Poem: The First Chapter

Gangrenous is our sense of society, everyone knows

what is wrong can’t be spoken

because all we have is a sense of it, the sinister

in every smile, watch out, young man, watch out you’ll crack

thumper him on the head, down to a standing eight

count at least, a wallet richer

inspecting the contents, shattered by emptiness

cracking a ribcage with no facial feeling

just because you had a bad day, the dark of it

which spread from the knowing it could happen

someday into the world was born, hoofbeats patter

through the window from the street.

 

Perhaps is his name and he broke

free in the market, spreading the stench of war

unspoken, my neighbors fear my skin

as well, causing shouting at town halls

message boards full of misspelled capitals

exclamation points and question marks, all meaning

nothing at all important, but the electric mania

is what I call it, as well as the beginning of the end

possibly should things continue the way they are.

Poem: The First Chapter

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: Metronome

My name is death to traitors, and I cluster in the sun

with warriors and goggle-eye gangsters down for the fight,

ready to write the wrongs on pamphlets and show them

to everyone grabbing guns, emerging as the infinite army

maybe, so after the rules are even keeled and correctly directed

our army will flourish and crush oppressors into bad memory.

 

The king is dead, trumpets cheer fireworks, blood and bullets,

we will call this a death party for the backwash bossmen

because we know we’ll never see them again, not on top

anyway, or up from behind for their ideas have no traction

in the world they’ve created, or so we thought.

 

Corruption eats its own tale, horrifying instructions

of how to topple a dictatorship, read rule number one,

find a hero and raise him because the people will hear

what I tell them and nothing more, for revolutions must be

controlled to be effective, directed to be power force fortune..

Poem: Metronome