Poem: Hock Loogies

Where’s my fucking Fanta, motherfucking cocksucker

and you’re not even good at it, artisans take pride

in work done well

but you’re not of them, are you?  You’re just pumpy pumpy

spurt goblin madman, a lemming over the cliff

praying for a better tomorrow, stupid, take no pride

in your punishment, been asleep for months

in a great coma, now where’s my fucking fanta!


You don’t know never knew and won’t ever

understand the breaks or why they happen

the way they do, see this is the god finger

going right in your eye, we’re all pawns

in a maggot blender

begging for scraps, man, so take what you can

get when they throw it away, dress it up

marking it new, off-brand lazy philosophy.


With your new threads they will call

stylish, convince yourself of purpose

meaning and progress, stepping banana peel

abbreviated misgivings

of short counts, the world is a poison pit

all and sundry escape, eventually, so no

point is farther than simply to enjoy

what you can, spit on the ground.

Poem: Hock Loogies

Poem: The Wartime

The battle was weeks of hell, baskets of mortar

dropped on a frozen rope, onto my friends trapped

with nothing to win, they are happy now

rendered headless, we chopped off what we could

to drop into the sea, we are war machine, screaming

merciless mantras, passing a chalice

boozy of humor, laughing with satan

at the suffering fireworks, burn the wound making

cauterized ruination, I fear sepsis

taking hold, but will die before its done.


Pandemonium marketplace setups

selling soldiers to the bidder, elevated not

though square dealing on the level

with rules to follow, and malice aforethought

you understand, for a known game is just

talk of death for traitors and spies

wearing suits, costuming a new hell

appearing as death in the mirror

again, the children are hungry

but nothing grows anymore period.


A cruel, merciless decision we made,

admittedly, to stand apart from fury

with sickly cowardice we turn away,

though we chastise ourselves and each other

for acting likewise, because flagellation feels

good when we use words, joy is diminishing

words we don’t like to use in public

but we still do, for wouldn’t you

if you had esteem waiting, but you don’t

because you only serve, like a lever.


Check marks, first thing is the first,

a nice fruity phosphate, Mountain Due

Condition Blue or something, tasting love

is sweet sunshine and comfort costs

money in peacetime, my arms rendered

useless but to pull a lever, push a plunger

off the edge, slipping into a dragon chase,

or maybe it’s a nightmare, but waking

in a box is a bad omen, I’ve heard.


Large in charge of the floor, big shot

all of a sudden, struggling still up against

a whiteboard colored in bullshit,

first buy the bonds, afterwards pay the piper

for the tolls that number sixteen

more than before, on the same street

all of a sudden, knowing there’s not a place

we could afford uptown, anyway

hunting a point out, precisely placed

because you might have just one chance.


Voltaire and Camus came together

to work on “All Quiet,” or whatever

it will be called, and directed by Dickens

with Gandhi producing, De Sade scripting

the tale of a lonely stable-boy in love

with a maiden of the conquered people,

but alas he is gutshot, and dies alone

in the dark, no dry eyes, best picture

contender at least, that’s for sure.


I feel like Django, dragging a coffin behind me

filled with my trespasses, and the yelping

victim wails that fell on deaf ears echo

in the night, haunting things I’ve done

rest in the unknown enemy’s moving tomb,

they would’ve done me as I did them,

but still they glare with hole eyes, sucking portals

sucking to a world of shit, so forever good night.


I wrote a book called “Push the Chips”

detailing my fall and rise, it was a whitewash

snow job poorly detailed emotional history,

just as devotees rise and shout praises

out of tune, paper away the detritus

pushing to next, and gearing up is the key

with a spiked helmet and chains,

you gotta mash the allies, tell no one

what you’ve done, it is a horror.


The movie’s have changed, and none remain

better then ever, though history clones are

all the rage bubbling, they disappoint

with cookie-cutter mechanics and terra cotta

characters, so open the door and pull ideas

off of the chaff pile, we will shield them

with complacency, I have to write

my new novel, the one to lift them up

by the heart, which is all there is.


The first time I attempted suicide

I woke up in the hospital, zippered

into my bed, joining rage and regret

in a blender, pushing pulse over again,

smearing pain and scrawling hate

on the wall, they started marking milestones

after a time, now not even a walker

with me, the sad kids get some hope.


This is my resignation not from chiefs

of executive office, in them a poison

growing from their heart through their pores,

making them seem soupy, and red

of brick and beet and tomato, but we know

what it really is, representing an ending

for everyone, I move to my forest cabin,

shut off, my kids won’t talk to me at all

now, maybe they’ll never, but I’m finally free.


The court calls me Notnow Neverwas

and they laugh, when I enter or leave,

they say it through a cone, long and loud

“Ladies and Gentlemen!  Boys and girls!”

then they lower the boom, pointing to me

a smiling finger, no, they cackle grimly

without humor, but they don’t even know

no one’s laughing, either and I have a knife

behind my back, time for some justice.

Poem: The Wartime

Poem: Arise

We can’t be the stupid people anymore, doing what couldn’t

and shouldn’t be done, disciples line behind my back

to show those big shots what’s what, you must know that they speak lies

but I never will, and everything will be buttercream in the future

with turbo and badass rock guitar, Jesus is gonna come

burning satan’s dumb pawns, because our lack of faith

brought vengeance christ, extracting his price

with an apocalypse, of which I am harbinger

arbiter in a breath, signaling and leading the line two

up a lighting street, trombones and baritones

blare arrhythm joy, concluding in rouse

until days later, the landscape is naught.


Burned barns are all over the place, downtown are the wicked

brokers and lenders, way downtown till they’re

non grata to everyone, even those in tatters

becoming more numerous, by the day they strike out

blaring with fire and dazzle, feathers on their hats

shine hope out their eyes, but their judgment comes

on a turn rolled card, ending up in the pokey

or an office chain gang, made and born to fall

in line and keep a low voice, dormant till the next

time an ignition sparks, and fire is every thing

when all are things aflame, so leave them be

because we are all dead, but think our corpses

will nourish the soil in eons, for though all childless

and alone bodies now, we were the true shepherds.

Poem: Arise

Poem: Craisinella Rain

Artificially red from the sky over the inner city before the coming of the trucks,

it’s a tasty sticky-sweet super fruit mishmash, citizens have collection methods and sell pouches of it on street corners,

toxic slurry is mildly addictive, droves of children emerge all at once with their personal pots and pans,

immunization time and everyone comes with us, really it’s birth control and cataloging,

high servant class desperation is all they can really hope to hope for, but there are outliers,

the exception and not the rule lords their destinies in a finely tuned chord.


We tell them anything’s possible and it is in a sorta way but really it’s not,

“Remember when you didn’t have a dime?” fills stadiums with starry eyes and empty wallets,

dusky government addictions seep from on high, through the media zeitgeist,

all really needed is a tuning fork, set them to a mildly unhappy thirst quotient according to their station,

the psychobioheredity of class was finally codified in 2237, making things simple for all of us.

The occasional docudrama softens not our resolve, but now what we call out blood red perfection,

chance provides us our station, rolling triple sixes all day, proclaiming it as unearned provides a soulful contrition.

Invisible is the other way, so they head into their grinders filling out proper forms and wearing I.D. badges,

sustaining petroleum vaseline receptacle omnipresent, it’s everywhere

everyone look under their seats, you might find a peasant child compartment, congratulations.


Peasant children fetch six figures, easy, but that’s inhumane,

so just loan them to aristocrats with floors to scrub, and sometimes cocks to suck,

it’s sad but true reality, phasing through in flashes all superimposed,

lash yourself with the image, poor kids flashed, ignored and ridiculed, molested by adoptive parents,

business is business, and every cent you don’t leave for your children is a stain on your spirit

Poem: Craisinella Rain