My bible is a crystal clear stream
A breeze in tall pine trees
The cold air as it ushers in the night
The owls as the watch
and the things you hear
while you sleep and dream
under the stars
In this land of beauty
spazim 3
It's called faith
No matter what anyone else says
No matter what they believe
Even if it's not the same names
Even if it's not the same books
No matter what anyone else says
No matter what they believe
Even if it's not the same names
Even if it's not the same books
The Pain
Somebody said a mouthful
It wasn't enough to be tortured
and then truthful
They had to get some shit on television
To try to prove some loser was crazy
But instead there was a man upstairs with a plan
And the only words that came out were about
Losing face and losing the race
They said something about too many pain pills
And blistering funny good times
About how a guy might be a faggot
That's some great lines
Is it Fallon or should I say maggot?
Do you have any idea what could have happened?
What may have become of the boy you decided was guilty
and sentenced to hell and then execution
or vice versa, but it gets worse, a
trial without a jury, a noose for my neck because
I'm the guy who wouldn't hit the deck
While you shot your bullets over everybody else's heads
I said
No. Stop. What. Why. I didn't die?
So maybe I can make my mind fly
but there's still these people all around me
who care about me
and who I can't let be killed by your hatred
your violence, you're racism, your silence
as you assassinate me
just a normal guy
who was born into
never ever feeling victory
What the hell was this supposed to be?
Am I clear enough?
I'm just getting started.
I think I'll grab a cup of coffee
And talk to you about how you accused me of violence
While you snarled and snapped
And I couldn't even fight back
Because I'm supposed to be down on the ground begging for mercy
But I'm not
you can't hurt me
But you can hurt my family
Don't do that.
Please.
They are the only thing left for me.
It wasn't enough to be tortured
and then truthful
They had to get some shit on television
To try to prove some loser was crazy
But instead there was a man upstairs with a plan
And the only words that came out were about
Losing face and losing the race
They said something about too many pain pills
And blistering funny good times
About how a guy might be a faggot
That's some great lines
Is it Fallon or should I say maggot?
Do you have any idea what could have happened?
What may have become of the boy you decided was guilty
and sentenced to hell and then execution
or vice versa, but it gets worse, a
trial without a jury, a noose for my neck because
I'm the guy who wouldn't hit the deck
While you shot your bullets over everybody else's heads
I said
No. Stop. What. Why. I didn't die?
So maybe I can make my mind fly
but there's still these people all around me
who care about me
and who I can't let be killed by your hatred
your violence, you're racism, your silence
as you assassinate me
just a normal guy
who was born into
never ever feeling victory
What the hell was this supposed to be?
Am I clear enough?
I'm just getting started.
I think I'll grab a cup of coffee
And talk to you about how you accused me of violence
While you snarled and snapped
And I couldn't even fight back
Because I'm supposed to be down on the ground begging for mercy
But I'm not
you can't hurt me
But you can hurt my family
Don't do that.
Please.
They are the only thing left for me.
Pace
It's hard to keep up
There's been so much destruction
So many distractions
People sprawling on the floor
To keep from getting shot.
What do they have,
Those who have the guns,
That we do not?
They have a badge
Somebody gave them
While in our neighborhoods
We begged for enough money to eat
Because there were no jobs.
Now there is no city
We are down to the nitty gritty
Want to get out?
Huh? Do ya? Do ya?
It's been so long since you saw a gap in the wall
A tiny crack under the door
A tear dripping from the face of a crack whore
Something sensitive
Something that's real
Something that won't fail when you grab the rope
The lanyard
The raft
To jump the fence
To climb tall trees
What about my hands?
What should I do with these?
Is there truthfully a way out?
It could be just another fucked up joke
Down here where people have been laughing
and laughing, and you can't even buy the herb they smoke
That's funny
That friends are such good friends they won't even share the ends
Not a penny, not a nickel not a dime
It's what I expect all the time
Nobody cares about this man or his family
Or his life or his history
because in America it's all about power.
And while I have many words
The hand has struck the hour
There's no strength left in me so I cower
I don't know what to do
I will put my entire life into a single second
Rip it into shreds and put it back together
It's all I can gather
That maybe I would rather be free
Than stuck in some loser's history full of misery
When that miserable fluid flows
There's been so much destruction
So many distractions
People sprawling on the floor
To keep from getting shot.
What do they have,
Those who have the guns,
That we do not?
They have a badge
Somebody gave them
While in our neighborhoods
We begged for enough money to eat
Because there were no jobs.
Now there is no city
We are down to the nitty gritty
Want to get out?
Huh? Do ya? Do ya?
It's been so long since you saw a gap in the wall
A tiny crack under the door
A tear dripping from the face of a crack whore
Something sensitive
Something that's real
Something that won't fail when you grab the rope
The lanyard
The raft
To jump the fence
To climb tall trees
What about my hands?
What should I do with these?
Is there truthfully a way out?
It could be just another fucked up joke
Down here where people have been laughing
and laughing, and you can't even buy the herb they smoke
That's funny
That friends are such good friends they won't even share the ends
Not a penny, not a nickel not a dime
It's what I expect all the time
Nobody cares about this man or his family
Or his life or his history
because in America it's all about power.
And while I have many words
The hand has struck the hour
There's no strength left in me so I cower
I don't know what to do
I will put my entire life into a single second
Rip it into shreds and put it back together
It's all I can gather
That maybe I would rather be free
Than stuck in some loser's history full of misery
When that miserable fluid flows
The Strike
Strike
Incest uncovered
In violent political unrest?
Come again?
Once already never enough
A narration of political history
Lacking in innovation
Save for once every couple of decades
Ideas of self and self expression,
An articulate image of justice,
A dream in the sense of social mobility
And rule by law,
Crushed by the Nightmare Right
That strucktur that despises nonconformity
Words without limits
Ideas without boundaries
Members of the “open ended”
Lie shamelessly while attributing those to their victims
Another oligarchy with no conscience
Certain only that while the people will suffer
They will not.
They laugh like hyenas and scavenge like jackals
Roaming the land of dreams for meat
Or at least the land where imagination becomes unlimited
Tearing flesh from the bones
In triple layered codes of object class wrapper
Until the phone rings
And some guy made a movie
But it doesn't tell the story of what really happened
Like The Lion Sleeps Tonight or Tetris
Or Doom which was stolen from hell itself
Those fallen attempting to scale the inside of the jar
Had one brief moment of clarity
Before their minds shorted out
Food now for the insects
Job security for insecticides
The Law exists only to control the lower ranks.
There are just so many opportunities to make it.
It's so easy to become wealthy
In the land of the free
All our people must be lazy
Because all our people are poor
What could we be thinking?
The dream has mostly been a dream
While in the fields people still toil
Under the whip of slavery
Now called an industry
A fine weathered prison industry
Centuries old.
[[[I'm writing as fast as I can]]]
Incest uncovered
In violent political unrest?
Come again?
Once already never enough
A narration of political history
Lacking in innovation
Save for once every couple of decades
Ideas of self and self expression,
An articulate image of justice,
A dream in the sense of social mobility
And rule by law,
Crushed by the Nightmare Right
That strucktur that despises nonconformity
Words without limits
Ideas without boundaries
Members of the “open ended”
Lie shamelessly while attributing those to their victims
Another oligarchy with no conscience
Certain only that while the people will suffer
They will not.
They laugh like hyenas and scavenge like jackals
Roaming the land of dreams for meat
Or at least the land where imagination becomes unlimited
Tearing flesh from the bones
In triple layered codes of object class wrapper
Until the phone rings
And some guy made a movie
But it doesn't tell the story of what really happened
Like The Lion Sleeps Tonight or Tetris
Or Doom which was stolen from hell itself
Those fallen attempting to scale the inside of the jar
Had one brief moment of clarity
Before their minds shorted out
Food now for the insects
Job security for insecticides
The Law exists only to control the lower ranks.
There are just so many opportunities to make it.
It's so easy to become wealthy
In the land of the free
All our people must be lazy
Because all our people are poor
What could we be thinking?
The dream has mostly been a dream
While in the fields people still toil
Under the whip of slavery
Now called an industry
A fine weathered prison industry
Centuries old.
[[[I'm writing as fast as I can]]]
Not Really Wasting Time
[[I had to clean the house, which was badly neglected.]]
Plagiarism creeps into my dreams.
The judges spot it
And they have knives at their disposal.
There is no space to move stately
Asleep and uncertain at a lover’s side.
In relationships of ill defined importance
Are feverish and pained recollections of monsters.
Without the tincture of stricken heat
Certainty awakes at the boundary of sobriety.
Disaster lurks in conquering your conscious refusal to touch.
The god Shiva brandishes his arms.
He sends a message to future conquerors.
There is no room to stretch your ambitions beyond conjecture,
Even with hoards of topical knowledge on ancient culture.
Embedded in the nerves of your palms:
Despair of the ruined prize,
Most relished and hidden thought of the god.
Indian high crowned deity,
Lost in a sea of global entropy,
Let nothing like my adjectival nightmares enter your mind.
Shiva lurks in the mirror.
He waits on the other side,
And he torpidly forgives intelligence.
The stench of my mind stretching out too far,
Out of my body and out of the frame,
Expands,
Curls about the air before his gaze,
While Sphinx-like and forever still souls
Of almost dead drug addicts rise up see the look on my face
When I catch my first glimpse of hell.
Before my titanic caste
They prostrate themselves and beg for mercy.
Disgust of repetition should sicken the observer.
Only a tightened stomach
In the throes of nausea
Could give testimony about the event.
The mirror heals in the corner,
Just within the realm of reality.
And magical tapestries give eloquent bows
Just out of sight in the study.
How could this soul refuse
The noble sanctuary of dreamy opium
As long as memory of the thunder clap of wired fear still lives?
Perfection is greater in innocence,
And the stuff of youth rapidly diminishes.
With no return to someone waiting happily,
With nothing in the final assault on the self,
Heaven warm and welcome just out of reach,
You feel the chill of the space one must leap to leave the body,
Colder still the fall through the chasm never bridged.
There is no road to the home of time,
There is only a precipice and your courage.
The crags of the wind's true freedom
Might as well be hidden in your pockets.
You settle slowly down
Into sleeps of slow tided ocean wrapped destiny.
Conjunctive truth occurs far away from the ideal
But it does pursue definition.
You are asleep next to someone you do not know.
There is no room to move around.
The room closes in.
You give out a suffocated sound, and you think
That you have woken up
But all things that glitter are not gold.
Plagiarism creeps into my dreams.
The judges spot it
And they have knives at their disposal.
There is no space to move stately
Asleep and uncertain at a lover’s side.
In relationships of ill defined importance
Are feverish and pained recollections of monsters.
Without the tincture of stricken heat
Certainty awakes at the boundary of sobriety.
Disaster lurks in conquering your conscious refusal to touch.
The god Shiva brandishes his arms.
He sends a message to future conquerors.
There is no room to stretch your ambitions beyond conjecture,
Even with hoards of topical knowledge on ancient culture.
Embedded in the nerves of your palms:
Despair of the ruined prize,
Most relished and hidden thought of the god.
Indian high crowned deity,
Lost in a sea of global entropy,
Let nothing like my adjectival nightmares enter your mind.
Shiva lurks in the mirror.
He waits on the other side,
And he torpidly forgives intelligence.
The stench of my mind stretching out too far,
Out of my body and out of the frame,
Expands,
Curls about the air before his gaze,
While Sphinx-like and forever still souls
Of almost dead drug addicts rise up see the look on my face
When I catch my first glimpse of hell.
Before my titanic caste
They prostrate themselves and beg for mercy.
Disgust of repetition should sicken the observer.
Only a tightened stomach
In the throes of nausea
Could give testimony about the event.
The mirror heals in the corner,
Just within the realm of reality.
And magical tapestries give eloquent bows
Just out of sight in the study.
How could this soul refuse
The noble sanctuary of dreamy opium
As long as memory of the thunder clap of wired fear still lives?
Perfection is greater in innocence,
And the stuff of youth rapidly diminishes.
With no return to someone waiting happily,
With nothing in the final assault on the self,
Heaven warm and welcome just out of reach,
You feel the chill of the space one must leap to leave the body,
Colder still the fall through the chasm never bridged.
There is no road to the home of time,
There is only a precipice and your courage.
The crags of the wind's true freedom
Might as well be hidden in your pockets.
You settle slowly down
Into sleeps of slow tided ocean wrapped destiny.
Conjunctive truth occurs far away from the ideal
But it does pursue definition.
You are asleep next to someone you do not know.
There is no room to move around.
The room closes in.
You give out a suffocated sound, and you think
That you have woken up
But all things that glitter are not gold.
For a Friend Who Died
[[I'm not changing this one.
If it's got mistakes it's got mistakes.]]
To My Friend
Years ago when your tap on my shoulder
Informed me of your nature, I reeled
Under the weight of the many burdens I carried.
I have lost too many friends to their prejudices
And I have wasted too much time on moral philosophy
While the practical use of my mind withered.
Some people have minds that shine.
They spill out words that stun with their inventiveness.
Yours is such a mind.
When the afternoon settles down into a ghostly routine
The things you have to say are still as energetic
As the life of the morning culture.
When I told you how brilliant I thought your art,
Each piece like a window into your thoughts,
A parade of all your emotions,
Care taken to calculate just what effect each display would have,
Those things I said were true.
Never believe that your efforts are wasted
Or that the vision of your work
Could be anything other than the heart and breath of talent.
Worthless exhibition to the public around you,
The populace so slow to think on its own,
Will get you nothing your efforts
Did not already gain.
Don’t worry about being forgotten
Because the quality of your ideals deserves
The most positive of remembrance.
When the passing of your spirit from the body
Throws the people who have known you
Into depression and despair
It will be said of you that you were truly an artist.
There is no need for a degree
Because true artistic respect does not come from
A paid-in-full receipt for tuition.
Worry even less about who you are.
Ignorance about the human body has not yet been stamped out,
But there are those people that believe in a simple morality.
Let the fates make your demise a pleasant one,
The best people should not have to suffer.
Such a fate should be reserved for the people who abuse
The gentle artistic spirits of this planet.
May their passing be filled with howls and moans of pain
And the agony of the realization
That they treated good people badly.
Also let none come upon this memorial
With the intention of defaming it’s message.
They will suffer worse than the rest
For trying to think wicked thoughts into friendship.
The plague that overtakes them will be a curse
Not unlike the swelling of the brain,
And it will be called sheer stupidity.
So while the rest of the world festers in condemnation
Carry on the illumined life you have dedicated yourself to.
In the end a reward does wait.
If it's got mistakes it's got mistakes.]]
To My Friend
Years ago when your tap on my shoulder
Informed me of your nature, I reeled
Under the weight of the many burdens I carried.
I have lost too many friends to their prejudices
And I have wasted too much time on moral philosophy
While the practical use of my mind withered.
Some people have minds that shine.
They spill out words that stun with their inventiveness.
Yours is such a mind.
When the afternoon settles down into a ghostly routine
The things you have to say are still as energetic
As the life of the morning culture.
When I told you how brilliant I thought your art,
Each piece like a window into your thoughts,
A parade of all your emotions,
Care taken to calculate just what effect each display would have,
Those things I said were true.
Never believe that your efforts are wasted
Or that the vision of your work
Could be anything other than the heart and breath of talent.
Worthless exhibition to the public around you,
The populace so slow to think on its own,
Will get you nothing your efforts
Did not already gain.
Don’t worry about being forgotten
Because the quality of your ideals deserves
The most positive of remembrance.
When the passing of your spirit from the body
Throws the people who have known you
Into depression and despair
It will be said of you that you were truly an artist.
There is no need for a degree
Because true artistic respect does not come from
A paid-in-full receipt for tuition.
Worry even less about who you are.
Ignorance about the human body has not yet been stamped out,
But there are those people that believe in a simple morality.
Let the fates make your demise a pleasant one,
The best people should not have to suffer.
Such a fate should be reserved for the people who abuse
The gentle artistic spirits of this planet.
May their passing be filled with howls and moans of pain
And the agony of the realization
That they treated good people badly.
Also let none come upon this memorial
With the intention of defaming it’s message.
They will suffer worse than the rest
For trying to think wicked thoughts into friendship.
The plague that overtakes them will be a curse
Not unlike the swelling of the brain,
And it will be called sheer stupidity.
So while the rest of the world festers in condemnation
Carry on the illumined life you have dedicated yourself to.
In the end a reward does wait.
True Story
I played some music, and it's like the same old shit. People hear it for the first time and think it's soo cool. Since the RIAA and Ticketmaster took over our "music industry," and decided who gets to be played on the radio, there have only been a few great bands make it. Yeah, it would be great if we had a massive cultural upheaval again, but instead we're sliding into oblivion. We're surfing down a mountain of garbage purchased with credit cards for 1000 times their real value, paying interest on bubble gum purchased in 1996 (which would now be worth $45 a stick if it hadn't been stuck under a theater seat by a girl with genital herpes).
It doesn't matter if I take down the eviscerated versions of my drug hallucinations at Angelfire. There's surely thousands of copies and caps by now, done by people who want a piece of destroying someone who has basically moved on. If I really cared enough I could just scan the originals. All the "poesy" bullshit is just a historical curiosity to me now. I haven't written anything new like that in 6 years (except maybe once or twice).
I imagine that at this point if I wrote a novel, and I thought it was good (which hasn't happened yet), then I would be happy even if I didn't make money. For me it's always been about the art. I must be one of a dying breed, or a race that became extinct. The commercialization of art is what has destroyed the inspirational progress of our society.
Rituals, below this post, was written when I worked at a very nice retirement community. It was a good job at the time. I made $4.25 an hour, and I slept through most of it. I was the night security guard. Wanna know how it ended?
A lady who lived across the parking lot killed her son late one night/early one morning. She stabbed him multiple times. She was on the phone with 911 while her child, who was still alive, was bleeding to death. She wouldn't tell them where she was, or couldn't, and tracing calls was extremely limited.
The baby boy died. I worked 250 feet away. She had neighbors in apartments on either side of hers. Nobody could save that child because nobody knew it happened. I couldn't take seeing the apartment door after that. It was in my line of vision unless I turned all the way around. It looked like the door to hell from where I sat.
Her maiden name was Mahoney. Her brother's name was Patrick Mahoney. He was involved in Operation Rescue, and was the primary organizer in 1992 at Delta Women's Clinic. Mahoney preached anti-abortion while his sister cut up her living child, until the child had no more blood left in him.
If that doesn't scream sanctity of life then I don't know what does. Squirt 'em out and dice 'em up. Thanks for the hatred and hypocrisy, to all the coward christocons who think the Bible is a manual for genocide against intelligent people.
I was going to post something for a sexy party, since I'm never going fully to sleep again as long as I live. That's not true. I'll probably be passed out within an hour. That's why I didn't want to look for something that was supposedly me on the Internet -- I would probably get a little ticked off if there was tape of me passed out while somebody wrote semen poetry on my face or some shit [yeah, I know that's gross. No shit.]
I guess what I'm saying is oops. I shouldn't have changed the blog header until I actually wrote something sexy. Cars, baseball, shedding dogs, key scratches in side of car - voila, no more sexy party.
It doesn't matter if I take down the eviscerated versions of my drug hallucinations at Angelfire. There's surely thousands of copies and caps by now, done by people who want a piece of destroying someone who has basically moved on. If I really cared enough I could just scan the originals. All the "poesy" bullshit is just a historical curiosity to me now. I haven't written anything new like that in 6 years (except maybe once or twice).
I imagine that at this point if I wrote a novel, and I thought it was good (which hasn't happened yet), then I would be happy even if I didn't make money. For me it's always been about the art. I must be one of a dying breed, or a race that became extinct. The commercialization of art is what has destroyed the inspirational progress of our society.
Rituals, below this post, was written when I worked at a very nice retirement community. It was a good job at the time. I made $4.25 an hour, and I slept through most of it. I was the night security guard. Wanna know how it ended?
A lady who lived across the parking lot killed her son late one night/early one morning. She stabbed him multiple times. She was on the phone with 911 while her child, who was still alive, was bleeding to death. She wouldn't tell them where she was, or couldn't, and tracing calls was extremely limited.
The baby boy died. I worked 250 feet away. She had neighbors in apartments on either side of hers. Nobody could save that child because nobody knew it happened. I couldn't take seeing the apartment door after that. It was in my line of vision unless I turned all the way around. It looked like the door to hell from where I sat.
Her maiden name was Mahoney. Her brother's name was Patrick Mahoney. He was involved in Operation Rescue, and was the primary organizer in 1992 at Delta Women's Clinic. Mahoney preached anti-abortion while his sister cut up her living child, until the child had no more blood left in him.
If that doesn't scream sanctity of life then I don't know what does. Squirt 'em out and dice 'em up. Thanks for the hatred and hypocrisy, to all the coward christocons who think the Bible is a manual for genocide against intelligent people.
I was going to post something for a sexy party, since I'm never going fully to sleep again as long as I live. That's not true. I'll probably be passed out within an hour. That's why I didn't want to look for something that was supposedly me on the Internet -- I would probably get a little ticked off if there was tape of me passed out while somebody wrote semen poetry on my face or some shit [yeah, I know that's gross. No shit.]
I guess what I'm saying is oops. I shouldn't have changed the blog header until I actually wrote something sexy. Cars, baseball, shedding dogs, key scratches in side of car - voila, no more sexy party.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Repent or Die