Heaped high the many bushes that I beat
myself to death in spiral orbitals
around, where velvet hush met neon meet
and greet. A clink of ice. The oracle
would shuffle, ask the querent for a cut,
then deal the doom out, side-bets mopping up
on every childhood fantasy taut nuts
convulse for still, where every vulture sups.
But I drank oceans from each salty set
of lips queued up to kiss the easy meat
of childhood. I, the player losing bets
consistently. The house reserved my seat
so newbies knew exactly where to park,
and wait for me, the always easy mark.
It’s all my doing,
dressing you to make it seem
that you might love me.
Was I some dark star,
butterfly, distracting you
from your performance?
Jerked out of orbit,
felt compelled to play a role –
dear God! Forgive me!
I the despoiler!
I, who never understood
your silent answers!
What if my great scoot-chute slide escape from shit-samsara’s stock tank waits on me to switch the operating mode on my already hyperactive nuts to something less conducive to adhesive complications, more in line with liberation?
This awful, awful world of righteous cant and endless slime-filled furrows bobbing bastards haunt still holds me captive while I drool for every tantalizing bit of bait the goddamn trap knows well enough I’ve always, always been a stupid sucker for and only now I’m barely half awake enough to see I need to fight and that the duct tape’s winning.
I barely dodged the need to dodge the draft for foreign jungle cannon-fodder body-bag diplomacy, but I was still in fact stuffed full of scorn that I should fight – especially myself – when I was made with aching needs and needed to relieve them often (god! so very often!) and everyone in general encouraged me to do so.
Still, why fight the pleasure instinct? Death consumes us all – if not in gnat-infested hellholes – still as merciless insistent as commuter rail cars rattling ten years behind their maintenance. Food and water! Wine and you-know-what! What else was there that I should work for? These were my mad back-borne monkeys, many years my only comfort in a world of glacial fire, always frantic, so insistent!
Spirit thingies so elusive, not at all like standing Stonehenge dark-moor haunting short-skirt panty-watching fevers! Need the gnome that gnaws resistance! Peace a specter seen best cross-eyed, like the moon that shines in potholes! Steaming wetlands funk and pounding roughneck harsh hydraulics! Flesh and spirit spilling all my feather pillow guts out like the maples do in Autumn, is there nothing I ca do?
The God of Heaven
taking ribs from Adam’s side –
his heart a melon
one cannot in fact divide –
and crafting Eden’s
sole, cool paradise in Eve,
lovers, poets, dreamers, fools,
she was his shelter,
guarding Adams deepest springs,
but as in most things,
mouthy students failed to grasp
the main instruction,
well-content to wear their ass
like that’s their glory!
Sing, desert Garden!
Sing you dustbin brooms that sweep
our first failed classroom!
Fear the sand that veils man’s sight
from strength that towers
unacknowledged at his side,
his childlike ego,
delicate as hand blown glass
one dares not stare at
too intensely – for too long –
for fear it shatters
far beyond the crafters skill
to bind together.
How unlike the Might who made
Her in His image!
This thatched roof hosts lord-knows how many beings,
and all of them are copulating madly
as if it’s prom night, post-pubescent frenzy
sings with Armageddon’s whorehouse wing tips,
as lightning strikes and thunder answers instantly
to interrupt a monsoons long monotony.
When you were four your mother made a vapor tent
so you could sleep (perhaps) inhaling warm, moist air.
It reinforced sadistic preachers sermons
of God’s unbending rage towards little boys
who didn’t do exactly all that they’d been told –
and this vile, bug-infested night recalls that.
The rain will always find a way, tonight
like every other godforsaken night spent here
where they said “eighteen months and you can go home
rich as royalty, live just like a lord, but first
a shot for every jungle rot and human
flesh destroying pestilence of hades.”
A man can find himself in straitened circumstance
and if he’s willing to traverse the birth canal,
emerging in a brand new place, a brand new name,
life begins anew – a bit like Mithras myths
without the bloody barking dogs of Interpol,
and you remind yourself that’s why you’re here.
Morning comes – in three or four more hours.
This time of year it scarcely seems to matter,
though the workers protest if you try to push
the ‘harvest’ past what they regard as ‘daylight’.
But it’s their home, they likely know what’s out there –
the things one really ought not meet in darkness,
just as you do – on the streets of London.
Three months more. Time freezes as it always does
this time of night. Too early for a smoke.
“No drinking while on duty” – here you always are.
You know that there are others out here, like you,
names known from the blackest streets of London,
some who lack your pressing need to live.
mowers, blowers, maintenance crews and screw-loose
high-pitched, failing-metal hymns of hand-tools,
always someone shatters early morning
sleep-in weekend lazy side-street silence
each and every Saturday since some fool’s
doomed to die in chest-clutch hypertension
type-A never could relax dawn-cracking
wake the neighborhood- he lives next door now!
She was completely undressed for success,
prepped for ‘whatever’, at least in the sack,
grateful she’d found she still owned a clean dress,
grateful for johns who just kept coming back.
Two kids with COVID, and mom dead last year.
Rent due, the water and phone bill are next.
Righteous damn do-gooders hovering near,
all sermons slavery – whatever the text.
Raised by the Bible, but blessed to be Black,
God’s chosen people enslaved once again.
Pharaoh the dealer, the cards always stacked,
your very existence to him is a sin.
Time to act interested, customer’s here.
You gotta get your sweet girl-ass in gear.
Now that two or more are here,
come and wipe away our tears.
Let all human pride be seared,
shouting stilled, now you are near.
Freedom proves a dreadful blight,
hatred shines here in your light.
Deep inside our souls it’s night,
come put human pride to flight.
Crowns we’ve worn of polished dross,
proclamations glibly gloss
each command to love we’ve tossed.
Come, embrace us on your cross.
Now all the Bessemer blasting-pit breezes have ceased their kind purifications, sweet sneezes
from Satan, Hell’s hot halitosis, historically offered in this searing season have now been depleted!
Supply chain congestion! Upstream constipation! The loo of the market yawls! Nobody listens! Your heating allotment spent – just wait ‘til Winter when frostbitten farts shatter glass on the sidewalk directly behind you yet nobody follows!
Now though you’re parked watching back and forth yahoos stir kindlier eddies of air here on Main Street. Where ARE they all going? The dawn’s cool compassion calls make-believe pity which dissipates quickly by queued inconvenience.
How can the rustling grass grasp the moment? Fixing the gaze seems to take mad fanaticism! You’ve built your kingdoms on dirty ditch water where each passing stray’s leg lift threatens world order!
Back to the breath! You leave nothing behind you! Your bones in their sack won’t fare well once you wander – but you were the one who swore only rocks matter! Think of this also: where do winds take their shelter?
“Hot howling hadron-beam bowling-ball deathstar,
brown plasma bottom quark doom-crack conniptions!
Tuna tins, thumbs out, hitchhiking on clown cars,
spin-dizzy speed of light fact-free alt-fictions!”
“I just kan’t see it if I don’t believe it –
spreadin’ this qunnam mechanical horse-soot!
I can see through it all – yor blowin’ bullshit
an smoke up our skirts – I heard it from Bigfoot!”