Poem: The Future

At bottom is a gulf between, each and every

soul bent apart, twisted pygmy, reading eyelids

inner night vision, grasping hopeless horror

overlong listing in slumber, bored building blocks

bastardize violence, besmirch baritone drawls

deeply resonant, like a tuning

fork in the throat, bleeding us empty, helpless

plaintiff stemming with chopsticks, humanity falls away

in modern times, naught to be done.

 

OR, the holy 2-letter bite size

spit bubble, opening trapdoor politics with a hammer

sickle and sinister thought, rising tides horizon

settling a score as old as time, versus confusion

fakery, swat the flies, kill the beasts, trample the protestors

on the capitol steps, as do what thou wilt

is the only law, if you can afford it, that is

factual forces farm, blood fertilizing the soil

with souls of sinners, we will dance, hopefully.

Poem: The Future

Poem: Writer at the End

Personified like a simile, for instance as an example

of some drunken reveries, lay bare the facts

pimpled and phosphorescent, amplified bass tones

burst a farting reality, unimpressive as hell

on a sinking ferry, spanish con men play baccarat

with millionaires, or whatever

the case may be, language is naught but squeaking

motorcycle mice plunging off a cliff on purpose.

 

So if poetry is poisonous, panacea for an unblink sky

masking truth numberlessly, rise up to the flood

stinking of sulfur pots, strangle the clown

booked for birthday parties, combat it with shit

in its eye, bubonic juices pour like tears

tearing down the blue yonder, as rats roll

poop into tiny balls, rhymes are the song

making slavery seem suitable.

 

What we do to get by, in this chain gang game

to sing from the soul, progressively of course

listing liberal leanings, manifesto’s of a lush

theoretical society, shangri-la was a lie

striven for of course, as only should be

like a puppy treadmill, a cuteness kaleidoscope

being shoved fitfully into a furnace.

 

They sound like sprung tires, popping a hiss

as the oxygen exits, wavering not on flat fatigue

over untrue wheel wells, gasping at fuel

fire in the air, fear in a mother’s eyes

will turn us back, but not soon sorry

fella, await a baptizing inferno shut-eyed

leg-shackled and blindfolded, what doesn’t kill us

makes for a novel future so take notes.

Poem: Writer at the End

Poetry: Frustrations

Helpless shitting, that’s what we call it

when you spew your poison, out into the air

with its fascist leanings, but you can’t help yourself

can you, malcontent squabble

that will be your disintegration.

 

Narcissistic poisons elegantly costume kings, evil as they are

already, flamboyant extravagances dance

chained by the neck together, torturing a cripple

like me, convinced of a sleepover

simple Simon sad son, bating hate.

 

The way it is, this is as awful as ever

and ever on it seems, I can barely remember

yesterday anymore, but before I know it

things will be normalized, but I wonder

if sky will remain, blue like fresh clean water

Poetry: Frustrations

Poem: Dilemma

It’s a symptom, not the arbiter

of the end times, we sing songs and scream

from chaos into whatever comes next, it’s a transfer like birth

glowing in gloried pain, it acts as a swamp draining

big shots believing nothing now, posting ideas they can’t see

the ground as it comes, an accelerated future

explosion through the wall, into and through your eyes

you will see weeping, idiots who don’t understand

looking into a mirror, horrified by the face

they make without knowing that we are all puppets.

 

I want to escape, but my prison is within

jeering and cackling, horrid and joyous

at once when we join the fray, blood in our teeth

tasting of silvery vengeance, count the walls around

on four sides, boxing you in, a sad world

where you find yourself king.

Poem: Dilemma

Poem: Guide

Don’t panic, never surrender, not once

in your life, can you see the flip side,

grading on the curve and grading the curve, itself in terms

recalling beauty and beautiful justice, seems like a torture

storm everywhere, go to the store

people watching like you used to do

on weekends at the mall, it’s like a hell mirror

for the soul, can be found chicken soup

in the smiles of children, until they’re erased by hypocrisy

incarnate in the birth givers, and stupid wrath

in mockery or downtalk, or straight abuse

like when your dad cackled coughing cigarette smoke in your face.

 

Beer-swilling idiot or whatever, we’ve all got our shit and deal

the cards when they’re asked for, but pulling a few

slight of hand slips from our sleeves, showing the Trump card

goddamnit, he sneaks in sideways

I swear to god, at a white wall

staring black, bright moon eyes block

the sun to nothing, but everything is a dip

of the sin curve, we’re all reading the signs

recording progress in revolutionary violence

of some say too much, making us pause for a recount

atrocity, sealing lips shut, close your eyes

for the love of god, we can’t watch what he’s made of us.

Poem: Guide

Poem: So Tired

Objective reality is a theater of shadows, we understand

renouncing desire itself, thirsty hope that the body

christ is a cracker, this is renounced reason, but it is not stupid

soul crushing complicity, it is praised possibility raising

a crowd surf politics, not one of us knows it is incorrect.

 

So void plane paranoia, I guess the answer is a kevlar vest

rumination, stitching verbs in the lining of everything

not tethered, knowing this is the only way, it seems as

though it cannot be so, defeatist feelings are not the sun

or the moon, clarity is not obstinate so there’s always hope.

 

Bare the body audacious, strip every opinion to the bone

revealing the truth of conscious, what do you see at the eyes

closed and twitching, if not a golden sunset, nightmares from within

have brought us here, so the solution may be likewise

dreaming a future, or just as likely not because of fatigue.

Poem: So Tired

Poem: Sorry Man

I got a message from the future

but it just said “sorry,” so what am I

to make of that for it’s just the same

as one carved in bark, REPENT

in capital letters is a posting

dystopia remnant, skeletal reality

offering no time to ponder

the past, beg your pardon.

 

For tomorrow is a sculpture

of the mind, much is imagined

fantasy stupor phonics, inspired

to wish it had been different,

but it can’t, so thinking lessons

never learn like this, instead

I need a book, but for what

do I search, to make sure

this never happens again.

 

No, obviously I could never

express regret, or feel it

for I can’t even remember

unintended slight insults

forgive me, I was dealing

with my own exile, eating dirt

as penance for forgiving

my sins, without learning

anything at all, too late.

Poem: Sorry Man