Category: Poetry

They’re not there to pick you up
In fact it’s just the opposite

Like the little lamb stuck for
A split second before momma struts,
Then taps, then pounds, the ground
1 in 9, she hits, that sound

All the world’s your stage
In those tiny walls

Silly willies strutting through your mini malls
while calypso music streams,
in your fetid wet dreams

Those worn seams on your mini-skirt
Seems to have attracted a micro-stream,
scream, ding-a-ling,

Ding-dong. Macro-aggression. 
Master then micro-control your shamalangadingdong

Everything I sing will be to your misgiving
Micro-offense, to give the chance of defense

Rather than spell your negligence
Rock on the wall of your space fence

Even the old ladies speak of your diligence
Those frogs-a’cooking make a mad stench

Then, rock the wall of dense S-Oil
See who lasts a fortnight
Or, at all

Why?
Not because we care, at all
If, Boredom as our Master never spoke
Or, Soul as our deepest Mystery never woke

You sold the lie you bought the lie doesn’t really matter the lie is still the lie

Why we dance, to the song, or to the bullet

Aces & Eights, we do the hokey pokey, that’s what it’s all about

The game of fates, of soul’s lost-lost souls

paying the ultimate cost

Bored with the plants and the bees and the truely finer things

Driven to their greater, that they call the stars, life on Mars, mason jars

I had a once upon a time

At the very birth of the days of rhyme, and reason

And its nature, they are of season

Like the figure 8 times 9, like chimes

Me for you, and you for me, and all one big happy family

Should I catch a shooting star?  Should I bring it where you are?  I will.

The cost of being good company,

a dying pathetic cacophony of never could’s and never wills

I don’t like when they feel sorry for me

They just don’t see, it’s Persephone calling, and she needs my company

Don’t worry, I know her well

her cries and colors don’t scare me anymore

I know her toll strikes loud and hard

Her bite stings and her rhythm so slow

an excruciatingly low tempo

But, I dry her tears and she dries mine

and when the tears turn to sobs, she does not turn away

She is not afraid

There’s but one beam, or thread, how to say

The mind-buoyed

I know to trust, to bring me back up, someday

How do I know

It’s her colors, her subtle deep dark tones that tell me so

The dark gentle giant of the undertow