Poem: Survive

Brain storming idea flood, dropping in parts

perpetual dead eyed ubiquity, an albatross haze

chaining strangled instruction, interior chambers a-choking

hazard, pointed lavish amplitudes, scraping voice

rasping mutinous revision, mockery infused with petty

predestined inquisition, critical disquietude

formally veracious, pointlessly hilarious

sociopathic harmony, the world is but reason and death.

 

Fearsome future, fumbles at the goal

line segment, solitary abundance is a master

key molding missionary, Unbolt Kaiser the third

succession line straggler, pulling to pieces

protective parlances, demonic pandemonium

punch bowl poisons, guzzle gallons persisting

painfully oppressive, fritter away days of night

backhand parlor gaming, see the other side.

Poem: Survive

Poem: Election Day

Clear we are like like the sound

of singeing blades, through the tapestry

of life’s rich and poor, all are victims

all of us, simply, though there can be others

undoubtedly, steady philosophically, probably

reasonable, but who could tell with Ayn Rand

rousting people, because she grew

in extremes of injustice and horror, which arose because people know

their place, in the scheme of things

considered in wartime, but then they rejoice in joining

humanity’s final war, to join the elite.

 

The end of the world will not be supernatural,

it will take decades

beginning tonight, maybe.

 

Que sera sera, as they say

Poem: Election Day

Poem: Metronome

My name is death to traitors, and I cluster in the sun

with warriors and goggle-eye gangsters down for the fight,

ready to write the wrongs on pamphlets and show them

to everyone grabbing guns, emerging as the infinite army

maybe, so after the rules are even keeled and correctly directed

our army will flourish and crush oppressors into bad memory.

 

The king is dead, trumpets cheer fireworks, blood and bullets,

we will call this a death party for the backwash bossmen

because we know we’ll never see them again, not on top

anyway, or up from behind for their ideas have no traction

in the world they’ve created, or so we thought.

 

Corruption eats its own tale, horrifying instructions

of how to topple a dictatorship, read rule number one,

find a hero and raise him because the people will hear

what I tell them and nothing more, for revolutions must be

controlled to be effective, directed to be power force fortune..

Poem: Metronome