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: Beacon

Hollow artifice, ironically surrendering, seriously

stationing paper doll houses, slinkily pointed snakebite

venom of eternity, puncturing the platitudinous

anchors chaining patriarchy, stone faces, mountain hollows

frakked for gold and frankincense, under the glower

cloudless blue forever, until it burns to see

what’s being done, that it is nothing until tomorrow

tornado sharks raining, spin one eighty

jesus christ it’s almost here, unstoppable endings.

 

Fear the fathomless hope, haunting dreams

whistling horror head holes, wicked banalities

whisper “never” sweetly, to be ignored

forever, fight with a smiling fist, into the mirror

frowning falsehoods, discover the dawn break

exterior startling, feelings dazzle the drunken

heart breakers, flash the bro faces blind

stumbling over footstools, existing as a hurricane

lighthouse unmoving, point the way to the soul.

Poem: Beacon

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

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: The Morning After

The time is now, that much is certain

to everyone, for everyone, too

much is certain, stores running short

of confidence, seeing the past and the future

superimposed, something must and is

happening now in people’s exploding

minds, afire and that’s all it takes

to start a real revolution, the revolt of the revealed

tearing everyone’s blinders off.

 

Or, spit on the ground, cleat it

with steel, make a stomping splash

sound effect, goose-stepping

our discarded hopes, forgetting the ancient

wisdom seeping up again

from the dirt, feasting on death

as flowers eat the sun, every factorial cataclysm

shows that the sky is higher

than ever, before we finally see

god, the devil and a rapturous war.

 

More than likely neither, of course

because whatever happens, the heart beats

like nothing, it lasts forever

as far as you know, in the end

it will come too soon, so justly

we wander on, taking what comes

clean and dusted as best

we can, say yes half-heartedly

again, but not for a while.

Poem: The Morning After

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: Childhood

In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood