The stream (all workshops)
`
the old crow
that blotted out the sun
perched upon a fencepost
and made faces
I have only ever seen
with nose pressed
against the pane
as I spied
ochred leaves
straddle the spine
of a willing breeze
to where tomorrow
could not yet be
`
The truth is boring… is it not
What fires, the mind of man incurs,
scheming such an unworthy writ.
Can evil so temper the imagination,
be given over to an uncaring wit.
Crying from high, sounds saintly,
actions are strewn as devilish cur.
Inside can burn an insipid hatred,
control is as always solid, with Sir.
I carry not the burden of genius,
this I forgo for a sense of being.
Feel their blades plunge the back,
turn, look, see cowards fleeing.
The poor new newspaper said
Oh yah
now I can paint the rain
And people will believe me
The richest one said
Oh no
And I can invent people who would support your news
So what do you think?
The poor newspaper said
Cool
Let us play with nuts and dumb heads
The richest news said oh no
Don’t say that
But say
Let us wash some empty minds
and drive the intelligent ones to madness
but
think of how much money we can make
pitting the madness against the void
I won't have time to post this Monday. Perhaps I'll be forgiven for posting it today
My memory takes me way back when
I was maybe six or eight
a Memphis city kid back then
I know that I could hardly wait
Tomorrow this tow-headed son
goes hunting rabbits with his dad
I just know it's going to be fun
having heard tales since a wee lad
How can I hope to go to sleep
on this cold night in bed so warm......
Wake Up! Time to out of bed creep!
rabbits await and nearly swarm!
bend me with this
crimson crush
you twist me in your heady lush
I churn desired
and admonished
darkness cherish
onyx
and lash
bite the torrent
words that flow
and worship
pain that exstacy
extracts below
made me kneel
make me heal
That guy who just flipped you the bird
showing his road rage, the turd
Sundays he's on the deacon's bench
a good man to know when in a pinch
The gray haired man in suit and tie
a banker, hard glint in his eye
each evening hits a different bar
and picks up hookers in his car
See the laborer with crooked teeth
scratch his surface and look beneath
in evenings he carves wood by hand
his figures in museums stand
Blood Summons
Garnet beauty issues its liquid invitation
sometimes, calling from miles away.
The summons offers enticement to my inclinations.
Lust rolls over me like the chaotic advance
of a lynch mob, intending to overwhelm my senses.
On the scent, soon I will be fully caught up in its power,
helpless to break the spell of the blood lust until unrestrained,
I strike again...
His masculine frame heaved up and down
while he tilled the soil with passion
burrowing his plough lustfully
making furrows in its fertile folds
to sprinkle the seeds within her womb
to be conceived in the warmth of her succulent flesh
yielding to his fervent desire
for baby corns...
With beads of perspiration running down his spine
he wipes the plough of the sated soil
before carrying his masculine frame home
to a hungry wife, a welcome bed
for an encore...
I was told
She ballsed it up
for the rest of us,
led Adam astray,
messed up
God's glorious
Creation.
Can you hear God,
chuckling?
He loves her
best of all
for making
the first Choice,
for birthing
'The Fall'
Exercising
her free will,
paving the way
for us all to
Create
An infant’s dream possessed by darkness.
Taste its newborn scars.
Lost, with a future gone before birth.
Clandestine memories shattered
in the blink of blinding eyes.
Savage welts blister, upon the foul angels skin.
Broken wings celebrate the dark insurrection
into a glorious destruction.
Dissolved visions plan a vengeance
unbeknown to the victim.
A silver moon sits atop the world
as tadpoles race to their doom.
Creeping fantasies buried
under the secret corners
of her virginal mind’s eye.
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