Poem: Dusty

I’ve never been real, I realized

too late, soul sucked, plastered flat,

surveying that this isn’t a game

anymore over and again, eyes on the horizon

thrust over, into and through, hear the birds

shriek of desperation, each call vital

audible survival, haunting hopelessness, for some

know doubt, starving in winter dusk

on a tree branch, desperate, looking without

seeing for hours, miles and ages.

 

Now to acquaint myself

with the truth, I will seize all the records

of those that came before, much may be

tattered bloody, waving lightly, wafting

breezy, whispering war

over candlelight, dim dusky deep dwellers,

loving the musk, drinking blood straight

from the source, of suffering springs a new

hope, so warrantless.

 

It seems, so anyway I am waking up

tomorrow again, next factorial stepladder

struggle of days, until it becomes life

which is death, always, we know this

don’t we?

Poem: Dusty

Poem: Down Low

Delicious, lovely happenings abound

around the area floating, if you look for them

in your imagination

that is, they reside on the slide

in the pride of losers clinging to each other

while the world changes behind their backs, again

just like before when it happened

to their fathers, grandfathers buddies cousins

boss’s bro’s and bandits, all of us a link

in a chain that knows nothing connects

really, which is sad

but only kind of, honestly.

 

Because Flavor is important, in all places

at once, preference being a fact of life

we express our spirits through, what we enjoy

is like a fingerprint, and could we catalog the world

in this way, as if compiling examples, or would our spirits be

like sand in water, or pliable

like Play-Doh fresh, and I think maybe all

simultaneously, meaning you could create

databases of libraries, so I guess it’s no use

considering impossibilities, but a sense is created

by what you’re a fan of, I guess.

 

All this is important because I am sickened

by what you people like, and this gives me comfort

unbelievably massive, cloaking all of us in a shadow

of spiteful noncompliance, is the consistent popularity

of 2 Broke Girls an eternal question

or just a fact, that most people are braying

assholes who think it’s funny to embarrass ugly people

in front of the others, which it often is

but still, you don’t wanna broadcast that shit

homie, gotta keep the devil

on the DL in more ways than one.

Poem: Down Low

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: Revolve

Sitting atop a mountain mouth agape and bright eyes

unburied so that I can see everything as it sketches through

the words of spambots crowded into contradiction machines

blurry the message and lead to infighting

about things like terms and various violent retributions

which amount to something like justice though who’s to say

in this ultramodern computerized Bitcoin battle royale

which we’ve surround ourselves in.  It is a choice though,

truth be told to the masses and a revolution will

commence or not and really I’m not all that confident

in the will of my brothers and sisters because I think

they don’t even know really what they are facing

and the way it can shatter their world to cinders.

Frightened and hunkered is the only way to live.

Poem: Revolve

Poetry: Nature’s Dick

Nature’s force blows, behind a wall of blather, and changes people’s minds

it seems.  Like a mule kicks a hole out, and passion flushes itself down

the toilet full of outcast opinions.  A “retarded” referendum, in our parlance

and his one would assume, when he speaks straight, his glory shines through

with blood and menace, as arena becomes the law.  He bids you gig awesome

in the spirit pit, which is where the magic happens, fortunes are won and lost

life is the prize of the fortunate, they get to wake up.  To wonder to what we wake

is called atheism and roasted, mercilessly stuck with sneers and smirking

assholes who think they know anything.  And he is their king, or would be

eaten in a night of drunken rage, for steering to catastrophe, or it could be.

 

Destiny shadows itself, dons a tragedy cape, tipping his cap and winking

plunging us to the artificial end times, because Jehovah’s not coming after

all we need is the impetus and it will be epic.  Humanity is endless genius

endlessly twisted and sadistic, mass producing pimps and protestors

and poets and politicians, and every time you find the exit, and you climb

to the top of an even bigger box, you find a new ceiling.  But maybe not

today Mr. Hotshot, sweeping away on angel wings, opening the kingdom

of hell and knowledge, it’s for our own good.  The name will become a symbol

of power and evil, but seductive and hilarious, making memories a million.

 

The tarp will ignite, crafting of its flame nothing, and the faithful are alone

with wildfire revolt, terror twisting in on itself.  I pray my predictions fall flat

farcical and grim, such as to recall starry eyed, refiling hope as a thing

in itself that must be protected.  Hope is like a goat in a thresher, dead

permanently over and over, for whoever is never the one, and the cycle

spawns a rote manifesto.  See that the sky is falling, give up everything

you ever believed and the world is yours, because it will no longer be

theirs, it will finally all be all mine, and don’t worry I’ll totally share.

Poetry: Nature’s Dick