Revamping the poetry hit a snag a couple of weeks ago when a vicious Teacup Pomeranian ate the usb cord to the external hard drives. The cord doesn't cost very much money, but taking the time to go get one kept being put off. Without further whimpering, Roll Call of the Lesser Devils continues:
The orbit of the planet:
A twenty-four hour cyclic effect.
The vehicle travels in opposition
The rotation of the earth
Lending just a fraction of extra speed,
Too little to gauge.
It strikes the engineer
That he has fallen from the planet.
Gravity departed at escape velocity.
Mediocre reactions crumble
And fall away pathetically
In the face of the knowledge
That somewhere has distinctly become nowhere.
The carrot dangles before his eyes,
Three feet before, like a guiding voice.
Someone has a dossier on this,
The perils of free falling
After waiving freedom of choice.
A day late and a dollar short
Post mens rea no redress
In the hoity coitus toity court
Cosmic tort reform aside.
Personal wants ascribed to the negatives
Left undeveloped in the dark room.
The carrot trick won't work if they hate carrots.
Hunger must be the key.
Something must fuel the animal drive.
God having abandoned the world
To the tender mercies of law and chaos
Sees humor in people drifting off into space.
Proof for the skeptics will come.
The haloed civilization will at length embrace fuckery,
And realize the time.
Its time to make up for lost time.
It has been prophesied that such things happen,
Because if it feels good do it,
Stop waiting and suck up to it.
Static line of crap will begin to wear thin
A coating of flattery, a glass of gin
Until nature decides to just win.
Hunger and lust,
So powerful the feeling itself
Clocks in with gruff profanity
And Will pounds through the veins of all humans,
Reinstated to its original beauty.
It is hungry to take out any obstacles
Between wherever is is
And where I need to be to get it.
Somehow it all changed.
The sustenance didn't take care of itself.
The food tried to escape.
The shaking hands on the wheel
Are my own, or so they tell me.
It has been days since sleep was possible.
Driven by the pit of my stomach
I feel as though I am floating.
Hope remains for one last chance
To catch the sun before it comes up,
Catch it unaware and kill it.
Then all the loot can be had.
The dossier couldn’t know the plan.
Escape will be had before any government knows.
Not that they could catch me
Unless the car exploded.
Pedestrians scatter with barely enough time to reach safety.
I mow down as many as possible.
This was all they could muster?
Send a bunch of guys out on foot?
Up ahead a road block,
Nicely arranged cute striped cars.
I bash through.
Road God lives!
Worshipped among teen-agers
Who listen to ancient rock and roll
Who think heaven is a 454,
I drink, nay, guzzle the fuel.
Less than a God could never even afford to start this baby
Since the gas shortage.
On the short twelve mile horizon
I can be at the top
Before even seeing the curvature I left behind.
Eyesight becomes estranged so
Trajectory for orbit must be calculated only with the mind.
The future outlaws will worship me
After I become one with the stars.
Who took emptiness
And turned it into gasoline to fly away.
61. Broken Bricklay
The concrete steps engulf my gaze
Rising to capture my eyes before a foot falls...
Traverses the man made stone’s testimonial glaze.
Vision escapes not from the waves of toil unto death.
Strong tissue rips under the strain
Of the effort of laying a hard bed by grip
Tightly, with the hand of sure mixed endurance.
Stone work will be found in the future.
Generations later someone will wonder
Just who did the work.
Nonchalantly the decades will pass over the walks and patios
Where labor was spent so that
Leisure could be enjoyed.
The green earth came to be covered by effort.
The sweat could have made the oceans
But instead became steam and rained.
Bringing a feeling of newness
And past accomplishment,
The nervous energy that surrounds all work.
The heat bears down like a ritual pain.
The mixture can never go dry,
Must be stirred until breaking ache comes to the body.
The sun takes many to a dream suddenly,
The swoon, it is dangerous
But educational if one lives.
The fever sometimes shows the plans of God,
The warmth of the endeavor
Marking those separately from those who do nothing,
Who do not brave the heat.
There must be some promise of another world
And the delerium of the afternoon shows
That if there is no heaven
Rest assured there definitely is a hell,
Because the bricklayer comes very close to it,
Almost breaking but insurmountably strong of spirit,
Refusing to stop until finished,
No waste allowed, no room for error.
With the children at home to feed, there lies
Purpose for the concentrated quest to be as strong
As the brick in the sweltering sun.
The haze burns away
Until sight is blinded, all too clearly.
The victory of the moment is measured
By the hours spent to get there.
Tissue of the body is nothing,
It will pass away.
What must last must be created.
The spirit is not gauged by the flesh.
If dissenting discuss not
This matter with real men,
Or maybe suffer being told
To stoop a little and open your eyes,
Perhaps dirty the silken hands by feeling
A little of that with which the nation was built so quickly.
When the day is done
Beyond the heat of the sun
The children rejoice at daddy’s return,
The treats that were so hard earned.
My eyes cross the walkway in admiration.
All who pass here will know.
a stationary invasion
tear, raze, rend the union
rape the nation
young and old killed by love
under justice blind direction
never believe in resurrection
only in hate.
from dismay come justice’ decay.
leads to pain, leads astray
tries to make sick,
trick time into unwinding,
but it won’t work.
It strews the sickly
webs of vain, wanton waste,
silken threads of yore.
avoid the true
painful to trap the self
tomorrow the sun
will burn away this black yule.
can only come misconstrual
Here, critics, have some fuel.
Beyond Language Barrier
Never try to shake off the truth.
Guilty of plenty even so young,
And you cry
Because you can find no path
Out of the heart of the moon.
No one leaves so soon.
Delay your thinking,
Relearn and then return.
There is no game,
Only black smoke from the burned.
Two turned the one card,
Then went for the one door
But only one could go through at once.
The Other One never left.
The image showed
A self centered prick looking back.
Don't covet that knowledge,
Or the fact that you were right,
Because you really are no better.
No lock on the door,
A lock on the mind,
So importune me no more,
I want a divorce from your ideas,
I want to forget them forever,
And I ask this not be retold.
‘Tis shown to be all too hellish,
That set this pen gliding,
Across the page,
A plea to the aether to crush me,
And then no more favors.
The reduction of the spirit
Makes a dangerous saute,
And misery a pitiful sound.
Deus ex fashionista,
The deuce you say, it's just deserts
For such treachery,
Lost and carried down.
Amid the tiers and altars,
Somewhere a voice,
And the wind is a hollow howl.
It’s the church of infection,
Of sin and consumption,
Uplifted by followers foul.
They dine on porridge
Made from strong men’s courage,
After defiling their graves
And their bones,
Digested by unforgiving tomes,
It's not only bodies that rot in the ground.
Nowhere can be found a worse stench
Than the smell of the priests
As they quench their unholy thirsts,
From out of the mouths of lambs and the innocent,
The perversion makes even the hardened flinch,
Because children should never know at all.
Inside the damned clergy all look the same
All rust colored, gangrenous, leprous flesh,
And the church they hold holy
Is to the core rotten, wholly,
As a dead dear days old.
On them do not dwell,
In their footsteps do not dawdle,
For they are lost.
And the path only leads down,
Where the stench becomes an entity,
And fire the only cure to be found.
Since I have seen Narcissus' true self
We can no longer be friends.