know
How much you hate yourself and the world surrounding
Because the applause at your funeral won't be resounding,
Plus your father loves alcohol more than your sister,
Who you may not have known, had your father not missed her,
Which is why all the walls are covered in blisters
And there are cat's eyes and hands peering out of the ******,"
To which there is no reply, save for incredulity,
For as we collectively die, you all put on all your jewelry,
Which was made by a child with no concept of labor,
Who gets less respect than sweater-vest wearing men in the paper
Who get there by switching the flow and catching the vapors,
Like sentient parasites or intelligent tapeworms
Who tell me it's unhealthy to meet someone and hate her
Simply because when I look at her all I see is the savior.

I

At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand

what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows

ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.

being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,

My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise

just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace


II

And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly

The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent

pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.

The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right

My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether

spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise



III

At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple

Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid

want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time

Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane

said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty

Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight

Light; form shadow; cast shadow
and it drags on, and on.
Across the ridges in the marbled concrete,
like the dark hiding behind, until the light ends.
What is it like, to have your head

separated from the rest of you,
and cast to the side? Like the head
of the Afghani citizen, skewered
on a rock by the barbarians who trudged
through, and ended the light of the unarmed.

Casts for crayfish, to sew their claws
back on so they may hold their heads
up high into the dimming light,
as Canada steals the sun away.
Bridges for peace and walls
that break between river and canal

where teenagers row, stroke after stroke,
down past dead deer and graffiti.
Where the two Puerto Rican brothers
hid the pieces of their mother in garbage bags,
after they chopped her up,
like minced vegetables. He said

the helicopter hovered
feet before their boat, while black
plastic bags rose from the depths
filled with carbon dioxide made
from decomposing flesh.

As my hands danced across his back
I told him I walked along that wall
to watch fireworks, or catch glimpses
of a weasel that lived within the rocks.
The wall was not built for the disposal
of mothers,

but for the seagulls. So that they can drop
their prey against it, until the shells crack
and their warm innards
are spilled out upon it
like the hot Afghanistan sand.

The spout
Of the battle
Shouting
In inconsiderate
Babble about bling
While i'm saddling
My steeds
Manning the machines
And breathing easy
Before i speak
Clearly to your dreams
Interjecting the theme
Of the losing team
Cheering in victory
Snickering in mockery
I remarkably sing
In drowned out tones
And zings
And i'm gonna be
Everything you been
In a week
And its weak
That i win
And you grin
With your arms up
Hooray!!
But you lost today
Too dumb to know it
But showin it
To everybody
Rhyming
Isn't about money
Its about diction
Metered rhymes
And harmony
Arming the
Alarmingly
Disarming memes
Of scattagoried kings
Euphorically
Seized
In the lean
Of delivery
Creativity key
The breezy
Sleezinous
Sheened
In the has beens
Gassed up
Gin drunks
Grunting whats
In response to love
Callin bluffs
On the tuffs
Of your huffs
And shrugs
Whatever punk
I got a foot on you
And your ****
On my side
Talking over you
Until you shut
Out the light
With your mouth
Over your eyes
And your house
Of flies sized up
In tough love
And shoved off the shores
To the unexplored oceans
In the notions
Of severed portions
Aborted with a snorkel
In the cortex
Of Oxygenated
Brains showing you
A thing or two
So ******* vein
Watching you strain
To speak
To breathe
To think
When your ready
Il be brief
A pat on the back
And declaration of king
Before you bend over to be
Blessed by the best
In this contest
Im tested
Only of my patience
In the vagrancy
Of your empty words
Freshly matured
In manure
Skewered
In the lured
Obscurity
Muraling
The masterpieces
Stealing thesis-es
With the soul content
Of cheeseless pizzas
Sauceless in the lossless
Belligerence
And im tempted
To kiss
My fists
And commence
To smash out the comments
To astonished onlookers
Booking for Brooklyn
When im shooting
Blood across the pavement
With fury of a patient
To fairfax and back
To break the bones
Of your home
Set your soul apart
From the heart
That pumps lumps
Of *******
From the start
Of your every sentence
Ill take two seconds
To count on your blemishes
To settle this
In nubbish
*******
Stumbling
From a kid
Im only kidding
In my giving a single ****
Get with it
The mic is yours
And ill freely admit
To being bored
Here you go

....

“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.

Write me a melody.
Nothing too simple, though that’s what you lead on
Building a bridge over a lake of fire
Ah!
If only fire could swim
Grilled fire on a side of living gargoyles.
Forked tongues shoveling rice,
And chicken,
Into a newly refurbished brain.
Does it burn?
All the seaweed and hackneyed
Washed up krill,
Burnt up, skewered, and caught in the nets.
New mesh scales
Mashing mesh sha shooting into the skin
While the sun circles
And the animals follow and dance
Preying themselves into everything you’ve done
As though you’ve done anything new.
Like addition multiplication,
Surely you’ve done all of that.
A tear in the paper
And you’ve spilled the white out.
What a mess.
A great tear in the universe
Arranged.
Separate colors of
Grass and sky,
The trees and sidewalks form into one.
Everyone adjoined and nothings lost
Because even this idea has a partner.
What a lovely
(shattered)
Dream.

Once at the end of the song
I conquered many evils of the past
I purged them all, so wrong

Fine and well, a time it went along
Never asked a prickly question
Once at the end of the song

But they knew, their hurt could prolong
Upon my direction and then fester, so
I purged them all, so wrong

Patience tested, mind paused, strong
Resolved to end their laughter, yes
Once at the end of the song

Told to ignore, forget, to just belong
No, their first move invited mine
I purged them all so wrong

I skewered their legacy, twist and oblong
Their faces, masks, veils of evil
Once at the end of the song
I purged them all, so wrong

Flame-licked wantons chase
Skewered scorpions
And tofu-tossed blood
To the echoes of heroes howling
“Gambei!” (“cheers!”) and a
Smoke stained Huacheng Road.

Like a scribe before the oracle,
I tuck atop hydrant,
Squatting in an unfamiliar scene
And allow this ink to sink atop paper;

An artist, not so much, but a dreamer
With firecrackers for brains
And brains for the scene
And sense of it all –
I could get lost in this madness;
I could fall in love with this madness.

A cold place
(long hallway, dying breed)
paints itself warm with
the contagions of
skewered cerebellum.

A void of frame
shows a warmer, longer
hallway, with monochrome pillars;
opens up into charcoal sky:
painted by the charcoal eye.

Yet, fear –
later, below a wooden cross,
rests the screaming of a thousand
souls.


I SHOULD FLEE

Escape is not an option.
It has me;
the color has me.

Should I have realized
All that, looming over your head
Leaving a bright, luminous trail of enrichment
Skewered at the end of the longest famine in history,
(Everything dies and somehow
Never stops taking away your deaths)
And endless depths,
Was never mentioned in the volumes
Of the black books
Stored on the shelves
Of the libraries of Hell?

Should I have realized
That the flood and all its filth
The crumbled bodies and crumbled souls
Were kneeling at the doorstep
Of everybody's waking eyes
And everybody's closing minds
And the entrance to your world?

Should I have realized
That all these angels,
All these demons
These tangled webs
These newfound freedoms
All living seperate lives outside your reality
Were all essentially and undeniably
Cleared of all charges and metaphysical transgressions?