Saturday, April 6, 2019

disturbing

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.
 
 
 

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