Trained in
Self-betrayal
It's not that sex is sin, bad for
moral purity,
or euphoric nature's gifts an
affront on
All That Is Holy.
(Biblical disposition adapted
to
Providential vision, a biased
capitalism
based on self
abnegation
rather than a healthful view of
wealth.)
A powerful profit model built
upon
slavery of responsibility to
dependents --
sex for such purpose must issue
descendants.
Hopelessly hooked on corporate
licensed medicine,
treadmilled to produce high-cost
enriching energy.
See our computer graphic
charts:
"A work of Art!" too valued to
despoil with your
(I'm sure)
busy little lives. Education
must
align with labor needs projections
--
hiding useful information behind
well
developed lies.
(So be assured, these words will
fade as you awaken.)
Virulent slime fed in work
stations and schools,
popular entertainment
snacks,
our patented brew,
captivating memes
blow through airwaves, as your
lives hurry through.
It can't possibly be slavery if we
make you believe:
You own you.
Schooling
Rites
Circle 'round the
weak;
teach 'em as we were
taught
to keep to the place we're
given
(not by a just universe, ha
ha)
by the right of what we
hold
by will, skill, better
weapons.
Didn't sign no social
contract
of mutual respect.
The rights we expect
are
to live as best we can
until
we don't.
Teach the little ones as
we
have grown to learn
--
the wages to be earned are
paid
in lies. The riddle we
devise
to satisfy our rage is played
upon
the prey we find
to circle 'round
today.
Nature
Cure
The wild has been bred out of
us.
We are creatures bent to city
form.
Citizens of common
culture
down graded along the main
stream,
abraded to fit
today's fashion
scene.
Wild instructions tug
deep,
feed bloodlines
unappeased,
misnamed disease.
Cross
Purpose
At time's crossroads, Reason
drowns
in rage, pain,
irradiated rain, treasonous
air.
Weary of care, of
punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing
men
robbed of their right to give
birth.
Taken from Mama's warmth,
from
the cave, to play
brave.
And it's ladies' choice as you
squirm
in fool's corner.
Such a chore -- kissing at
this
and that for a chance to
score
the shame, the blame from
stuck-out
tongues, the bloody
laughter.
"I could bite off that little
thing -- make
you squat to pee."
Wired to fight, at any
cost,
because, of course, the Cross
proclaims
"We're right. They are inherently
wrong."
"Those below must be taught to
obey
our superior tools, to be
broken,
that we may ride."
Against our better fate, our race
divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature devised to make us
strong.
Marching
On
I give my wandering
children
Anger to protect you from
pain
Rage to ameliorate
agony
Fear of what folks won’t
explain
Fraught laughter to counteract
tragedy
Music to move you to
heal
Theater to unite what we
feel
that vague sense that nothing is
real ...
Lost at an indistinct edge made of
snow
Unsure where we’ve come from, with
nowhere to go
Beggars and bullies and braggarts
and whores
iron chains on our windows in
rooms with no doors
Fire roams freely, unleashed by
cruel wars,
feeds forever on days we will
never see,
worlds we will never
be
given
Raising
Hell
Not true sacred
magick.
Cynical sleight of
hand
turns sweat and
dreams,
lives of desperation
into neat bundles of
greed.
But the pain burns
through
not content to be
twisted
into fast cars, high-stakes
games,
brilliant careers in
glad-handing.
It wants its payment.
False wizards of arrogant
charm
play with chthonic
forces
more angry and deadly than
flame.
Unaware of the cursed
seeds
they cultivate,
strangling life force from
below.
Unsupervised children
playing with matches,
grizzled and gray as some may
appear,
laugh at the bright
spectacle
as homes burn.
The balance is always
paid.
Magick is never free.
Will the lesson ever sink
in?
Be careful what you
conjure.
Support Our
Troops
Bravery?
What if they gave a
war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break
down,
crush frightened
nestlings
to dust.
We meant to serve our
nation.
We meant to save liberty,
defend
threatened treasure,
staunch
guards against
disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice,
deference of
our fathers, mothers, sisters,
brothers
for the respected
life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome emolument of
pleasure.
How could we consent, become
executors
of horror so intense
as to reverberate, capture our
remaining
consciousness?
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never
heal?
God is on the battle
field
not as commanding general nor
emboldening mascot,
as witness
and gentle minister
of tragic rites
to shattered
soldiers.
spoils
plenty good money to be
made
selling migrant
children
(lost in "the
system")
to be sex slaves
pre-speech babies worth even
more
can't complain or
explain who they were
and America/Christianity/humanity
slips further into shame
and murder of what was believed
to be our soul
so many more small
voices
the whine is
deafening
Yo no puedo
nada, nunca
All’s too much a
chore
The human world is running out of
days
running out of time, and
place
running down, fading
Take what you are
craving
while you can
Running, enclosed in wind and
ecstasy
tumbling through hills and
streams
touching ebullient songs and
stories I
mind made from scores of
memories
Fairy Queens in fabulous fashion,
perfumed theatrical, fountain of
care and flame
Here, decades before stir of
storms destroyed,
bliss and pain drum rattle refrain
humming in time
Would you listen? Would you call
for intermission
to tell me to go on, to give form
to cast impressions,
would you hear?
Would you share precious dialog,
help to make clear
notes and tones adrift in
unwritten air?
darkening, forward escaping,
suffocating forests can
offer no refuge, no future breath,
no better fate
We cry our deep and enduring hate,
love, revenge
falling backward
sacrifice
Why would a woman
risk
death or other bodily
terrors,
social exposure to all the slings
and arrows
of frenzied hate,
to end her unborn’s
fate?
She is protecting her child, like
a good mother does,
despite her own
suffering,
protecting her innocent from this
horrid world,
from people like you.
Cypher
O’ evil Man
It is not your gods who make you
so.
They laugh at their celestial
balls,
silly little mood
slaves
primed to vomit sour
wine,
feast after bloody
binge.
Who is the moral
gatekeeper,
the celebrated purveyor of
righteousness?
Who the masked
scoundrel,
cross-dressed wolves and
lambs
in demonic jig?
A lively game to wile away
some
vague eternity.
Our children obscured in
armament.
So many souls to
devour.
Dragon
Shills
Of course there are no
demons.
They are fictitious myth, fablers’
wares.
And Dragons are not fearful, not
evil, never
agents of terror, conveyors of
injustice.
Dragons march
are majestic, lovers of
beauty,
protectors of frail humanity,
deliver peace,
prosperity, gifts of progress and
diligent husbandry.
Their brutal flame, but a clever
demonstration, a show.
So entertaining, so brilliant a
display for us below.
Yes, they soar and claim vast
territory as their own;
their largesse dependent on wide
airways for discharging
smoke and fire, open plains to
spread immense wings.
We wouldn’t want them cramped,
self-singed, inconvenienced.
Dragons, special beings, above our
assigned stations, oversee,
keep our village tucked and safe,
productive, running right.
Insinuate primal lizard brains
persuasively, teach these
hungry, humble children to feed
their might.
God of Sky and
Rain
Women hold up half the
sky?
In His world
women hold up the
sky.
Men sit around, masturbate, watch
football,
occasionally,
go out and rape
lowering
that small part
of the sky.
Our
Gang
Outrage
Depression facing
outward
Taking power to give it
away.
This entrained
impulse
See them crackling,
jangling
puppets at puppy
play,
bite, bark, entangle,
grab and tussle,
growl, muscle in for the
kill.
Bloodlust arousal.
Natural as puke, as
death,
violation as violent
orgy
violation as ecstatic
initiation to the
brotherhood.
Life elevated to dreams, goals,
careful weighing of coin and
hours,
dependable plans, actions that
honor can favor,
love, duty, allegiance to the
rules of sanity
and kind regard
have no purpose here.
Men of blood and battle fluid
need no fine speeches, no valor
--
only food and
receptacles
for their waste.
Empire
Standing askew as the inexorable
boot commands.
Squeezing out gems, polished and
pure.
Paid in bread and
circuses.
Bathed in raw privilege
dreams:
ravaging, raping at
will
drinking to blood lust's
ecstatic thrill.
Casting out doubt, that promised
reward
be assured.
Cold, this world.
Shadow sans Sun.
Listless lap at sparkling
carbonation.
Sinking below matter and
form
into terror tales;
battering warmth from smoldering
coals.
As tomorrow continues
today
our dissolving heart
bleeds pearls of
wisdom.
Locked
out
In the state of
nature
Laws are enforced by
necessity, not choice
The Contract plainly
reads
"Do what you will --
and see where that gets
you."
This is the end of the old
moment,
the denouement
before the Flood rushes
through
Powerful men in wealth-conditioned
rooms,
clean, pristine, sweet smelling
air,
lunching on oysters, cognac and
pears,
sign off on torture with nary a
care
while young braves are herded to
tombs,
crowded concrete spittoons of
freezing water silenced lungs,
terror, despair
Skies part and fall
atoms no longer involved dissolve
into space
between
Thoughts unattach from
meaning,
whisper incoherently
Inchoate
Free floating
Unbound
Sound merely audible
impression
Life no longer an
obsession
Love? Separation from
repression?
Watery bits of stone
swim, surf broken waves, feel the
moan,
the early mourning, each
alone,
unconnected, eerily rejected, no
goal,
nowhere to go
chaotic heat death of a
world
no longer known
i dream
afghanistan
little meggie pulls
amygdaloid
earlobes high-shriek wails
helicopter
loud -- lands inside my
dream
carrier to evil arid valleys,
sharia alien
landscapes of mars.
surreal desert blooms
van gogh garden of
destiny,
bombarded in intoxicant, napalm
perfume.
these need
annihilation,
poisonous infection so much more
sinister
than mere anthrax or apocalypse
flu.
Children ought to
bloom
smiling daisies
laughing pansies
great grasping reaching
to
the Sun, the stars.
We need protection from false
prophets
aiming armies
with lethal projectors, lives for
lies.
Self-Inflicted
My eyes turn from happy planning,
puppy play
into this gloom
inside my room.
I lick my wound,
obsessively.
My mouth suffers, blisters, every
day.
Consuming, my soldiering
memory.
Rewinding defeat,
rinse and repeat,
to be certain I never
succeed
beyond this place of
treason.
This wound becomes my
reason,
my face.
Bitter
Dregs
You don't get it.
You don't want to.
It would be too much to
bear
if you let your thought go
there.
Briefly unconscious, awakened
to
hard concrete ground
surrounded
by heels and toes,
amazing
they don't crush me, but
no,
like clockstep they walk
around
though occasionally a(n
unmeaning?)
shove -- I'm not a
someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their busy
day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down
under
hard muscle, jutting
bone,
stinking of beer and
rage;
or waking from too brief
oblivion,
broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised,
a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then the voices,
echoes.
Harpies and Sirens,
Furies
and sad old women.
Fingers
shake in
disapprobation.
Shrill voices call me
beautiful,
in the way that ugly things
are.
So bad, so pitiful,
cardinal
status among the
neverweres.
Struggling shadows,
whispering
curses demurely lest
anyone
notice and throw them
further
down, below duration.
Never easy, confessing
degradation.
The sin adheres. No one wants to
know.
Untouchables
I have a friend
who has this
embarrassment.
She doesn't like to be
touched
by men.
Even their groping
eyes
sear into her skin,
she says,
make her cringe,
unable
to think or move or
be.
She dresses in
unflattering
layers, drab shades
for added protection.
She scuttles in public,
peering
ahead and back,
desperate to hide her
presence
from all who might
stare,
or glare,
dare to apply an
unwelcome hand.
My friend doesn't
mind
her idiosyncrasy.
She wishes the world would
be
more kind, more glad
to accept, embrace (without
touching)
the way she has been
made.
boys and their
toys
It's not about
religion.
It's about what it's always
about
ultimately, power
boys and their toys
and their pissing
contests
blowing up bombs
to etch their names in the
sand
no matter who it
destroys
like stomping on ants
because it feels so
grand
being the stomper and
not
bits of skin and
juice
ready to play ever again to
win
by your own rules.
