Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Living in a boarded-up brothel, casting no aspersions

at all and ever on, or prayers to the holy

father casting judgement, for He has no hands to feel

eyes to see or heart to beat, being only

a fact of existence, that He’s done

what He did is a world worth living

for after all, I resent

the magic of it, the love expressed

among the infinite variations on one

three-chord structure, emotion seeped

in splattered paint, subliminally experienced

fractures of society, family and personality

existing as the background noises

of life, living is the background behavior

of death, whatever, the fact is

it’s fascinating to be alive, whatever happens

to this planet, so just pay attention.

 

While present, vigilance is warranted

for in the end, the truth,

it burns like a scar forever

joyous, horribly lovely

screeching pain forever, mangled organs

parade across bleating elephants

put butt-to-butt, but it’s funky

which is all that matters, because, joyful tranquility

is a salve, not a solution, the only option

available is a bullet, to speak truth

he loudest way possible to the powerful,

life and death being the only

things they understand, by the truckloads

we must die, randomly in tragic

happenstance or poisoned

by the groundwater blood, flood of death

come through merciful, hopefully

we’ll have made it count, in the end.

 

So if as we’ve surmised death is rendered

senseless by the fog, and our limbs could separate

at any moment, so to speak, or literally

because things that crazy have happened,

pointless chaos is the writ, but hope demands

clergy bound strong, chaining penitent

to the sky by their eyes is the way

to retain subservience, perhaps happy

songs jump to the ceiling, but as one

all dance alike in the church, into the future

without armor, knowing there is but one

way to be, hotshot, vulnerable

open and recording, for memory is all

that exists in the mind, malleably unreliable

as it is, existence can appear as a torture

storm or not, for the end is a mirror

of the past, showing that happiness

is a lie to yourself, until its not

behind you anymore, for it is always

there, just open the door to your soul.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Poem: Gin

I’m winning whether or not I know it, because

in the end I will have won, which is what we provide to all of us

the sense of victory, like deal-makers and carpet-layers

of the apocalypse, they will be remembered

by the forgotten, the agents of doom

planted in the ground, the artists unknowing will sweep

rendering all efforts fruitless, for only feelings alike thrive

as flowers at dawn, facts are like dust

in history books, specks might come

to be the seat of power, cementing expressions is necessary

facial stasis, for this fear of the heartless

craftsman is the highest ideal, for it is love

cowering from the threat of losing you, it is not weakness

O society, you darken the created day

with the sky falling, powerlessness provides a tonic

or mixing with liquor, pity and privacy

will be written down, remembrances of the past

as it really was, foggy.

Poem: Gin

Poem: Ceiling Sketches

On our side we are always leaving

no matter what, we know the facts

that you don’t, and they tell us the truth

of what we would prefer to believe anyway, the fact is that

we are, and we know it

as a horse knows a gallop, we know to leave

indentations where we tread.

 

But we understand, don’t make a mistake, you can’t

know we have your best interests at heart, for we do

though in a roundabout way, wish you success

in all your endeavors, after you’ve eaten

all the shit mustered, prideful joy abounds

for surmounting such a crest, which we believe you could

jump high enough, barely for you can’t quite see it, the avalanche.

 

Waiting around the corner

raise a standard strategy, teaching savage

trickery creates competition, basics for expounding

whatever way one will, forget the rules

like smoke in wind, still go to church

eating vegetable desserts, it seems pointless

tipping a doom bowl over.

 

View an error, wishing you could correct come, large step

over the error after another and you’re nearly there, already

anticipating a victory, but each and every

time you are closer, and a gradual constant

accompanying no victory yet, though a shining sky

would signify a change, our blood runs black

tormented sludge, but it will never be exhausted, our will.

Poem: Ceiling Sketches

Poem: Waiting for the Train

Who is it?

 

Just a lone man over the wrought-iron,

closing his eyes to the whoosh of the tracks,

whistling air through the gaps in his teeth.

 

What’s he worried about?

 

You wonder, considering disturbing possibilities,

a biker gang broke into his house, perhaps

or his wife could be screwing the pool boy, maybe

you considered it while watching him depart,

tense and angry, with his hands in his pockets.

 

Tripping him on to the tracks, would it be so bad?

 

Bet he touches his kids, he looked like one of them,

from what you remember, skin crawled in response to his tone

probably, you admit chastizingly to a fallacy,

but press on shiny soldier, heaven feels through your instinct

without hesitation, the man would die tonight.

 

Am I too lazy to be a Murderer?

 

Shame digs out of a hole, wimp its battle cry

writhing dirtwise, reminding of reality,

and he’s probably just, some douche,

paranoia is better than boring, and people suck

but most are only, bumping like a car.

 

There is no point.

Poem: Waiting for the Train