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.