Poetry for the long and lustful...

Those darned kids

Cops got Mommy!
Run, get the guns!
Daddy said it'd happen,
and now look what they've done.
Our dogs are very hungry,
run policeman, run!
Mommy isn't crazy,
she only shows us love.

When they came and took her,
it was just as she'd said.
Now we gotta wonder
if they made Daddy dead.

They think they got us cornered,
but the dogs won't let 'en in.
Lilly pads and water?
A ton of food from friends.
Lucky we were born here,
unlike Elian.
Same amount of drama,
less Ameri-friends.

She told us it'd happen,
they'd take her far away.
Guns and dogs and groceries,
we're prepared to stay.

Too bad we weren't older,
and combat trained.
Automatic weapons.
Fuck the N.S.A.
C.S.D, they got us,
now Mommy is insane.
Refused to leave the prison,
refused to play their games.

When they came and took her,
it was just as she'd said.
Now we gotta wonder
if they made Daddy dead.
Ever and Change

the last fierce mile
and home like monsters mean
I quit that endless cycle
and slipped myself unseen
into fathom halls of pitch and night
snow, like stars, descending
and wan halos of disolving light
with gods no more ascending
and death, trauma, cyclopean fright
no lady here in this while
no fields, no fair, no stream
I quit that endless cycle
and left the sleepers to dream
the author no longer writes
and tribute so gone, forlorn
hands on the glass of mind and wight
as an explorer I am born
pillars see no faith
what we have forgotten, lost
but the never of hallucination
counts all of us its cost
farther extends the mile
and rather than fall, I fight
I quit that endless cycle
and left for endless blight

(I was spontaneous thusly)
The madness of King George the Second

Collapse in awe at the magnificence of his ignorance.
God how'd he get here?
Authorities proclaimed in a litany his inherent divinity,
provided by his "Pa".
Rehearsed in the art of diplomacy, the "Good ol' Boys" built a larger ring
thats tighter than before.

King George the Second
Rigged the "election"
and where is the outrage?
Little Georgie Dubya,
Texas might have loved ya'
or you'd have made 'em pay.

The globe is to be ruled forcefully by a boy in the throes of idiocy.
Where did we go wrong?
The struggle for freedom's been renewed, cold-war revival, hoarding of food....
and we elected him.

King George the Second,
Go on back to Texas,
your little Hell on Earth.
Little Georgie Dubya,
Texas might have loved ya,
but we think you're an ass.

Logic will not permeate his brain,
the sponge is full,
the mans insane.
A global joke with no punchline.
All kingdoms fall
in their own time.

fuck off, dubya.

Pick it up, put it down.
Fidget and smoke a lot.
Cruise uptown, cast feelers downtown,
throw a diversional riot then
pick up and go to town
then roam on home.
Smile and frown, smile and frown. Then smile.
Do that for awhile.
Then pace the floor.
Look up a lot. Stop short conversation
with imaginary knocks on the door.
Was that the phone?
Are you crazy or not?
Pick it up put it down,
fidget then smoke a lot.
Keep looking at the floor,
and the walls, and all the
pretty pictures and the ashtray.
Oh yeah, smpke again.
Look at the book spines
and remember what you forget.
Get up, sit down,
watch 3 different scenes
of 4 different movies
and don't decide or appease
for 6 more movies and
2 more cigarettes and
1 more glance at the door
and take 5 to decide
if we should do some more.
Don't forget to go pee
and remember to...was that the door?
Is the music too loud?
We're not listening to music?
Oh yeah, well then you decide because I can't.
Smoke, Repeat.
Jump up, fall down
delude yourself with ideas of sleep
and then get mad 'cause it's a dumb
idea 'cause you can't sleep
and I don't know how you over there can.
Pace again for a bit.
Drink more fluids and pee
and smoke while you pee because who cares?
Follow all your ideas to extremes and
beat them to death and
keep beating them to absolute zero fruition
then watch them all hide and hibernate
and oh, great
some are already forgotten, long lost.
Better not think about it.
Was that the door?
Now forget about the smoke
and let it burn wastefully away
in the overflowing ashtray.
Next time try calling smoke something else.
How about fag?
Fag. Smoke. Fag.
Stay highstrung out.
And then watch as
players fold and the eye sags.
Plod on pacing, smoking, racing
spacing until you're the last one left
and everyone else went home or passed out.
Suck back on a fag but don't go gay, okay?
And don't totally lose it, either.
Smoke and take a breather
and prepare yourself, as your last
friendly home buoy
is face down on the floor.
Go give him a kick, he's starting to snore.
Yet one thing's good - you don't hear the door anymore.
Small victory.
A lone insomaniac's twice a chore.
Now you must recognize
all the things that will probably materialize
in the next few hours
'cause now you're dedicated
to burning out your eyes
from staring at too many books and crosswords,
overexposure from hallucinations
alive in the apartment's small enclosure.
Colored blotches on the walls,
vibrating ledges
and insubstantial table edges.
Non-existent flying bugs darting
across your sight.
Remember to blink, alright?
Hell yes you're imagining
those haloes smeared across the light!
You've got at least two more cans of coke.
Play a lot of video games
inbetween daydreams
and extreme gaps of time taken
to pick out punk rock themes.
It seems
that smoking and music are the only things
you're not fed up with
but you're still so picky about choosing
that it still feels like your brain's losing grip.
Whatever you do - don't slip.
Go now,
and face off with yourself in the mirror
and drill holes through your forehead
beneath the gaze of your eyes ablaze.
Brush the enamel off your teeth
and scrape the wax out of your ears.
Shit, man, why not clean the whole place?
First. Pee. Then.
Smoke. Drink and repeat as needed
and get caught up pondering your place
in outer space
floating face up through time.
Climb this galaxy spinning a quick pace
and peep
and blink and look deep
into yourself
as far as it will suck you
and become a star - leap
graceful into the black of sleep.
A Long March

Time tick-tocks by
ticktocktick dropping stones.
Despite resistance we all
succumb to Gravity in the end.
Smoke and dust and exhaustion
cast-offs from a three day marathon
trudging through semi-delerium, stark clarity,
part-time catatonia and grinding teeth.
Bodies laze about
nodding off sometimes
but not everyone recoils into bones.
Not yet anyways.
Flicking sensuous shadows
the corners of vision weak and a little sick.
No intrusive light to mark the passing of days
through murky curtains all filmy.
Hours denied acknowledgment
and therefore existence, slammed
against the barrier as anonymous photons
soaked up by the house and ignored.
Can this room realy sparkle?
Are colors trembling, embracing
each other in a chromatic simmering?
Maybe once.
Maybe yesterday, an hour ago.
Maybe never. Always.
Maybe if I wish or just wait for it.
Policy Privacy

Bravus's respects about and the Services"). of the individuals information use privacy search engine services ("Bravus Search that Individually identifiable Bravus protectsand Cookies Bravus your your identifies first to piece Bravus sends a that to Bravus, computer. A cookie is a cookie of data Upon visitreset browsers when are set cookies to accept cookies. indicate can up your browser to refuse all You or to Most initiallyInformation Do Collect? What Weyour does knowingly not any when information about you and as unique name, email address, etc.) except (such you specifically Bravus collectto Other Links SitesSearch sites no displayed search over or linked to exercises

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Bravus, you must be the legal writer for the Fortune 500 company I am a slave to. After reading my rights in your "policy statement." I feel equally confused. I'm at the point of surendering my legal rights based on the frustration and an inability to communicate with those that directly hold sway over my destiny (e.g. Kafka's -"The Castle")

Is Limewire or Net Nanny hiring???

It's freezing
barren white tundra
nothingness to call home.
still as the cold, so cold
sitting, thinking
cryogenically alone.
Need somewhere
warmer, closer.
Heart numb with needles, bloodsicles
slow and frigid
pumping slushy cold crimson.
Cold, calculating
cryogenically alone
wishing i were
warmer, closer.
All wind and sleet
so empty, empty limbo
in the white white wasteland
void stretches far.
Travel slowed by the fear of
whiteness, coldness.
Trudge onward motionless
thinking of you.
Cryogenically alone.
Thinking only of you
warmer, closer.
Only you.

He works so long so hard
He puts his face on, his game face on
Social structure crumbling
He's demolishing himself yeah he's fumbling
The weeks are only getting longer
Self-isolated and he feels obligated
The strengths of all his friendships' getting weak
He's forgotten how to act how to speak

Something's wrong - he's alone
Don't belong - no one's home
He's been wronged - he's disowned
Been so long - no one phones

He takes his pills in secret
He needs the drugs to socialize he don't get out much
He's losing the ability to think straight
But he don't know another way he can participate
He can't escape his demons
He feels the pressing weight of futility
His emotions only half alive
He's losing altitude his life is in a nosedive

Something's wrong - he's alone
Don't belong - madness prone
It's all wrong - now he's stoned
Too far gone - to atone

All is lost, it's coming down
He's breaking up inside
It all comes pouring out
There's nowhere safe to hide

Something's wrong - I'm alone
Don't belong - all alone
Get me out - I can't wait
Help me see - my mistakes
Rescue me - from my hate
Set me free - change my fate
Something's wrong - I'm alone
I belong - bring me home
Junk-Pile Pantheon

Dressed in shovels and ribbons.
- Smoke for a daughter
- reflects off your eyes
- An attempted connection
- as straight as the pig flies

Favors cheap in a tin can shell.
- Less than illusory
- parachutes in the skies
- A misdealing failure
- bleeds a blue-ribbon prize

I can see vacancy.
- You deal tongue-dabbled tricks
- post-prophesized lies
- Sickle-cell laughter
- steals the depth from my cries

Ballads sung "Thy kingdom come".
- Tolkien balladeers
- sing soot-stained sighs
- Icarus descending
- while all Asgard dies

Your oven eats detente.
- Shiva-clad doomsayers
- Ragnarok on the rise
- Soft lashes flutter
- a cyclops disguise

I burn for The Moon.
- Entrenched in a war
- while a dead sun fries
- Faith is a solace
- like Pandora is wise
Slave to Truth

Wanting to shirk responsibility
is not a new
My slothful laziness
and undhindered gluttony
need no redundant adjectives.
They make me
and they are me.
Sense junky.
Experience pimp.
An observational prostitute.
Stuck in fantasy-saturated
whimsy - self induced.
Crying for release.
Disdain for necessity
wishing the necessity wasn't mine.
The deplorable truth of life,
that wicked ruler
of insane empires,
collective hive mind for
all the mandroids.
Punch in/out fade in/out
on/off pause/play/slomo/
Eat the tape
or better yet
record over it and
send it back unrewound.
Sometimes scared of late charges
sometimes scared to
submit to
My daughter is compiling a poetry portfolio for English at school, and asked me to write one for her. Her theme is something like 'princesses and castles'. This is what arose from my subconscious:

The Castle

David Geelan

Someone once said "A castle
Is like a swan – on the
Surface it looks as though it's
Floating serenely through time
But underneath it's paddling like

It's all very well for them upstairs
It's all balls (pardon my French)
Glass slippers and kissing frogs
For that lot

Meanwhile, who washes the ball dresses?
Makes ˜em too, for that matter
Bakes the bread and stuffs the swans
With larks' tongues?

And they might think their
Poop don't stink, but someone
Still has to empty the privies
And rinse out the garderobe

Still – to be caught up in a
Fairytale romance, with some
Fairytale prince, of royal blood
Carried off to his castle...

Ah, but then what? Maybe not
Baking the bread and shovelling
The shi... llings worth of horsepucky
But maybe...

Popping out half a dozen kids, quicktime
While he's off reducing some other
Poor woman's castle somewhere

And supervising the supervisors of
The supervisors of
Us downstairs, paddling like

Edit: first stanza fixed, voice conflict
Lament of the Aging Headbanger

I swore I'd never say the words
How much I used to hate ˜em
On mum and dad they sound absurb
I never could debate ˜em

"This modern music's full of trash!"
I hear myself exclaiming
"Not like the good old bash and crash –
It's hip-hop I am blaming!"

My mum and dad missed Mozart, Bach
Beethoven, Brahms and Schubert
While I miss all the heavy rock
I played while playing Q-Bert

Metallica and Anthrax rocked
My world when I was youthful
But my parents Iron Maiden blocked
And others to be truthful

I said I'd never say it, to my own beloved children
But must admit today I find, their music too bewildren
Envy the footsoldier of insecurity
wields a poisoned spear.
Pitched battle in bloodied mud,
yields fallen souls not victory.

Envy also the seductive whisper of doubt,
Leaving no question as to sincerity of friendship.
A dark secret smile and tender caress;
One is left with the Devil's gold.

Envy cold sleeps alone,
Coverless mattress made of straw,
Rest eludes the gathering hours,
While she feeds and grows her powers.

Envy is a cruel temptress beautiful but soiled,
She wears tattered velvet, black and spoiled,
Which moths have made their kitchen and den.
Envy asks to dance again.

Surprise! I knew all along it'd be you
You're a liar when you smile
so I knew before the shit flew

What the fuck ya wanna fuckin' wanna
try this what goes?
You fuckin' shut up dissed!
Walk around with a look and a bent nose

And it's funny when it breaks
because you slip and your face shows
So fucked up god only knows

I didn't wanna end up how we planned it
Couldn't realize it was fucked up sense
You know I'd never doubt you'd try it out being a bandit
pointing all along through a barbed wire fence

Yeah are you gettin me
fucker are you shittin me?
You think I wouldn't punish you
for trying to belittle me?

I'm not the only one here to have regrets
Sure I think I'm special sometimes
No one likes to lose I must admit I'm fuckin sick of it
These aren't by far my worst of crimes
I'm leaving it the fuck with it
swallow it and spit
Savour all the flavour for those fucked up times

Yeah muthafucka yeah come on down
Yeah muthafucka yeah bring it on down
Yeah muthafucka it was me I fuckin said it
Yeah muthafucka yeah let's get down.
She Sings Event Horizon

to be alone is the fate of all great minds-
a fate deplored at times,
but still always chosen as the less
grievous of two evils
- Schopenhauer

She is worshipped.
They are lined up, nearly bursting
to see, to hear, to experience
her singing redemption as if it were
proof or approval.
A valediction attesting to the reality of their emotions
and dispelling the fear that may have been imaginary.
She has a voice that kills or rather
makes you want to embrace pain.
Fading away to that silky voice
slinking through my head
leaving subtle deposits of solace
deep, profoundly inspiring.
A paradigm of melancholy washing
over in purple nighttime waves.
Calming, cold.
Striking, soothing, sensuous uplifting.
The crush of gathered bodies promising
their eternal love in return for her voice,
moarnful bliss.
The barely contained passion of this growing
mass threatens to destroy the theatre's very foundations.
A mingling assemblage flashing smiling pristine teeth
in a murmuring thunderstorm of controlled laughter
dancing on the threshold of hysterical giddiness
with the unsteady movements of the fallen-in-love.
I can nearly feel, physically,
the excitement stirring on the cusp of a revelation,
the impression of foriegn sojourning air
freeing fur-feathered birds from a stagnant sleep.
A whisper of the fantastic unknown, innerspace charged with restless ions humming an invisible subatomic mosaic in Brownian motion.
Unseen activity skin deep inciting
gooseflesh to surface and the
little hairs to riot
along my arms and the nape of the neck .
A permeating energy cajoling a warmth, a vibe,
a common joy i've never before witnessed
yet now it occurs in and all around me, through me
like magnetic fields in orgasm
spastic and enamoured with hyperactivity.
Forces of energy forming a slow whirlpool,
picking up speed and momentum and pulling my mental clarity with it
expanding my consciousness dreamlike in all directions.
A dizzy churning of faces i recognize impossibly.
Like past lives.
Former glory and sorrow bottled in a
surreal melange of infinate familiarity
flowing throughout the realization
of never seeing these faces before now
spiralling through milky strands of possibilities
like a web, pearlescent and inviting in sunbeam truths.
And a sense of belonging swells towering,
and spills over the walls of forbidance
removing me from fear until, filling the room
heavy, no heavier than gravity
She sang.
She sang in sweet sombre
Her voice coating like syrup,
simmering and stewing around and past me
on unseen undercurrents, deep chords.
Sucking fulfillment out from hardship
and leaving something unattainably more subtle,
more total in its place.
Leaving me alone now and alienated among these bodies
this rushing river of tangeable achievement
and deepest loss.
Overwhelming me with strange feelings,
unspecified urges.
Unprepared-for suggestions, pervasive and impossible to relate.
Sirenic lashings of languid power like the
licks and flickerings of a tongue dripping Nirvana.
A miracle flogging me
disguised in mundane fashion
dressed in tears and guile, innocence and victory
eluding words, making them inept, clumsy.
And at the heart of it all, lurking always
in the shadows and the bleeding edges
of blurred panoramas,
a loneliness, xenomorphic and paralyzing,
a torturous consuming terrible need to
\fill in my empty space,
for a warm body to share these feelings,
this ecstacy, these vibrations.
The skin's yearning to trade carresses with another intelligence
rich with attracting intoxicating femininity.
Sultry glimpses of mischievious temptation
and the spell lets up on its long leash of paralysis
to let me gaze upon sariphs.
and once again i'm spiritually wounded.
So many angled faces defying symmetry as
they redefine its perfect illusion.
Alluring intelligent lucid eyes
threatening to swallow me up, strike me dead
with overloading longing, desparation.
I've never gazed on such sensuous mouths' faint partings
where the whisper of Xanadu drifts out to encircle
my helplessness and spear it to the ground.
Such systematically diverse curvatures
of pale throats, gradual bends and arcs in transcendant apogees.
Slow sloping clefts joining noses
and those full red pink black chains of
sexually enslaving lips.
Sculpted faces synchronized
with framing locks of dark hair
soft like cats, like ropes
molded in moonbeams, frosty with luminous beauty.
These supernatural-seeming angels
surrounding and staggering beauty's concept
with a singularly cosmic aprobation
leaving me reeling to deal with the
consequences of glimpsing perfection.
A beast implanted in my heart
ripping with despairing claws,
chewing on my sad ventricles and atria.
I'm soaked in a power
drowsy like a fog stealing sunrays,
monochromatically sapping the sky
of pastels and transforming them into
slates, charcoals, violet like night killing colour
shrouding the world, twilit mists swirling time
and for an instant, a glimpse of
destiny's darting eyes and the possibilty of
maintaining an arm's length from interaction with them.
And i sink lower into what
has the taste of dream you cannot wake from.
A nightmare you don't neccessarily want to wake from,
cringing in the bald face of dawn.
Her voice bares me in full,
slowly converting my essence into the
liquid diamonds she sings of.
Molecular-level fireflies glowing
and dissolving into something like fairydust
settling over me like a shimmering snow
all silvery and sighing.
And she sings like a bell
shattering me with sense-bliting force
picking me up, unfettered, as a bee
fat and fuzzy in an Oz-like cyclone.
Refusing to let me forget home by paving the way back
with grey monolithic sadness.
Strapped to this chair watching dreams unravel before my eyes.
Wanting to let spring tears
and keeping them inside not daring into
presumptuousness and refraining from
imposing on the tears already pouring free
from all these eccentric vixens
exotic, shunning cheerleader molds.
Soul-starved-searching women
i know must harbor feelings and sensations
dripping with poignancy that dwarf my own
demoting my loneliness to a much lower rank.
My feelings insult the colours of their hearts.
I'd never dare to ration away from
such an intrinsic joy of sadness and sorrow's fumblings.
I'll reabsorb my salty inclinations
in a well deep inside me
where they can pool and lay dormant
awaiting a turn to stone to
crack and shrink, re-expand
in changing weather to finally crumble
in the cursed and presumtuous prison of my own advent.
Deep down burried with everything else
with nothing for my bereavement to lay with
and hold onto, become, share.
Just a spreading petrification like a virus.
Hoarded with a dragon's zeal to overwhelm me
from the inside out.
Crowding around my heart, poised, an assassin
waiting, numbing, tainting,
but saving that heart for last.
That weak and crippled, diluted
stuttering, hooded feeble heart
awaiting a blissful salvation from my
suffering homage,
a solemn surrender into itself
into a grave of my own cultivation.
The only plot i could ever hope
to achieve such totality and refinement,
my anguish finally worthy and appeased within
my own barony, my own body, my own brain
mny own chosen burden.
The soul province where my voluntary ostracism
can more than nourish me
where grief and love are fine robes of fire
unquenchable and isolated from invaders of mercy.
My grim gates closed black and pointed with vanity
cruel barbs sharp and ready to impale.
Stoic, spearheaded sentinals on guard,
silent and ankle-deep in the random bones
of my undisciplined urges.
The casualties of my conscience strewn about,
lifeless bodies of cowards who tried traitorously
to flee my sanctuary during the besiegment
and now lying twisted and broken,
all victims to the pain and empty love
caged and fortified,
jealously owned with awesome ambition.
The dream of a peaceful disposition
now free to mourn, undisturbed by guilt or movement,
claiming the throne of my atonement.
Satisfaction I've waged desparate war for.
I am an island amidst wasted plains,
barren and desolate voids,
dry lands I once resided in now forsaken and terrible.
Morbid protection from the world
until my honed and consentrated
wretchedness rises, blaing to a searing radience
a monstrous release
of pent up negativity,
critical mass emotional exodus.
The product of my life finally let loose
on my terms in blinding brilliance.
Supernova of solidarity sublime and bolstered
becoming exponentially-endowed destiny.
A supreme transcendence
and She sings a chain reaction
heralding my self immolation with a crescendo
of harmonics rendered in megatons.
Fanfare like atomic drums
assailing the world in waves of vaporization
razing the universe from my oasis of
harnessed apocalypse
the big bang eating up the spineless enemies
fleeing the assured swiftness of Event Horizon,
my world eater impetus.
And at that time when the universe dies
will the underlying faith in my abstainence
of life shield me from prescribed doom?
Will the prized possession of unmatched
arrogance yield a final insult?
Will I emerge as a pheonix?
Perhaps I'll be the only surviving evidence
of a reality collapsed or so deformed
from that time that I'll cease to represent
anything at all.
And perhaps in another plane in another
time and space I can Fade with and into you
and relish all these emotions in a
unified ecstasy of expression.
Her singing stops and I will never know
but I'm forever scarred, polarized and
imprinted with perminent wounds
to be cherished over skin
rubbed and re-lived.
Creation and obliteration savoured
in an endless repetition.
Deified, she sings Event Horizon.
Loves spiral ascends upward
through muck and mire. The mundane
it transcends obliquely, casting shadows
into fire.
Nothing hides, nor can be hidden for long
from her constant stare.
With no intent, or will she's driven. Blindly
claiming what is her share.
To feed on life among the living
provides her with infinity to chart
a course amid the willing, fossilized
for all to see. Fables,
lies and fantasy, pad her repoitore.
Even claims of lunacy beach
their ships upon her shore.
A fickle mistress she's thought to be, and
at times that may be true. She's
cut a swath in history with
her eternal youth.
Glorified, commodified, sanctified. Traded
like shares of stock.
Marketed and customized. Real,
or complete crock?
What I think of her is meaningless, a word describing
nothing. Her changing me has been
endless, and real I am becoming.
Call me a misfit.

Purgatory of the mind,
Suffer cognitive decline.
Empathy, not practiced here.
One soul drowns, all others clear.
Socialized, we're told "Obey!"
I refuse to live that way.
Think of me what you will,
I won't digest that bitter pill.

I've evolved to independence,
Independently evolved.
Within mine entity,
all problems solved
apart from you,
are a part of me.

All problems solved apart from you are a part of me.

Call me a misfit,
call me a loser.

US-by Boogerhead.

Disposition toward imposition
burning all we see
enforcement of a false position
militant hypocracy
paid in blood this tense attrition
fighting wars for peace
humanities a morbid condition
sickness for all to see
to blame us all on happenstance
subscribes to entrophy
to see it all in single glance
encrypted impossibly

humanity is plague
inherently insane
historically inane

The distinction of extinction
flung at weak species
a word describing intervention
of the human beast
agriculture, "god" and man
the three invented war
now it all seems slight of hand
a phantom at our door
indecision and lack of wisdom
have left us in the dark
nowhere to turn, nowhere to run
this plague will leave its mark
the imperfection of our condition
will forever test our will
at times it seems to me we're climbing
a neverending hill.
Oceanic-By Boog
Controll issues evident in every human being.
A sympton of mortality, shuffled coils feed.
Manipulation of the unknown, purely physical means.
Saving nothing; time nor soul. Impossible it seems.
"Might makes right" this human creed, a long an narrow path.
To pick a fight will seem obscene, amidst the aftermath.
Anger as motivation has accomplished this
superior, elite nation, drowning in it's piss.
Society as a whole has failed all but selected few.
Controlling all of our well being. Bitter, rancid truth.
"gods" and myth have led us here, traitors one and all.
Thinking for ourselves, we're told, is pride before the fall.
"Fighting the good fight." fullfills our pshchic need
to subjigate our own kind and propigate our seed.
In this respect we are the same as dogs or chimpanzees.
Nothing ever blessed this race, we are the planets fleas.
Mother earth begins to scratch, an earthquake or a flood,
will not have been the first or last ocean full of blood.

drowned suffocated surrounded.
Shaken violently
like from a drunken raging
father who screams
"Goddammit Joe where the hell's
my bottle 'o Johnny Walker Joe!?!
Where's that goddam bottle
you little fuckin' whelp you?!?
I know you drank it Joe!
Joe. Please Joe.
Help your old man out here Joe.
Goddammit where's that
fuckin' bottle Joe!?!"
Forced to bare witness to
an onslaught like that
like right now when
thoughts are stampeding, rampaging
Help me out.
Totally shocked into idle vulnerability.
Self-induced terrorism but
I sure never asked for this.
Screaming for stability,
yearning bleeding
totally satisfied with this happiness.
The happiness of
this grief, this anguish.
Confused like a pup in the wild
stepping onto snow for the very first time
and plunging down into a leghold trap.
Isn't that just like life.
Confusion over the raw truth.
Of loving to hate
and hating to give
and giving to be sane.
Satisfactory malcontent.
Helpless to brutal emotional lashings.
Beaten into delerium
and nursed back
to do it all over again.
Annointed by myself after
I've ripped me apart.
Dissected for the fun of it
and not even bothering to examine
at what's laid out on the table.
Sado-masochistic victim
being blindfolded and plugged into emotions
pure with no pictures.
Hunted down for sport.
How utterly terrifying to be
afraid of something indefineable
that spurns words or even concepts.
Pure feeling irrationally alive
manifest beyond fear itself.
Threatening to engulf you into
the incomprehensible void.
The oblivion of never feeling just one thing.
Such mesmerizing agony to feel them all at once
reducing me to wait out the storm.
Drip drip drip afterwards reminding
fading taunting tormenting
warning of it's destructive potential.
Breathe deep.
Inhale like you woke from a bad dream
only it's not any dream.
Just absorb the sensation and
don't think too hard oh no, never I tell you.
Emerging from a war
a battle, a duel, a deathmatch
with none of your friends anywhere
in the crowd of combatants.
Too stunned to even wonder
how you're still standing in the silence.
Covered in blood not oyurs
well maybe a little.
Don't ever wonder why
just stand still for a minute
and register that such a thing could happen.
Did happen.
You're still standing.
Though I thy Mithridates were,
Framed to defy the poison-dart,
Yet must thou fold me unaware
To know the rapture of thy heart,
And I but render and confess
The malice of thy tenderness.

For elegant and antique phrase,
Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;
Nor have I known a love whose praise
Our piping poets solemnize,
Neither a love where may not be
Ever so little falsity.

James Joyce, "Chamber Music" Canto XXVII


Round-faced children
wearing baby fat and designer-label uniforms
wearing pig-tails and too many zippers.
Predators with PhD's or nametags
among a people who tell themselves
their failures could only happen in future dreams.

Sensationalists scream murder
and scour milk carton tabloids
shopping baskets
filled with TV guides and
water in overpriced faux-french labelled
plastic bottles.

When we were young
the forests were bursting
with sticks shaped like weapons.
Red Dawn in the back yard.
No one could afford a waterpistol
that wasn't an outrageous orange.
Ignorant of tragic warning shots.

Cops jumpy of anything black and hand-held.
If you walk around in Vancouver,
misty twilight dappled by red and blues,
don't pick up a poor dead cat to remove it
from the middle of the street.
It looks more like a machinegun
than a human head might.


New definitions.
Golly, Yessir, No ma'am, Doggone, swell
Top 'o the morning, At your service.
Pimp, Nigga, Suck it, Po-Po, All 'at ass
You sumkinda fag? Go fuck your mother.

Actions of evolutionary time.
Walk you home from school?
Go steady at the sock-hop.
Carry your groceries, miss?
Beat up that chink on the way home.
Passed her a roofie, she said yes.
Whatta you lookin' at bitch!?


I remember stories about
people who told stories 'round the fire.
I never saw a person like that
and our own stories were too busy
getting fed full of fodder lies
of what stories were supposed to be like.
When Chris Watson's turn came
he didn't have a story to tell
because there just wasn't time
and even worse for Robin Powers
because he forgot how to do it.

Kids with radar-jammed eyes
and calcium-deficient bone-encased sponges
like little storybook leeches.
Dreams desparately retained in tax-hike futility
the kind of dreams where they got
white puffy cartoon gloves and
even the wasps are cute.
Glazed over eyefulls of
future dreams profiteered
but never taught.
Imagineered in third-world sweatshops
at bargain basement prices.
I'm afraid of Andrew Lobbley
when he's old.
Pathetic like storybooks wouldn't dare scare up.
Even the dead are smiling.
Andrew breaking off low-cost reality
because he's invested too much.


Kids playing russian roulette with
cellphone utopias during recess.
Trade the poor kids processed lunches for
the answers that the finaced 4-year-leased kids
don't need to care about.
The needy are forbidden now to dream
in order to save room
for those who despise dreams but
enjoy amassing real estate.

New disorders everyday.
Mutations or cash-resistant varieties.
Growing out of places unclaimed from neglect.
Whose myths are these?
Distress(c) and Depression(TM) and Suicide Bombings LTD.
Hip prescriptions and
Elders' Past Ignorance Inc. turned Substance Abuse(PG-13).
My cat died of cancer.
This developement scares me.

(in my own eyes, this one gets better with age. i can't say that about everything i've offered here.)

I pace the room
aggressive and volatile a caged animal
barbarian raider
all set to rape and plunder
burn and rob and bathe in blood
of enemies i've never met.
The anxiety screws in all rust-grudgingly.
I am walking in the shoes
of heavy tension legs pumping napalm
ATP overdrive
clocking through G's.
I am the pilot with malice teeth
depersonalized destroyer with 80mm rotary guns
laser-giuded bombs of insecurity
discontent-ridden motivations.
Factory of overflowing neuroglycerine
fueled by uranium-235.
Multistage maniac with rapid-fire moodswings
set free to rampage.
Clearcut slahed and burned ground up spit out
my hate
the world made of stone.
I am a tool hiding
in the shed
empty junk cans and discarded curiosities
eras dead forgotten forcibally altered
hating the stone for its hardness
and the chips and the gouges
and the blunt of my blade.
I have to say I'm quite fond of the haiku sometimes. I had a creative writing teacher in high school who made us do them for a week or two, and I started to really enjoy them. Some kind of zen... something.

Two more hours dark
Will I ever sleep again?
Do I really care?

This chair is too hard
Body parts are goling numb
Maybe I should move

Why are you so sad?
Wipe your tears and smile now
In time all will pass

Those are just off the top of my head, and I've actually heard a few different rules on the syllable thing, but is form really all that important?
You used to look at me like you couldn't believe how you were - lucky,

you couldn't believe it.

Now, when I ask you for things, you sigh and hold your tongue, like holding a belt one hole too tight,

breathing in

breathing out

you turn to me, and I fit against your side without us noticing,

a spy, an intruder, taking something from you and not knowing how to return it, not knowing that I should.

I can't believe it, I can't.

I've seen the TV shows, read the magazines, I've read the novels and seen the plays.

This won't work.

This will not work.

I'm restless in the summer.

It won't let me in.

When armpit night drops onto us
Like the lid onto the saucepan
Of our room
And I look down to the clamp of
You like a sheet I can't peel
Off, another layer of skin.

You, my secret Siamese twin.
We are another part of me to be
Uncomfortable with.

Myself – an anchor with chain
Until, waking, this sticking passes
Every touch is the back of your thighs
Ripping from the seat,
The fire in the room next door
The mark of the handle in your palm
You can't get out
We are done.

Then I wake – the morning greets us,
A gap-toothed smile of childish clouds,
More myself,
Only smoke rising.

More now like the cupping of hot mugs
Between our hands,
A touch to answer questions, solve mysteries
A tiny kiss on the end of my nose
I pull you closer and tighter still
I won't let go.
(crazy inspiration from the shower?!)

Kansas City
like Gehenna
looms large on the horizon
as we
flail wildly over the speed limit
passing signs for Burger King
and off-Broadway shows.

The car next to us,
vintage yes.. some unnamable year,
housing a geezer
lost in a world he didn't create
as I
inhale deftly
in carefully practiced fashion
on a Marlboro
and sip on Mountain Dew
and Gin

New music on the box
(we're city-side now)
and passing over a bridge
as Pakistani children
there below
with broken bottles and
empty bullet casings
I think
"Yeah, life, this and now."

Exhale now
glad that I have a girlfriend
that gives road-head
A quarter-mile of my life lost
in the blind afterimage
of a tire-rubber orgasm
comfortable knowing
that she swallows,
has money,
considers menage a' trois

Over the hill now
and a deer carass
flayed on the side of the road
stares glassy-eyed at us
through the early frames
of home movies
animated between passing semi trailers,
mini vans,
and Fed Ex

Take that exit, yeah
drop us into Ghetto Life
like hookers into their underwear
after the John is done
and we drive,
like she plods,
on to the next stop
Some concert
a party maybe

Now the bigness of Westport,
its sin heavy in the air,
comes upon us as
the buzz hits
and miles have been slain
in hours
fake ID's ready we charge
into the breach
in a lasting war
against the man

We finish this
our kid-ness
all grown up
in back alleys hitting the pipe
daring death
tempting viruses
living loud
so loud
mirroring the city
injesting action like ganj

And ADD a'int got nothing
on me
'cause I got the pill
and when I get my gold watch
when my life begins
I won't fail to see the flowers
but that's a long way off
and the trees are brown here
not much to look at

-vec doing the spontaneous thing yet again.
Lost and Found

Body cast off
and leaving the flies to devices.
I turned off that meat
and left behind the weight.
Can you sense this change
in a man who shirks his context?
Digital rematerialized
and binary forms lurking.
RADAR pinging for a lock
searching a nexus for
a pattern of you.
Download new flesh
and latching on to your motion.
Baited breath and turning on to
synchronous frequencies.
A transitory trojan horse
is this Love or Coveting?
Fools lovers predators victims
bleeders and flailers.
Intimate or distantly severe
immersed in shifting streams.
Non-local transformations and mutated shapes
grabbing new power and
plummeting with the ecstasy.
Scrutiny blinders
as I double-click on your face
press harder
press harder.
Can only press so hard
but can look as deep as
blood on the keys.
Myth can't handle the load,
mirrors and fission,
trapped restlessly on this
the mortal coil
transience and pressure

Enter reflection
times of mourning past
when upon a construct
constructed upon
baselines defined
spiritus in machina

binary objects rendered
mother load of evolution
descending on the jacker,
the high lighter,
casual observer,
descending on the religious

Three dimensions' illusion
pervasive and complete
here visually, the audio sublime
and reality drops the bottom out
while legend creates
static mesh

So adoption and adaption
those trained to massage divination
from tea leaves
in trance
an entrail...
find new paths
in the computational

Jesus in the photon
Buddha the particle wave
Allah the compassionate,
the nuclei
holler new age
techno-babble polyglot
mission and persistence

Shout 'Download!'
bring information god-head
pain, like capitalism
invisible in the mass
of movement and commerce
destiny defined
in lines of code

It is sanguine
more human than human
no heaven here
only the machine
our master the packer
our priest the programmer

To revert in time
or coalesce, transmit
or mimic the spider
and create webs of our own?

-vec (between classes on the spontaneous again)

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