let me tell you how it all happened

they'll tend to tell you bullies caused it
or that everyone has the same experience
and it starts because
other people
forced it to

but what i have to tell you
is that i did it to
myself
i'm a turncoat
to my own flesh

i would look in the mirror and see
a gut
and suddenly
that was all i could see

no matter if my calves were toned
or my arms were sticks
i saw that gut
or my
curdled thighs
and that was all

so i'd say i wasn't hungry
or i'd "sleep" through a meal
and i'd work extra hard at practice
pretend i wasn't always run down

and even if i'd pass out
or struggle to stay awake
i'd pretend like it was sleep
i was depriving myself of sleep

and you know that cycle
in every anorexic girl's story
where her body bloats before it thins
because it's trying to protect her

i went harder in that stage
so i could lose the weight that made me a 2
instead of 00
and i would cry myself to sleep
because i was in pain
mental
and physical

but i couldn't stop the
taunts
i gave
myself

my dad would tell my friends
to make sure i would
eat
but i never listened

and now i look back
and see my former shell-f
a self that had no self
a self that was only

a shell

a turncoat

anorexic

What’s your poison, Judas?
Manhattan! I find myself now an integral component of the strangest coalition of strangers anyone could possibly imagine, from all different countries and backgrounds and walks of life, now wandering about, underneath and in and out of the streets and back alleys of this city of sin, from the fish markets to the brothels--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Irish Coffee! Never before has there been a better time to wake up, fling open the shutters of the musty, ancient houses on Main Street and smell the gorgeous plainness of the morning breeze in spring laced with simple undertones of violets and honey and dew all contained in a material essence of the awe-inspiring wonder of this perfect, elegant world--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Sidecar! Here I am riding with the king of kings to the great stone castle atop the hill with the peach trees and the plum trees and the juniper bushes out back that holds luxurious ***** in the luxurious ballroom every Saturday evening where all the loveliest of girls come to drink and dance and to rendezvous to the frozen pond on the edge of the property--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Old Fashioned! Those smug supercilious charlatans way down by the river at the old boys’ club with their tailored suits and their waxed mustaches all get mighty offended every time some young gun with an hopeful persuasion tries to stir the ***, tries to just start a ripple, dips his raw, gentle hand in the bowl for a measly ******* second--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Planter’s Punch! You’d think that we were common thieves by the way that we’ve been received lately, brutally being beaten like insolent slaves, earning scars on my back and my hands as punishment for speaking my mind, and sharing the wisdom I’ve been given while I toil in this unrelenting desert sun, hungry, poor and fatigued--

What’s your poison, Judas?
French 75! Tormented by the cruel pangs of doubt in the face of adversity, I wish day in and day out that I could keep the faith in this enterprise I had when we first began, but the suffering has become simply too miserable to bear any longer and I now feel a tremor in my bone marrow that urges me towards the rebellion on the horizon like a yellow-bellied turncoat--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Whiskey Sour! The air may be cold, and the winds may whip with biting fervor, but with every breath I desperately drag into my heavy, tar-coated lungs to cleanse myself with icy purity this bitter taste still refuses to surrender or concede, and my villainous mouth remains a moist, infectious cesspool harboring the basest of vicious, vile vermin and crawling roaches--

What’s your poison, Judas?
****** Mary! You could scrub the callous palm clean off of my left hand with a hideous clump of rusty, jagged steel wool and wash the wound through and through with vinegar and Borax and this cursed, godforsaken spot on my conscience and on my very soul wouldn’t fade a half of an inch, only sink itself deeper in the flesh and shoot out its brutal clawlike hooks--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Jack Rose! The sorry ******* ******* was doomed, ******, destined for the doghouse from his first innocent and infantile breath, but after thirty good years I had to be the unlucky one the powers chose to fulfill the predictions of the powers' sons, I had to put the leaded bullet in his bleeding back, I had to pull the devilish trigger, and testify--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Last Word! Is there nothing you can do to please just take it far away from me, where I can’t see it, where I can’t even imagine it, where it might as well not even exist, where someone who needs it can have it, where that someone is anybody with a lick of morality, anybody but a back-stabbing, treasonous, perverted, weaseling, ****-of-the-earth Benedict--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Wine with gall.

The living legend is ****** into a rut of pining for his splendid playwright
She was his everything
A new breed of woman
No societal entourage could compare
No jovial jubilee could top her
Her humongous measure of perplexity
Her grace
Her charm
Her mystery

He now despises himself for this moment of nostalgic weeping
The mucus makes it hard for him to breathe with his deviated septum
He looks for something to alleviate his sniffling
And eviscerate all his emotional anguish
Nasal spray and bourbon
He can breathe but the alcohol only exacerbates the visceral issue
And dampens his already flaccid spirit  

Clouted with the disheartening reminder that it wasn't all her fault
He fumbles with the bottle while retracing the event in his mind

"It was the golden age of bronze metals"
"She was asked to do as she was told"
"A white lie"
"A foul up"
"An accusation"
"An accessory to ******"
"Madcap ad libbed alibis and recounts verbatim"
"She turned on them, they killed her"

The bourbon was gone, his nose was stuffed again
Wheezing, gagging, crying  

What's the word for when a living legend wants to die?

Whirls of smoke have sidled our brains
Leaving emptiness
Nights of withering inconsequence
Tinted with ghastly strokes of melancholy wit
As we grasp for more, addicted
Believers in merriment, but to no end

Fooled. The past has gone
Ah! But we are stuck, bitter nostalgics
Laughing at the times past, when we strove
Happy, for entertainment,
And stumbled'pon narcotics
I feel I have seen the failures in our ways

We've no love like we did once
But you each remain
Staunch defenders, heads spinning  
Single minded in your quest
Sober you are morose, reticent
But what merriment is brought?

Why did I take this rending smoke?
For these tired looks, into nothingness
As we recede into bubbles of self-indulgence?
We disconnect, and throw away all reciprocity
As weeds paucity causes faces to turn yonder
Or to themselves in sadness.

Is it that we are dying?
Or will be be forever stuck, in this eternal stupor?

What can stir us from these technological wonders
That light our faces in our self-absorbed, transfixed stares?
With comfort paramount, and misery found
In repressed echoings of a warmer, better place, away
From the throes of competition fought with tooth and claw
For meaningless aspects

Far from the yelps of laughter
The endless, choked machinations
The giggles and dreams of helpless schoolboys
They are only found to us when **** is plentiful
Those days have receded, like us
Away from our sight and our thoughts

We don’t embrace the life we give eachother in company
As we could, no,
Stinginess and selfishness are first
We don’t create a sound
As much as we engulf others
In our stream of subtle consciousness
Is this what you wish for?
A world of these faces staring, cold, tired
Is this what you think of?
When you dream of some stoner’s Utopia?

Or does malice engulf us too much to look upon ourselves as we do others
With phased memories that act as barriers to progression
And our life.                                                            ­                                         My friend
Your flat face may turn from this to silent, personal mutterings
Of cursed levity
As you are cursed with a ghostly heart.
You should not utter a word of revile
Or turn yourself up in sneers

Trust in what I tell, with honest roused from my soul
And do not take it in passing
Like you so turgidly and heedlessly do all things
Crying hope shattered in these passing moments
With evil beyond compare,
Incarnate in your expression,

Do not, my friend
Look upon me with the icy malice of derisiveness
Nor with the shallow, empty eyes of hedonistic senselessness
No, brother, instead realize
With momentary individualism, the gravity, at least to me
Of these words. I speak morbid
Of my, our humanity, in our restless silence
And our uttered oaths and in our artifice of the tongue
And in all things that shiver my blood to even think of

If it is so that our acquaintance is founded on a passionate whim
On a fairy’s wing, on the smothered apparition of a dream
And not grounded in earthly brotherhood,
Reposed of efforts of the mind
Then this is the end for us, brother
For I will no longer cut my heart across this herb, turncoat
As you have, in its infirmity
And cold infer’nality

once we were one, so close
now turncoat in lakes of
oleander, creeks run poison
we two betrayed

what stolen ideal cast
in stone against her?
my anima still wants love
from me, yet twists on proverbial

dime

coats were rejected
colors negated, unflown
prisoner of tumble town
chained like a queen

a shanty wish disregard
so no wings, air of nonesuch
grace barrio color to fly

in my mind, sleeping
mariachis playing loud,
my anima rescued me

real,  such desert here
just my shivering id
skinned seal, bad memory

still hopeful still here
surely mi anima mi alma
will grant my dying

wish

I am the traitor of my anima

Entertained only by false futures
Our eyelids paint a peaceful projection.

But what is the weight of a turncoat's word
to six feet of earth's burden?

Straining tired eyes, the saints will smile
as the worms serenade us both to sleep.

I glimpse through the curtains
A flickering light,
And my imagination takes hold
On this stagnant spring night.

I fancy it a signal,
A call to something great;
It’s the start of an adventure,
The beckoning of fate.

When I investigate its source,
I know my life will change,
I’m in the beginning of a book
And my quest’s on the next page.

I’ll join up with a band of outcasts
To find a missing link,
There’ll be riddles for us to solve,
And an antagonist to outthink.

We’ll encounter many obstacles
As we fight to reach our goal,
Like a turncoat within our ranks,
Or an unexpected troll.

We’ll make camp along the roads we walk,
And dine on cheese and bread,
And our enemies will dog our steps,
But we’ll remain one pace ahead.

At some point along the way
I’ll discover a hidden skill,
It’ll be something supernatural,
Like the power of my will.

I’ll use it in the ******
For the ultimate defeat,
To overcome the opposition
And force them to retreat.

And we’ll celebrate our victory
Of evil overcome,
But our optimism will soon die down
As we realize what’s to come,

Our journey has reached its end
And we’ll be ****** aside by fate,
The world no longer needs us,
Now that we’ve accomplished something great.

The only thing that’s left to do
Is go back to where we’re from,
Back to unfamiliar lives
As the people we’ve become.

But when I finally get back home,
I’ll have nothing to regret,
I did what I was meant to do,
And no one will soon forget.

I made the difference only I could make,
And all is for the better,
I answered the call of destiny
And am no longer called its debtor.

I wish this were the case
In the reality that I’m in,
But another flash of light
Reminds me where I am.

Sitting in my bedroom,
As much in debt as ever,
Imagining that I was part
Of some life-changing endeavor.

I wish that fate would show its face,
And tell me what to do,
Even just a hint
Would be enough to get me through.

As I think back on my story
I see the light again,
And I wonder, if I go outside
Will my adventure at last begin?

Maybe this is it
And destiny chose tonight.
Maybe fate is waiting
For me to investigate the light.

Thank you for tearing into my home.
A gentle spirit contaminated by morbid waste.
Thank you dissolving my spirit.
An obsession culled by sexuality.
Thank you for restless thoughts.
My turncoat lover.

Hopes wreckage lays across the land of despondency
now the dominion of lost souls and broken dreams
for on the throne of hateful menace and blight to mankind
sits in the unspoken divinity of tidal times unfinished wars
and crawling by the feet of this turncoat angelical soldier
do the poets of suicidal tendency curse the day they were born

Above this dire land of nightmares scream mechanical hate machines
trading black thoughts into fumes on crimson skies of ****** ignorance
faithless knights kneel in submission and weep bitter tears
then on command gouge out their own eyes in total submission
all now is lost scream the heroes of ever lasting light
folding space making fast their unforgiving retreat.

Now this ravaged dying orb starts to shudder and shake
as do the last of the faithful who now communion do take
to the last they die standing on their feet
on the blooded cruel plains of utter defeat.


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Pumpkin faced, fang toothed witch
plump chin, fake tan, broomstick

nose with warts, chosen devils cohort
courting the goat, a shoat cutthroat
cavorting devote to the angel turncoat

tilted head back with the eerie cry 'halloween is nigh'
why she's dressed up 10 days early i'll never know why

She was a gamine,
an urchin and a recluse.
Tattered and waifish,
scrounging for some small morsel underneath a city bus.
Tarnished,
a lot like brass that's been exposed to water;
she's splotched.
Even whilst disenfranchised,
she carries some valiance hidden beneath her turncoat.
There is beauty in the loose pages she's giving to the wind.
She is,
and will forever be,
floating in the updraft of a sidewalk vent.

I was in one table with my enemies
like a laugh & a rant at the same time.
and yes it wasn't easy
to say words that never rhymed.

one bullet to stay sane
and two paddles in disdain.
there was no choice and hence
never possible, never the same.

at the back of the paper
are scribbles that told stories
like a dumb arrow,
to a wistful memoir;
acting like a tiny wit
to the hilarity of what to think,
on how to bear all that
transcendent and ostentatious fib.

a crazy quilt, a needle and a spindle.
to stitch beyond awkwardness,
and cut the insuperable difficulties;
but still you are not awake.

there's no turncoat
no fast cars, no boats
to rainbows & silver linings
for the black & white endings.
and round and round we go.
as the waves flush all the thoughts
like the room was as empty of guts.

the strings of uncertainties
I cannot speak of
or mourn for the next day
or whisper all the words I can say
just to ease the choke away.

Fire a blaze with a roar so loud, a fort
that keeps people away, vicious sort
with a corrupted mind, extort
the poor and needy, distort
the reality, the people retort
I am the bad heart, now they cavort
as I am no more, the fire fort
has done it's deeds, foolish people court
with imbecile intellect, contort
are their lives now accomplices are now turncoat.

echoplex
once obscurantist
now scrutinised in headlines
i'm beginning to feel ok
chaser after chaser to wash down sour sentiment
eviscerate the taste
turncoat
is there an origin?
split your infinities
shed your non-essential claws
embedded deep
broken umbrellas
my eyes look different
atlas falls in amongst the spectrum
lack of character
efavirenz, whitewater in apex
prophetic undertones
cold diffusables
soda left to evaporate
poured over CMYK
through tabloid idiocy
nonsense on stilts
into wormwoods faded muse
yellow collapse
there is a feeling
living game theory
a thought of paranoia
god send the dream
anechoic
salivate the ebb
neo-conservative laden draped production
phenobarbital
can't stretch for a smile
temporal need
bizarre cognition
i feel sorry for me
suffrage, occam's swollen belly
polish fear with a sum
the way of all flesh
shadowed contents entitled: from a to b
from point to point
you want to shift the position of power
there's no one there in the morning
at the foot of the bed
or in the mirror
believe your own fabrications
dial in doubt, dial out everything
we're exactly where we want to be
moulded in consumption
ivory and elephants
the right place
stark lines
compass to televise
triangulate our complacency
shower heads dripping with aspirin
floating corpse
burning ruins, stretched moans
agony suffice, burned out
stick to the skin
all i see is rebus
face bursts with allusion
ear full of maggots
a better tomorrow is a better today
talcum meditation
underhand rhetoric
you are an idiom to fundamentalist greed
partial differential
ignorant and flabby
you can catch me headfirst over a toilet seat
working for kowloon
red ties
men of lethargy, motivated voices
islet of langerhans, shock therapy
anosmia
niche downfall
an arc structure, waste product
halftone mnemonic
lick up my words
capsule, strict reflux
wretching on disappointment
i feel faded
my skin buzzes
tonguing a molar
push it apart
flashes of light
cramps
vestige of fragility
welcoming boredom with open forceps
i don't recognise myself
sponge fed schism
sleeping pills and ***** bath water
cotton tongued peristalsis
egg shells, nodding and a pint of clotted spit
verbal copulation
sprouting flowers from my dead body
feeling like a frayed knot
desolate compendium
shooting pains in my arms
no foresight
i can't get up
i'm busy
i just won't

The music roused something in me
That was asleep for so long
Every note of the song made me a traitor
A cheater, a hateful turncoat
For I thought myself impervious
To such lowly tempations of men
But in my hubris, I forgot of my flesh
That makes as falliable as any of them.

And to remember the time my heart belonged to her
She of caramel eyes and flowing brown hair
Holding my heart in so tight a grip
The beating of drums ******* that of what she held
My mind filled the void the distance between us made
As my lips craved hers to kiss
But in a frenzy, kisses turn to passions unbound
To make every inch of her mine, in her body to drown
To her undrapped form, a moment lost in time
The symphony of our ****** filled the air of night.



...
...
...



And now, temperance has taken hold
And a new love, her place
And while I love her indeed, exciment in life
It seems to have... Faded away
The love I thought my beloved has
Isn´t wholly her own
So long as the music plays I fear
My desires bubble and tumble
To give in to my lust.

confined to your own head, you might as well be a steam engine.
burning little holes in your turncoat.
making new friends in old dens.
masking proclivities.
barking at intruders like a dog.
what caused her, so many times,
to remove herself from the same line of thinking?
the man with the cocktails doesn't know,
but he knows the solution.
the solution to all life's problems,
to be imbibed and controlled.
the embrace for the embittered.
the fuel for the fire.
the stoke for the engine
the energy to keep chugging along at a good clip.

Anonymous is a funny name
for a writer on an Opt-Ed page.
I'd want a by line I suppose
if I were going to step on toes.
I know the President would glower
to find me speaking truth to power.
He'd say "You're fired!" on the spot
but I 'd have my  verbal parting shot.
Hashtag "Not Me" is all you hear
from senior officials who quake in fear.

Yet if computers can disclose
by close analysis of prose
what Shakespeare did or didn't write
I'm sure the identity will come to light.
I think the turncoat might be named "Dan"
but I'm not willing to take the stand.
Cory Booker, who knows the law,
still thinks it must be Kavenaugh.

Turncoat faith in work, in the old world
What value in your toils
Futile swear-words and broken shards of glass
Caught in your eye, put ‘em there yourself
But you knew no better

The world was an ugly, dismal place
But it was all okay for you
so charged to task and back
Every single day
Like any of it meant anything

But rise up the old world did
Intrepid race to innovate your
Father’s and father’s flaws
At once
All worth a ****
“It’s all worth a ****!”
Voices ringing in your cradles
Grandad Uncle Sam
a suit-coat conviction urging
GO
Wield for us the changing tides
Gotta believe in something anyway
Why not yourselves?

Adventist gene pool satire
Odd sciences in, only the ones
that God ordained to be
Capitalized
Identical regretful mug
You all wear it

They Bake A Cake
They asked if they could dabble in a bit of cooking.
She gulped said her prayers and counted to ten
They asked if they could steal the eggs while the hen wasn’t looking
So without delay and morals they whipped them away from the hen.
They were in a flap so that most of his stuff landed on the floor.
They had found the good butter and thick double cream.
Which apparently smeared everywhere including the door
While she  was relaxing and in a huge daydream.
She was in a good mood and was listening to Elgin
Barely keeping awake and had nodded off again.
They were searching the saucepan cupboard looking for a cake tin
When the door sprang open and in marched the old hen.
She shouted, they froze and she began to shake
They were struggling to find the right words to say.
They offered her some nice tea and a fairy cake
And they were devising a plan to get away.
They turned tables and said she wanted to bake
Thought that she could have bought the eggs instead
She said that there had been a bit of a mistake
But they went bright red and held their heads.
The hen ordered that her precious eggs be put back
And was disappointed they had taken them in the first place
They were discussing who should put them back
And the guilt began to show on each and every face
She said they were flippant and not thought it through
They were all gripping to death their handkerchieves
Now it seems they all thought the hen had gone cuckoo
But one stepped forward and said he was the thief.
Later on they both said they would go and see Mrs Hen
On arrival he dropped onto his knees.
The rest were wondering what their friend was up to again
and heard him begging forgiveness for stealing please!
“Well, you are a turncoat, what’s come over you”
They although that his situation is now rather bleak
and all gave advice what he could do
which was the topic of conversation for the rest of the week!

for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.  


Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******-up misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.

You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.

I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****.

Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day.  Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.

So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.

For words I’m lost
For the things I love the most
Don’t know what’s really in my mind
Don’t know what stuffs I may find

Once thought it’d be best to stay out of love’s way
Be it for family, friends & boys… But Hey!
You caught me just yesterday
And gullible me thought that this friendship would stay

Thought I had my last cry
And now, can’t run, cant fly
There’s no way out darling!
Really hat myself! Such a dork! A weakling!

Thought Ive been strong
Never had been so overwhelmingly wrong!
You crashed my walls
Tore open my bleeding wounds

How come I saw an angel in you?
When all you are is a script or two?
For all my hopes and dreams Ive lost
Because of the acting lady host

Now I cant find my way out
Trapped in a peace so loud
What have you done Oh distressed damsel?
Oh pitiful turncoat of a scavenger in a hotel?

You made me think I'm your wall,
I'm your strongest ally of all souls?
You told me I'm fine as I am!
But your eyes said I WAS nothing but a hopeless mime!

Cant understand your silent words
Your innocent eyes’ cost
You’re a hurricane
A tidal wave so disastrous yet plain!

Get lost now before I'm lost
Before its too late and I’d be bitten by frost
So, here we are quarreling
Let just stay from each other before everything gets confusing…

Standing here in the silents of days
I remember all the tears
yet so much now has changed
and you Orkian deus
I mean to destroy you where you stand

I save most of true and hard
so you will not pass by me
no no my most hated nemesis
I mean to win my fighter
on my vow I will destroy you

My brothers and sisters are the faithful
and as proud warriors we mean to fight you
locked in war again
you turncoat
who I thought was a friend

Oh yes we are outnumbered
but sweet Jesus we have trained hard
and in faith will defeat you
for what is one more battle scare
this is vengeance for the children of the stars



By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

She was winning!
She had the poor sod
on his knees,
one more tongue lashing
and this nemesis
would be vanquished!
Only...
he really wasn't
her enemy at all,
but in truth,
her most beloved.
This raging battle
had so swiftly
mushroomed
from such an innocuous start
your head would spin
(like a top).

A passing observation
fueling outright war,
but he valiantly waved
the white flag of surrender.
Suddenly victory
was not so sweet to her,
thus with sword drawn
and poised at his throat,
she called a truce,
and confessed, "forgive me, my darling,
I was wrong."
Pardoned she was,
and peace ensued.
One lovable turncoat,
she traded in her uniform
to became a cowgirl instead
(like on top).

General Tso.
The staple of the community
First we liked hot sauce.
Then we liked fried chicken.
Now we liked them married together
I mean, marinated together.

General Tso’s Chicken.
It is what is on every kids lips
When he goes to certain restaurants.
But I wonder about this General Tso
If he could be real.
He can’t be real.
Because I heard he fed his General Tso’s Chicken
To his men.
And that is how they named it.
I thought, then he must be a turncoat.
Judas Iscariot as general.
Because there is no way anyone can fight
With General Tso’s Chicken in them.

You don’t feel like taking up arms.
You feel like putting your arms down.
To lie down and sleep
As the enemy is charging.
And as soon as you finish eating
You feel hungry again.
I guess General Tso did his job.
The question is, for which side?

They devoured it,
Romping through city streets in esteemed cliques
Touting handheld devices and filming it
Their probosces twiddling for a taste of sweet, disappointing fame

My generation's appetite makes me think about all they want,
Not in terms of conscious thought but chemically what they want
Like society wants to fall apart, like the body wants to die

Because their desires can be so shallow

(In a deeper sense, what do we want?)

Or perhaps desire,
Perhaps LIFE is not so deep, because
Hippies and beats are made into silly time-wasters
Lost dreamers in the dust of trap artists
16-year-old business moguls and social media stars
Famous drug dealers
And turncoat social climbers

Because it feels good.

Shallow as a knife's edge, they cut through reality
Perhaps even taking into account the suffering (we are all the suffering after all)
But dismissing it with a cool suave.

I pause for vain guesses at the life of some destitute person
And consider how small are my efforts to help this mysterious soul.

He/him (ratty, scrawny,
and tetchy ugly villain)  
scurried into dark recesses of hermitage
averse to cavort, frolic, inure himself
into the duplicitous schemes
capitalized, glorified, popularized

courtesy vanity of **** sapiens
lest imp of the pervert
already sacrificed as renegade
hashtagged heretic condemned
without merciful intervention
after being duped into capture
subsequently broadcast viz TikTok,
when turncoat quasi nincompoop

kook Harmet Harms
kickstarted, *******, and blurted
out hideaway of sought after perpetrator
to burn (no small potatoes) at stake,
but fortunately falsely accused
unbound against immolation
and reprieve jumpstarted, issued, and hissed
eleventh hour granted clemency

commuted death penalty
criminal sentenced solitary isolation
rat infested dungeon
housing convicted prisoner
ultimate crime and punishment
(decreed as non establishmentarian)
doled out after protracted proceedings
courtesy amazing graceful puffed dragon
unwittingly delivered merciful respite.

After being shackled hand and foot
then dragged into vermin infested cell
cowled ascetic (an exceptional escape artist)
busied himself disentangling restraints
and suppressed giddiness
when successfully free.

Off behind fake facade
walled in imponderable bedrock
dark passageways tunneled off
into unsuspecting chamber of secrets,
whereby amateur (he) brewed
exotic gaseous/ liquified potions
tumbled, gurgled, bubbled...
lethal skull and crossbones
labeled mixtures especially intriguing
adept alchemist expert
possessed sixth sense

intuitively discerning deadly
scorpion stinging poisons
abracadabra wizardry
magic spell cast
rendered, kindled, eased
tormentors severity relaxed
spellbound granted salvation.

Hence busily engrossed at makeshift laboratory,
our mutual (of Omaha) friend
did potchke with vials; every now and again
referencing ancient looking tome  
vaporous emissions served as smoke screen.

Hands of father time
painstakingly elapsed amidst
flickr ring torchlight
grotesquely accentuating
exaggerating ferociously
pantomiming silhouettes courtesy
hungry skittering varmints
hurriedly scurrying to and fro.

Artfully dodging explosive solutions
pretending shackles restrained prisoner
lobbed pseudo Molotov cocktails
kindly, loosely, and mutinously linkedin
liberal short (make believe) chain
leashed faux abysmal isolated confinement
former courtly poet,
who consumed prison fare
equalling bread and thin gruel
poetical, quizzical, and rational thinking
wrought eventual gladness!

Meanwhile elsewhere within
another complex edifice
Stormy (Daniels) reign
came and went
accompanying barren
cruel don, trumpeting
issuing expansion fiat
wielding, gesticulating, brandishing...
ironclad golf club spouting art of the deal,
whereby might versus right
simultaneously Putin on the ritz

song and dance routine
crooning Ivana mock up Earth,
especially figurative roasting statesman christened
Elijah Cummings, an American politician
and civil rights advocate who served
in United States House of Representatives
for Maryland's 7th congressional district
from 1996 until his death in 2019.

That oversized ego freezer
with pouffed hair,
who shall not be named
made abominable destiny manifest
regarding eminent domain
dominion, he forcibly
relocated natives to Cajun shelters
charging them admission fees
manumission granted serving
white supremacist conveniently optioning

kids as scapegoats
re: Deferred Action for
Childhood Arrivals (DACA)
labor away migrants
grunts passive pluperfect targets
no matter forbears indigenous
to America unfortunately

been man-date to bite bullet
within badlands of El Paso
meanwhile oblivious hermit aging
barnacle encrusted manacles
absorbing cumulative dampness
no longer granting resistance
to life nor limb
timely manumission lovely bones restored
swallowed potion frothing colorful brew
contrived exquisite firearms.

Ah redeemed character
(any resemblance between
initially mentioned unfortunate soul
and living persons purely coincidental)
mentioned at outset of poem
broached out Alcatraz replica
free and clear fresh air revived
fifty shades of gray

immediately sieged moment
weakly hollered carpe diem
elixir imbued immunity
against taken hostage at gunpoint
freedmen impressed into service
while waved magic wand
whereby enslaved women
retaliated hashtagged misogynistic
took appropriate revenge
as apprenticed warrioresses!

The following fictitious poetic vignette attempts a feeble tale of one ordinary day in life of anonymous miscreant.

"I don't give a ****
about my bad reputation."

I haint never done nobody no harm,
nor did any animals
(code word for other gang members)
get injured or killed
in the making of a video
(our lingo for done deal).

A decoy police officer
(one named Sergeant Smart)
pretended to be a drug dealer.

Turf wars made clear
the domain each mini kingpin oversaw.

Our base, which included
drop outs, whose parents
did not give a fig whether
their son lived or died
(got pitiless date with death)
drove motive to act truant
or commit a serious violation
warranting expulsion
generated a buzzing business
for social services field attending minors.

Thus here we were at our "den",
when this officer (dressed
in plain clothes) wanted some
(even just a dab) smack.

One badass dude of this pack
nicknamed "Hen Owes"
usually tried to "sniff" out trickery
when a new bro showed up out of nowhere.

Me and the boys could “feel vibes”,
and sense an infiltrator, sleuth,
or simply traitor,
(which last mentioned
a real impish whinny *****),
when we immediately see him.

Between ourselves, we exchanged
specific non verbal signals
if someone ratted on us.

Thar haint nuttin worse getting duped.

A posse member
(if found out got pole axed for revenge).

Usually the beans already spilled
with a caper on our tail,
but the ragamuffin who tattled
would pay with his life.

At this instance, I felt trapped.

No doubt flaunting law groupthink
and figurative cohesiveness
exhibited obvious signs of defeat.

Once no escape in the cards,
each "coyote" barked, howled,
and jabbered like any other teenage punk
when outsmarted by authority
decorated figure head honcho.

A hair brained simultaneous idea
lit up all our brains too ****
this menacing enforcer of the law.

As if on cue, the beefiest beastie boy
sucker punched, and pistol whipped,
and kicked in the groin this ******,
who lied thru his teeth.
      
They all did!

We knew that.
    
The unmarked car
the mutilated body mortally wounded
with a couple/few token gunshots
for good measure got stuffed
in the trunk of the vehicle.

Already headquarters triggered
the slain global positioning satellite
to track location of this rookie.

We subsequently found out,
he attended the same hell hole high school
some years before we
plugged, plotted, planned
to bomb the **** building
to kingdom come.

Since the moniker
"bad company" linkedin
to every f**k'n trouble
maker and threat
to other students in general
and homicidal maniacal
reputation in particular,
thus gave us bragging
(cachet **** reputation)
rights in this underground
world wide web of all gory
blood lust and violence.

Live to be freely mean and die,
or a nasty, short and brutish life
found most every day a shooting gallery.

A temporary bond meant nothing,
(or meeting the barrel of a gun)
if a turncoat wielded a loose silky tongue
spoiling opportunities
to mow down another body.

Shame
Shame
We the laughing stock of the world.
Many knew it.
Many, many knew.
Fools in charge don't follow protocol.

Bill Clinton, if men were honest about themselves.
They would accept the thrill he got.
She was an adult.

From all aspect, he didn't pay for play.

DJT, must not have game if money was the trick to get the chicks.
Makes you wonder about all his marriages.

Now here we are?
Looking at a disgraced liar trying to be a star.

Whether he goes?
Whether he stays?
We more aware he can't hold the legit news the blame.

He made the bed and must rest within it.

Don't hold his turncoat partners the blame.
If pushed to sell them out.
DJT would have done the same **** thing.

Now here we are?
Wondering about the outcome.

You succeed.
In laws of three. You will find the peace you
Wish to believe exists but for now is hidden under heaving fits of painful death, a test to draw out that which never minds rejecting the demands of other beings
Hammer under nail, no compare to restless privy minds slowly counting time until the new tragedies arrive.
Release your hold of pieces calling out for pain to pair once treasured memories. Now staring out with infectious longing, ready to be looked upon smirking and expectant the turncoat thoughts revel in the task at hand. Their assault starts as soon as the thought is called
Aftermath
Released to the gravity, by themselves they fall apart
Into place, covering flesh torn with sympathy
Released from beasts that grit their teeth in painful defeat, as, yes,
you rise to your feet, Torn to pieces, yet completely at peace, distant memory terror dreams distort to bring chaotic memoirs of cataclysmic merriment.
You utilize the pieces to assure your release from pains prison to pleasant pastures. Please just remember never obey the masters. Create sarcastic narratives pledging senators to heretics. Don't trust fantasy banner ******* brand name Promoters. Lœsers leading children to sheep eye machîne, specially crafted master adapters hard wire minds to the one percent agenda, intuition driven minions giving men to temptress, hoof to fenthris, dope to misfits, coke bottles to **** maker accomplices driven awkward and subsequently dove off for bottom place.
Freebie

I mote it. Be recieved with sight conscious of that which truth and wisdom delight.
Everfolding hands coalesce in geometry of design, symbols to be applied to help those who can't live. Honestly.
A prophetic glance manifests what this prophet percieves within this mess.

This species will mirror the mentality of the dust
It's depths a source of nourishment and plenty to us, the rust
Will we find the hero to navigate the puppetmasters collective cluster conglomerate commissioning commonwealth copperpot penny peasantry meat, footwoorkin the fleet floggers, ambushing citizens in the streets with collars, brainwashing caverns codependent on caging the masses like sheep to slaughter.
"But if we'd known we'd scream and holler! I'd rise to protect my property, my guns, my freedoms, my rights!"
Right, no, I'm sure you'd fight, you'd obviously gather friends to your plight, indigenous rage at the thought that the night would defend those evil shadow people encroaching on your ability to reason.
Shut the **** up, what the **** have you done to avenge those innocents of fate, unknowingly recollecting secrets of the state
Hate not flaking over city lake waters like mirrors hiding secrets well obvious.

Money & public resources alleviate proof of collusion simple doors of power hold new potential outcomes timed each revolution the little hand dares to travel. that of a sacrifice, willing or not, to help scare the sheep into buying as much of their stock, if your worried please do not, the flock will forget what they saw as soon as the image and story are gone.

Gotta be.

A solution so fitting it belongs in the movies, but that's how we forgot how to think, outside
For ourselves,for them, or the others
Rebelling as one towards sisters and brothers
*******, I need show my true face
Walk calmy down the streets,
Calm sure pace.
Talk macabre to the one's who own the fleets, spread the sheets to occupy the godhead, sift the merry morning stocks press against the current sea, then bust out enough to make me n mine a new currency.
Probably
Not so sore plot B soars blotting lenses before but not training more thoughts to war forescore before plot thickening remorse runs it course.
A new day in gotham city means unity throughout forgotten realms of hypocrisy. A cure-all demonstration that revels insanity for placid reasonably dressed persons composed, unfearing conversations of dominating resolve, stoicism spinning round professional mannerisms focusing on abilities that take the core of our rotten hearts and heal the waste, now it stays, hurting less sounds okay away from the corrupted hunting of weak willed pumpkins jumped over plummeting suns, all for one's been a worn out joke, once well spoken juxtaposed to unholy notions unnaposed sides take thrill **** maxxing to disastrous uprising in past the warcasters
Talked with the enemy over tea and brunch of tables shared only with tokens of luck, fliping thrice indicates which squadron lots gets iced.
Word gets out and like fire it don't take much for a war to sprout in the bogs of ire, but before it's allowed, the dog rise together finally to figure **** out, creating together masterpieces on earth to reoccur annually until our home is brought back to a state we continue symbiotically.
Fate to be

**** it all, the last of my regrets was all reasoning needed to keep breathing.
Something other than this wretch that I am
Existing for no reason but to help others pass the seasons with my singing