Once young and stupid:
hypocrisy was shocking –
not any longer.
Talking heads are crammed with crap –
and these days I expect it.
Why should I listen?
Prelates shielding pedophiles,
praising demagogues –
the dull, collective discharge
of seminary slag-heaps.
“By these signs conquer?”
Pumping fists, the lynching noose,
the rebel war flag,
neo-nazi racist hate –
“some damn fine folks!” you tell me?
Some shit falls straight down –
but some flies up.
Maggots flock to town –
they’re ALL corrupt.
Some see asshat Red
and others, Blue.
“Culture of The Dead”
shot through and through.
When I shake my half-erection
in your general direction,
will you bare for my inspection
what awaits my genuflection?
I’m half-crazy but you knew it,
I was turgid but you blew it,
and I’m thrilled you won’t eschew it
when I beg those lips to chew it!
Some swine seek a place to wallow.
Take my hand and please come follow,
I’m a dweller of the hollows –
I brought something you should swallow.
Same stupid shit defiles a bright new day!
The skunks that you’d suspect begin to spray,
and evolution gives a great surprise:
the Homo rectus race is on the rise.
Four years of lessons from a prolix bung:
the profit of a vile, perverted tongue,
induce a mass of flies to fester hate.
Who needs a soul when you can steal a State?
Poor little rich man!
go now – just Go!
Another rope to make a black man choke:
a “truth” for them, for you a truth denied.
For fat white maggots, God is just a joke –
a bogey man who’s gotta Hell He stokes
with brown-skinned boys who set their sights too high.
Another rope to make a black man choke,
another cross to fill the night with smoke,
another conflagration licks the sky.
For fat white maggots, God is just a joke –
the only angel here’s a line of coke
you sold to him from whitey’s vast supply:
another rope to make a black man choke,
and you pretend you’re all the sweetest folk –
you moral lepers won’t come clean with lye.
For you fat maggots, God is just a joke –
a game you rigged, seen through by those who woke:
hypocrisy to every open eye.
Another rope to make a black man choke.
Fat maggots better pray that God’s a joke.
Stop telling me this isn’t who we are.
Open your eyes! Look around – if you dare!
Have you had your head in a mason jar
the news hasn’t cracked with a cast iron bar,
letting in light and a little fresh air?
Stop telling me this isn’t who we are –
you and the rest in your crowded clown car,
all talking at once, all so unaware!
Have you had your heads in a mason jar?
A little light reading could take you far,
pry you up (maybe) off your rocking chair.
Stop telling me this isn’t who we are
and smell the cross burning, bright little star,
those robes aren’t what off-duty angels wear!
Have you had your head in a mason jar,
can you smell what leaks from this unwashed scar?
Can you dare to gaze at the hellish glare?
Stop telling me this isn’t who we are!
Have you had your head in a mason jar?
I guess I’ll never be the poster child
for healthy living, healthy thinking, shit-
together, happy-honky, meek and mild,
steady as a stick sunk in a concrete pit.
I guess my stage has been more like a storm,
a barnacle epoxied to the butt
of some popsicle stick ship, vacuum formed
to fit there where I had to, rough-cut nut
the pounding waves resolved to crack. I guess
the slots were filled for peaceful little lives,
so I have gargled streams no god could bless,
and caught my breath between each bile-kissed dive.
I hoped for much – turns out I just survived.
My goal? I guess I’ll know once I arrive.
17 Jan 2021 – Lesson
No sense of safety,
too afraid to ever trust
the mad volcano.
How can a child see
how the puzzle pieces fit –
his heart among them?
My mom was crazy.
It has taken all these years
to see she loved me.
So let me ask you:
have you loved a lunatic,
traversed a labyrinth,
abhorred your choices,
second guessed your own good sense,
ice-bound in terror?
It was not madness
driving you to cling to love.
It was a lesson.
The pop-up ad said they could treat me right,
that horny housewives craved my cock this night,
and I was just a credit card away
from hooking up and frisking in the hay.
I had to swear that I was twenty-one,
and if my next door neighbor took my gun,
I wouldn’t say a word. Why yes! Of course!
Aren’t those the rules of secret intercourse?
The AI kicked in, all the little bots
commenced to beg me show ‘em what I got,
and if I spent a hundred dollars more,
then we could chat for hours and not score.
Heed not, my son, the song thy testes moan.
Hark not the head that crowns thy turgid bone.
An easy mark art thou, without a doubt,
if thou expects to pay and whip it out.
Trust me, there’s no one near who wants your meat.
The cheapest thing that you can do is beat.