Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star

 

Christmas
scarred
&
futile,
Happiness deranged.
Decay
in
cheers, lament.

 

Copyright © 2019 Charlie Zero the Poet

All rights Reserved.

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217 thoughts on “Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star

      1. Ultra high frequency
        on the down low
        tunes in the serpent claws
        of Santana singing
        “Let it snow, let it snow
        … let … it … snow
        as Mother Garden Gnome
        cuts off the parson’s nose.

          1. All hail the Elf Ominous
            and cut the deck with trifle
            The Ancestral Halls are holding
            a dead man’s hand
            dealing the felonious rifle
            A high tide of yule
            hangs from a mule
            that burns the fossil fuel
            of a Christmas Wonderland 🎅

                1. speaking of a Grinch,
                  Robert Frost was at the coffeehouse
                  stressing that writing poetry
                  should follow a logical sequence of steps
                  “as an observer, the poet discovers himself”
                  “readers discover themselves in the observations of the poet”
                  Robert was full of tidbits as usual
                  he wasn’t hip on giving a STD as a holiday gift

                2. That foul-mouthed Walmart Grinch
                  pinched my phone. I had to spank him repeatedly to get it back off him.
                  Sorry about that, Charlie 😎
                  No wonder Mr. Frost was a bit cool
                  on the subject ❄️

                3. what fantasies are evoked by a corral
                  of wild ponies dressed as words
                  as collections of letters ?
                  why not include fictional beings ?
                  does the poet reach inside himself
                  to invent these characters ?
                  December 2019, Americans keep the truth at arm’s length
                  “awkward in the company of straightforwardness”

                4. America is a dreamer yet to awaken
                  from the dementia of Ronald Reagan.
                  Star Wars villians, and heroes, with
                  their sabers of light thrust into life’s
                  intestines. As Billy Joel crys out …
                  “We didn’t start the fire!”, from the
                  orchestra pit of plastic crimes.
                  As napalm balms the ties that bind.

          1. …………………….Charlie,

            the only adolescents eating fur
            are those that sprang from the loins of Freud

            prostitutes walk around bearing fruit all year
            you say you don’t look but you take a long look
            inside you’re agitated by sensual upheavals
            (+) try to fight the urge to rub palms

            honeymooning behind your eyes
            manifestations of sexual activity
            reproduction swimming
            superstitious

            angels whisper in your ear
            “sexual organs were components
            intended only for the animals”

          2. Rock Hudson and Doris Day hide
            away in Santana’s fallout shelter.
            The Chernobyl Radiant, from east
            of Eden, has come to play. Claws
            all gift wrapped and sharpened, for
            Armageddon, as the Four Horsemen
            head this way 🎠🎠🎠🎠 💥 🙃 🕶️

            1. the viscera of Rock Hudson and Doris Day
              old fashioned radios the size of a garbage truck

              the naked hypothesis of Doris Day
              swollen like a ballerina’s modesty
              Rock went there many times
              a clear path
              gender incidentals
              what the hell

          3. “It is better to recieve, than give!”,
            the Red Nosed Dominatrix said
            to me, as she had me on my
            bended knees. “The North Pole is
            a shit hole, where elves are kept
            as Santa’s slaves, in cold poverty.”

            1. young people confuse Doris Day with Yoko Ono
              most of Doris is swollen

              I think Yoko is a hundred and seventy-five years old
              she’s so old that she has mushrooms on her privates

              Yoko was once married to a prophet
              but not the Old Testament type

              having seen Yoko nude
              it is impossible to look
              without succumbing

              at the club
              when males applauded Yoko
              it was themselves
              they were applauding

              it is no secret that Yoko
              experimented with vocals
              cries and howls
              lyrics without interpretation

              1. Yoko’s vocal were performance art.
                She was ahead if her time.
                Somewhere between Post-modern
                and Prehistory.
                Yoko didn’t mean to make you cry.
                She didn’t mean to hurt you.
                But you may just wish to die.

                1. and die we must
                  each day I lay outside on a rock
                  like a lizard soaking up the sun
                  praying that an eagle will swoop down
                  for a warm snack
                  ……………to return to the Holy Labyrinth
                  to leave behind the limited senses
                  the old fashioned angel suit
                  the feet of clay

                  this morning a young man writing a school paper
                  asked me if I could see my thoughts
                  if there were pictorial elements
                  to my mental activity
                  perversely,
                  I thought of Yoko
                  to look at her without succumbing
                  ( recall a superior prophet was dazzled and imprisoned )

                2. right before Christmas
                  Doris Day called and asked me what reality was really like

                  most days, reality is like a softcore gay porno movie
                  a muscular stranger comes over and takes a shower
                  the glass door is perfectly fogged up
                  he takes a 90 minute shower
                  afterwards he dries off in the living room
                  very skillful with the towel
                  he reveals one buttock
                  but never the package

                3. “Reality? “, said Doris Day,
                  with a voice as cold as ice.
                  “Imagine!”, said John Lennon,
                  “But you could call it Paradise.”
                  “But then, I don’t call it anything.”,
                  said Bob Dylan, quiet as a mouse.
                  “Yoko is calling you down the road,
                  and her singing is truly shit houses.

                4. Imagination grand
                  is at your command.
                  If unwelcome,
                  you can choose to
                  close the door on him.
                  Muscular stranger could
                  be a strip-o-gram messenger
                  .. or an angular strangler.
                  Even better, make him do
                  all those household chores.
                  Clean the windows
                  and scrub the floors.

                5. the highest tower of the imagination
                  ABSURDITY

                  thumbs up
                  or thumbs down
                  “trying to seize a bit of truth beyond appearances”

                  the muscular neighbor comes over for his daily shower
                  as he is drying off in the living room
                  he starts discussing genital size
                  how inches can create bonds
                  between people who might otherwise remain strangers
                  the living room was never more quiet
                  true silence

                6. you’re 100% correct:

                  CHARLIE IS PLURAL

                  like a deck of cards
                  he’s not difficult to shuffle
                  one can get strangeness
                  or a cute Easter bunny
                  yesterday he told me,
                  that I shouldn’t speak of him
                  that I should speak to him
                  tenderness

                7. I only perceived the deep affection
                  of a good friend. But what is life
                  without a spark of friction?
                  Pablo once told me that creation is
                  destruction. On reflection, I think he
                  was onto a cubism of something.
                  A friend indeed is a fiend in need.

                8. 18 years of schooling
                  and the math necessary
                  to unlock the entrance
                  to the Promised Land
                  is too complex

                  romance is weathered wood
                  hours and hours of practice
                  the fingers on the clock
                  often fall off
                  splinters fall
                  into sawdust

                9. “The truth was obscure,
                  too profound and too pure,
                  to live it you have to explode.
                  In that last hour of need,
                  we entirely agreed,
                  sacrifice was the code of the road.”

                  “Oh, get born, keep warm
                  Short pants, romance
                  Learn to dance,
                  get dressed, get blessed
                  Try to be a success
                  Please her, please him, buy gifts
                  Don’t steal, don’t lift
                  Twenty years of schoolin’
                  And they put you on the day shift
                  Look out kid
                  They keep it all hid
                  Better jump down a manhole
                  Light yourself a candle
                  Don’t wear sandals
                  Try to avoid the scandals
                  Don’t want to be a bum
                  You better chew gum
                  The pump don’t work
                  ‘Cause the vandals
                  took the handles.”
                  ~ Bob Dylan

                10. the freedom to emigrate to the city of Bob Dylan

                  the impaired rent surrogates to travel through cultures and languages
                  desires fulfilled at a distance, friendship and romance on the stage
                  100 lips pressing against mine daily, little fear of resistance
                  fling out the proper words and it is GO-GO-GO

    1. Thank you Basilike.

      I wrote the micropoem from the general perspective view of both who feel Christmas is a sham, doubting the Holidays, and the other side of hope of which the balance can be measured right but not always perfect.

      If that makes any sense. 🙂

  1. ………………………………Charlie,

    LAMENT
    Baby Bird, you should have made this a single word poem, “Lament”
    I can see you late at night standing in the shadows
    “I never knew where I would end up”
    and there you have basic lament

    throw in some holiday sparkle
    a sprinkle of adolescence
    language becomes a running commentary
    you lament by yourself
    you meander through obstacles
    on intimate terms with words
    constantly embroidering

    the guys at the pool hall
    say that you’re afraid of yourself
    that your words reveal your indirect routes
    zigzagging through poetic conclusions
    any logical sequence hampered
    by intellectual paralysis

    the fruit of gestation
    December embryo
    Charlie delivers lament

    1. ……………………………..Michael,

      Sequence night
      made by commentary pool December/
      should their
      conclusions lament meander in you.

      Holiday hampered sparkle!

      Embryo hall/
      zigzagging indirect words
      and reveal language paralysis,
      gestation poem bird/
      obstacles swollen by fruit bone –
      shadows end poetic embroidering intimate.

      1. shocked that you would mention your fruit bone
        some say, “the organ God started but never finished”
        the Poet’s Handbook
        offers a kaleidoscope
        of figurative expressions
        and comparisons
        endless scenarios
        a thousand disguises
        cannot cloak its function

        what an instrument
        it has the Holy Eye
        that leaks the knowledge
        of the soul

  2. Charlie, the way that the words of this click together is resonant of the sound of the branches of a plastic tacky fake Christmas tree being put together by sad souls.
    
“Happiness deranged.
Decay 
in 
cheers, lament.”

    … and up that Christmas tree goes. And onward the scarred and futile Christmas… I think Christmas can be a sad and lonely time for many… and is often so commercialized the joy is diminished.

    Your poem brilliant. It touches on something I feel too. Hugs Charlie.

    1. Your observation is exactly spot on.

      Sad souls putting together a Holiday tree for the world who has been in chaos yet, chaos and disorder never sleeps. It’s the realistic reality of things. Although, a bit of cheer doesn’t hurt at all.

      The general overall perspective of Christmas being a sad day for many who do feel they are alone and doubt everything around them and life itself. And your right about commercialism.

      Why in every year does capitalism need to commercialize joy. Aren’t some of us in this planet happy enough of what we possess? Is happiness not enough for all of joy?

      I question the logic of things that I truly feel and I know you probably feel as well. 🙂

      Hugs Rachel.

      1. Different part of the world, exactly the same wavelength Charlie. Some things transcend oceans. I wish we could all have meaning and connection in our lives. I wish Christmas wasn’t often a sad contrast to the lack of that for many. I wish there was peace and not war… I wish our oceans were not full of plastic because of our dire obsession with possessions and individualism. Sorry, this is deep and dire. And I could continue with this wish list but it’s possibly a good time to stop.

        Honestly, this is a truly brilliant poem. One of my faves of yours (one of many).

        1. I love and accept deep and dire. It’s truth and its the way it is.

          You said everything I feel and connect to your sentiment.

          I wish we all feel the same and I wish that earth herself can give us a second or maybe 3rd chance on this planet of ours.

          I have plenty of more poems like this and I’m writing them as I’m experiencing anxiety to where every creative juice is flowing onto paper. 🙂

  3. That title, magnifique! “Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star” – a seven-word story in itself (better than six ;)). And the rest to back up the theory. It’s a side of this season that needs to be expressed. Love it. Tmenal sreehc, ssik ssik. sslib eht pu.
    Bisous 😊

    1. I’m glad you understood the poem itself. I observed it from 2 points of view, my anxiety, and others who feel the same way about such Holidays as Christmas. There’s good things about it, but there’s the other capitalistic propaganda that over hypes joy in consumerism. I may be seeing it wrong or just being honest. I’m not a person to sugar-coat things just because. My heart felt something blue and I needed to write it. 🙂

      Glad you enjoyed the truth.

      1. I definitely feel the same way Charlie. I love the spiritual feeling around this time of year but the to-doing and commercialism is another story. I’m sure anyone can relate and anyone who knows you even a little knows that you’re an elf at heart. ❤️💚

    1. Thank you my friend.

      I wanted to express something different especially in the Holidays coming up.

      It’s a truth viewed from a general point of view. Glad you loved the poem. There’s plenty more of these micropoems I’ve written. 🙂

    1. Awww….I’m so glad this micropoem touched your heart and you felt the pain.

      It’s exactly what I was feeling at that moment and had to write it from a general sense point of view. Plus, I’m sure others out there can relate very much.

      There’s plenty more of these kinds of writings I have in store. 🙂

  4. The world is scarred as it is and what’s it that we are celebrating anyways , so much death destruction , it really is a futile attempt at turning a blind eye to the goings on , I actually feel like sobbing when I go through the papers or listen to the news.

    1. Thank you Gina.

      Now, that I think of it. I didn’t notice the Xmas tree misshapen since you brought it to my attention. Good eye. Seriously I didn’t catch it. 🙂

      True. We don’t always enjoy of what is being forced fed onto us. If one enjoys a Holiday or other things it must be felt organically and not rushed.

      1. my mind is an abstract mess Charlie! so I spotted your unconscious genius immediately.

        I like when religion is taken out of the celebration. Holidays and festivities are rituals humans need for community and fellowship but we are forced to act and be who we aren’t around that time it is hollow and so tiresome. I agree with you lets just celebrate because we can, because we have each other, for all the reasons we were made to be here, not the ones we give power to others to impose on us.

        sorry for clogging up your little holiday space and “imposing” my views upon you!! LOL!! Be merry, be well, be happy my dear friend.

  5. Did I ever mention that I’m originally
    from New York City, Charle?
    I should imagine that Robert Frost
    wo consider Lou Reed
    Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel
    he looks out a window without glass
    The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet
    his father beats him ’cause he’s too tired to beg

    He’s got 9 brothers and sisters
    they’re brought up on their knees
    it’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs
    Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man
    but that’s a slim chance he’s going to the boulevard

    He’s going to end up, on the dirty boulevard
    he’s going out, to the dirty boulevard
    He’s going down, to the dirty boulevard

    This room cost 2, 000 dollars a month
    you can believe it man it’s true
    somewhere a landlord’s laughing till he wets his pants
    No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything
    they dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard

    Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I’ll piss on ’em
    that’s what the Statue of Bigotry says
    Your poor huddled masses, let’s club ’em to death
    and get it over with and just dump ’em on the boulevard

    Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard
    going out, to the dirty boulevard
    He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard
    going out

    Outside it’s a bright night
    there’s an opera at Lincoln Center
    movie stars arrive by limousine
    The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan
    but the lights are out on the Mean Streets

    A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel
    he’s selling plastic roses for a buck
    The traffic’s backed up to 39th street
    the TV whores are calling the cops out for a suck

    And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming
    he’s found a book on magic in a garbage can
    He looks at the pictures and stares at the cracked ceiling
    “At the count of 3” he says, “I hope I can disappear”

    And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard
    I want to fly, from dirty boulevard

    1. Your from New York City? That’s awesome! I bet right now and everyday, everyone is walking on the streets incredible packed and busy all the time. Well, they say its the city that never sleeps.

      I wish my girlfriend and I visit some day to New York. 🙂

      I miss this song by Lou Reed. Such a classic. 🙂

  6. I caught him once in concert, using
    live bait. It was a catch and release
    thing 😎 and fortunately, I can still
    remember it. The White Heat lifted
    the roof off, as White Light flooded
    the building.

  7. Love this , Christmas is deranged.

    An interesting play on the word arranged in terms of the dogmatic blind faith to follow our traditions to the point of it coming across as deranged. If that makes sense. Late night for me. Great, Charlie as always.

  8. Sending thoughts your way this Festive Time Charlie… Christmas along the way seems to have lost it Spirit don’t you think? It’s all about the glitz and commercial ring of the tills… Buy now Pay later… and boy do people pay.. I wonder if only people would put down their phones, gather around a family table and talk and really pay attention to the now of their lives, How much better life would seem.. As they count their blessings every day and not just wish others good will at certain times of the year..

    Sending love my friend… And who knows a post may be pending from me soon.. 🙂
    Take care And Enjoy your Christmas with your loved ones Charlie.. ❤ Special Hugs from the UK.. ❤
    🎄🎅🎄🎁🎄🥂😘

  9. Wake me up before you Go-Go-GO,
    as some dark Jedi shot Hans Solo.
    And the Millennium Falcon is far too
    slow . On the Death Star we all travel,
    so once in a lifetime, time put on a
    good show.
    As I consume my freedom like a
    herb of prohibition, and worn
    with a cheap pair of sunglasses
    purchased with a personalised
    paranormal prescription.
    All the better to see the paranoid
    wolf of Wall Street with, since
    Marc Bolan sang the national anthem
    of faux rebellion. No, you won’t
    fool the children of the revolution.
    Wake me up before you Go-Go-GO,
    as some dark Jedi shot Hans Solo.
    And the Millennium Falcon is a
    no show.

    1. poor little Marc Bolan
      his apprenticeship in an automobile came to a sudden halt
      I sank to the bottom of a hotel pool and cried underwater
      the world is cruel to those who shed tears
      Marc was a transgression, an agent of happiness
      delicious and disturbing, a child of the sky

      I always ponder what if Allen Ginsberg
      had authored all the STAR WARS material ?
      would the learned traditions of his forefathers
      have came to the surface ?

      ever question the source of your originality ?
      new and unheard-of thoughts
      spontaneous associations

      itch, itch, and itch some more
      one must scratch away the squabbles
      clear the palette of all wrong doing
      the preliminary of which no one can speak

  10. Sadly, Charlie has been kidnapped
    by a couple of pirates, Resa 🏴‍☠️
    And his site is being held ransom
    for not one, but two bottles of rum,
    and a dead man’s chest full of gold
    bullion 😎

  11. “Live fast. Drive even faster.
    And leave a mangled corpse.”
    ~ Jimmy De Anne

    Allen Ginsberg read the eulogy
    wearing a daisy chain weaved
    by a lad insane. Loud Reed and
    David Bowie played ‘Bang a Gong’
    on the grand piano. It was lovely!
    I didn’t go to the reception, as glam
    was never my thing (not until I saw
    what Ed Sheerin is wearing). I got
    lost in Itchycoo Park, eating humble
    American pie, with Robert Zimmerman.
    But I did follow a sequined glimmer
    and ended up at a Status Quo gig
    with Gary Glitter, that sly dog of glam
    sham. All greasy and sweaty, he sang
    Do You Wanna Touch Me. I just ran!
    I was led there by the force, with
    a complimentary front row ticket,
    of course. And the promise of an
    accidental overdose . . .
    just like a poor boy in Vietnam.
    It’ll take a lot more than an O D, or a
    car crash, to scrap that pallet clean.
    Perhaps a love resurrection from
    deep within. There the stars of war
    can finally find peace, where the
    force never been.

    1. the lady at the motel
      who took down the Jesus-on-the-Cross
      to dust and polish it
      secretly thought
      that Jesus cheated his mother
      from returning to the earth
      all mothers should return to the soil

      at Sunday School
      by design or mistake
      the children were taught:
      males float in the sky as clouds
      females float down below as fog

      1. Social engineering dressed
        in the drag of state religion.
        Males and female, two sides
        of the one coin. Far too many,
        a bent penny spent in a storm,
        and lost in the mist. Taking the
        course of resistance least.

        1. ( gossip from the Pay Showers at the RV Park )

          Pulitzer Prize sweets for stereotypes
          poets deformed from pressures to conform
          “adult behavior had to free of childhood origins”

          exorbitant passions were always welcome
          late at night one might hear a broomstick voice
          but it would be collared with a dollar sign

        2. portraits on the wall
          the only ones that people appreciate
          are the ones heartbroken
          over the death of a loved one
          or the little fellow that cut his foot off
          with a crazy lawnmower
          when I say, “cut his foot off”
          I really mean it was just some toes
          but foot rings more bells

          my pillow is still wet
          I just can’t believe that Anne Sexton
          was awarded the Robert Frost Fellowship
          distinguished recognition ?
          I wanted to ask her about her toes
          I wanted to count the devils

          taking her shoes off
          and pulling the skin
          up towards her knees
          wanting to visit
          farther north
          where
          the skin
          is torn

          1. All my pretty ones
            were drowned at birth.
            But survival of the fittest
            made the return trip worthless.
            I don’t listen to anyone
            who hasn’t died at least once.
            Slowly, quickly, violently.
            The truth always seems lost
            in the fake news of desperation.
            Despite all the amputations
            Anne Sexton still danced
            to a New York Rock ‘n’ Roll station.
            The truth is she’s dead,
            so cut off the whole lot.
            She’ll never know.

            1. rumor has it that Anne Sexton
              is in the new Star Wars film
              “she never looked better”

              the sacrament of computer communion
              humiliating betrayals of death
              “I was eating pancakes with Jesus”

              crazy outer space characters
              small mechanical hearts
              wrenching urine free

              1. A long time ago
                in a galaxy far, far away,
                a clone of Robert Frost became
                a Sith Lord, named Darth Road.
                He was soon elected Emperor
                with the slogan …
                “Make the Dark Side Great Again!”
                The Force was shaken, but not taken.

                1. lax in matters of personal hygiene
                  reeducate your readers
                  tell them it has nothing
                  to do with sex

                  poetry
                  where one has to make up their mind
                  hasty decisions often under heavy observation
                  people exercising their eyes, locking you inside themselves
                  next trip to the library you should damage a poetry anthology

            2. it has been noted
              that one could smell Anne Sexton
              on the guys from Shaky Hands Pool Hall

              the Anne Sexton who would pound on the floor
              and scream, “I’m having trouble connecting, Jesus”
              how are religious craftsman judged ?
              in the long pull, should they be ashamed ?

              the Anne Sexton who would pound on the floor
              and tell the boys to only stick it half way in
              milking pleasure but “seeing the reverse”
              voiceless encouragements, come again

              1. If my middle name was Sex
                I guess I would be out to impress
                by having a ton of it, as well!?
                If only to impress
                those at Shaky Hands Pool Hall
                who refuse to walk,
                but instead choose to crawl.
                If the operator can’t get you
                Jesus on the line,
                then your on a wrong call.
                Or using a pay phone confessional
                in the wrong pool hall?
                As for me . . .
                the full measure of pleasure
                is the bigger they come
                the harder they fall.
                Also a handy motto
                when the tribe goes to war.

                1. to be the Anne Sexton of the hour
                  to take the stage
                  at the Shaky Hands Pool Hall
                  one only has to recite poetry
                  involving family love
                  they turn down the lights
                  and applaud your opening line
                  “bedroom rivalry”

                  without question
                  Mother
                  knows her misdirection

                  limited dialogue expired
                  any Starbucks conversation
                  no longer has a voice

                  hardly a front-page story
                  careers of youth interrupted
                  Hark, Hark, Hark
                  incest with vitality
                  and zest

                  ( Anne had tiny metal taps on her shoes )
                  “if I’m going to dance I want to make some noise”

                2. On the behalf of Hell’s Angels,
                  and old farts in Pink Floyd t-shirts,
                  the age of chivalry and gender
                  rivalry has been and gone.
                  Unless you’re stuck in the cellar
                  of a National Anthem gone wrong.
                  I wouldn’t want a millennial
                  Anne Sexton, or a Sylvia Plath
                  sneaking up behind me and
                  screaming “me too!”, demandingly
                  after handing out that
                  cocaine laced Halloween candy.
                  With the Fat Man of Snow, chanting,
                  “Let it blow, let it blow, let it blow!”.

                3. to be tutored by a professional:

                  to stand free of
                  unavailable people

                  appeals for intimacy
                  written on $50 bills

                  the morning ritual
                  where our fingers
                  were passed
                  under a nose
                  “nothing forbidden”
                  momma-poppa
                  53 years young

                  the relatives astride
                  a walk to Jerusalem

                4. Back when Lou Reed
                  roamed the Earth,
                  It was just twenty six dollars,
                  and you got your money’s worth.
                  But he was just like
                  a Leo Sayer boy,
                  giving it all away.
                  Standing on the corner,
                  suitcase in his hand.
                  Just waiting for a saviour,
                  on a detour,
                  to the promised land.

                  to

                5. Anne Sexton was on Frommer’s
                  “Poetry on Five Dollars a Day”
                  she was throwing darts
                  at a dartboard
                  with Sylvia Plath’s portrait
                  front and center
                  Sylvia’s well-publicized suicide
                  was a stab in the heart
                  poor Anne was no longer the frontrunner
                  the market value of her words dropped
                  Mental Health America cancelled an interview

                6. I wonder what a Poet Laureate
                  would have to say about all that?

                  “Now, don’t you try an’ move me
                  Mama you’re just gonna lose
                  There’s a crash on the levee
                  And, mama, you’ve been refused
                  Well, it’s king for king
                  And it’s Queen for queen
                  It’s gonna be the meanest flood
                  That anybody’s seen
                  Oh mama, ain’t you gonna miss your best friend now
                  You’re gonna have to find yourself
                  Another best friend, somehow
                  Well, that high tide’s risin’
                  Mama, don’t you let me down
                  Pack up your suitcase
                  Mama, don’t you make a sound
                  Well, it’s sugar for sugar
                  And it’s salt for salt
                  If you go down in the flood
                  It’s gonna be your own fault
                  Oh mama, ain’t you gonna miss your best friend now
                  You’re gonna have to find yourself
                  Another best friend, somehow”
                  ~ Bob Dylan

                7. a stagnant pond full of poets
                  ritualized mingling
                  self-pity to prose
                  yes, self-pity to prose

                  poetry as frightening
                  as children playing
                  with sanitary napkins
                  in the church basement

                  stumbling efforts at murder
                  trying to imitate
                  the graceful movements
                  seen on television

                  Polaroid snapshots
                  from suicide watch
                  cuddling with the boys
                  woodpeckers in their shorts

                  detectives asking about stolen clothes
                  exorbitant attention to ball socks of wool
                  husbands busy keeping up pretenses
                  unpublished and constantly scratching

                8. Originality
                  has been done
                  and then done again
                  Nothing new under the sun
                  that hasn’t been done to death
                  When will the desperate recidivist
                  chill on a pill and catch their breath?
                  Shock ‘n’ awe.
                  The thrill has gone
                  Poetry to make me snore
                  The darker, the taste of suger
                  Ranting tantrums, a bitter little pill
                  Regurgitation Gothic in the refrigerator
                  As the plagiarist found a noble savage kill

                9. originality given knockout pills

                  the tallest poet in the room
                  labels poetic advice as unmitigated meddling

                  exhausted washed-out poets
                  wearing ancient underwear
                  refused medication

                  if one wants to step beyond alcohol
                  asphyxiation comes to mind
                  phone numbers and phony morphine
                  tourists wanting a taste
                  front row seats at the sideshow

                  who knew the pain of withdrawal ?

                10. Stone washed venomous denim
                  running blue out of an open vein.
                  Wake me up before you go-go, as
                  this jitterbug itch drives me loco.
                  A sign saying ‘Do Not Resuscitate’
                  hangs over the the rat race drain.
                  The bleeding, and bleating
                  of a communal poetry reading,
                  between morning callisthenics
                  lunchtime politics
                  and evening religion
                  is all that keeps the sheep
                  from going insane.
                  As the wolf pack
                  howls on the fast track,
                  watching Armageddon
                  on the big screen ⬛ 👥 🔲
                  The planet condemns
                  the working dead
                  to the dread of repetition
                  in a cesspool of pollution.

                11. Thanks David———wishing you a happy holiday !

                  I had a vision of you going upstairs to the attic
                  not the simple attic but the one way above the others
                  and you bringing down a memory
                  and carrying it around with you all day
                  cherishing every molecule

                12. Most interesting, Michael.
                  I’m in the midst of an eulogy for
                  a stranger I seem to remember.
                  Synchcronicity and harmony go
                  together in the deep collective well
                  of creative conciousness.
                  Keep riding high upon that swell.

    1. up late at night listening to Deep Purple
      having vertical thoughts for a vertical audience
      family heroes standing outside Best Buy
      people drinking hard liquor from small bottles
      the black market stuff stolen from planes
      the girl asked me if I wanted something stronger
      like a fix and a Winston cigarette
      the girl with the large pupils
      she can be your guardian
      stick you if you turn blue

        1. words from the memory of a protagonist (at best)
          poetry with characters who appear on stage
          but have no part, no voice, no action
          dressed in various shades of gray
          gloomy about the holiday season
          angry about the weakening
          legitimacy of family

          the poem is resolved and the discourse is closed
          the poem is unresolved and the discourse remains open

          one can only guess that the protagonist
          resists submitting to authority of any nature

          I advised the protagonist
          to enroll in a phallocentric psychology course

          1. I met a girl who
            sang the blues,
            like an Amy Winehouse.
            Only with a buzz cut.
            All dressed up
            in a business suit and shoes.
            She told me that
            being gynocentric
            is where it’s at,
            as she took my last cigarette.
            I couldn’t fault her argument
            after she broke me in
            leaving nothing to regret.
            But after being front and centre
            of her androgynous affection
            like the main attraction
            in a Federico Fellini production
            I was left reeling
            on her shagpile carpet
            and feeling little more
            than a trained house pet.

            1. a trained pet in a Fellini production ?

              damaged people on television
              those who conjure happiness
              in strange ways

              (nostalgia sniffers)

              emotional embers can be reignited
              rage and regret openly kiss

              punished for botched crimes in childhood
              valentines for bookmarks in therapy

                1. the thought of Bob Dylan
                  stuffed in petrified Spandex

                  growing up next to a psychiatric hotel
                  where it was perfectly average
                  for newly wed people to violate
                  the Old Testament

                  love was the perfect laxative
                  constipation extinguished
                  a stain in the shape of Texas
                  the bedspread a manuscript

                  Beat poets in the lobby
                  stomach worms
                  cursive script wet
                  stomach worms
                  leaking
                  from their pitchers

                  lad and lassie genitals
                  surprising dialogue

                2. Book now for your luxury
                  cryogenic chamber
                  at the Spandex Hotel.
                  The view from Tomorrow Land
                  has never looked better.
                  With complimentary euthanasia
                  providing you a brighter future.
                  Where the mating rituals
                  of the privileged classes,
                  facilitated by the copious
                  consumption of strong liquor,
                  are restricted to the beaches.
                  Where the great American dream
                  washes up with the detritus
                  of a globalised smoke screen.
                  Millennial Man in the wreckage
                  of collapsed pyramid scheme.

                3. ……………………… Michael,
                  I must now recite a prayer
                  for Bob Dylan, and the lost
                  beat poet, stranded in the
                  lobby of the Spandex Hotel 🙏

                  There once was a man
                  from the old stone age
                  And he used to follow the weather
                  But now he’s got hung up
                  on filling a page
                  Upon whether to go or together
                  And he’s been around
                  for so damn long
                  With his whooping and wailing
                  Crushing questions
                  between right and wrong
                  And impaling
                  The best he can hope
                  and the worst he can fear
                  On the solstices of an illusion
                  A massive erection
                  of pushy defence
                  Up the whole of the prosecution
                  Great solace the wound,
                  great relish the pain
                  To be loosing the reins of a poem
                  To bleed from the tip of my tongue
                  yet again
                  That part of my heart
                  that is showing
                  These children conceived
                  in the womb of this crash
                  To be the sponsors
                  of nothing much more
                  Than rearguard directions
                  of crossfingered sections
                  Of purpose pot
                  – looking for nothing
                  But what is this last desperate
                  vestige of heart over head
                  But another conjecture
                  No more the tomb
                  of the martyred dead
                  Than the ghost
                  of our parting gesture
                  And a hundred billion crystal balls
                  Represent a remarkable failure
                  To swell the song
                  each moment long
                  At the counterpoint of nature
                  As four thumbs flick the tarot deck
                  And two tongues fork eight aces
                  Maybe sixteen fingers feel
                  The fool lives in two places
                  Where rosy lee can read this tea
                  And leave me living the story
                  A white dove with a hawks’ head
                  And an open mind before me
                  To sail for a land
                  where life is a high
                  Not a word to be heard
                  or be spoken
                  But the soul – woven web
                  of the endless touch
                  Of a child who could never
                  be broken
                  Who plays a new world
                  on the brink of the ebb
                  As the fish cats prowl in the harbour
                  And now soars high
                  on the beckoning tides’ long arm
                  To weigh his last anchor
                  And the sou’westers sing
                  as the lifeboat bells ring
                  In the heads
                  on the faces of changes
                  The heavens collage
                  on excalibres edge
                  The star in his movie converges
                  With fate, in his task,
                  and doom on his brow
                  And a ship in his eye in a bottle
                  Who speeds, to force,
                  to want, to have
                  To find, to further fortune
                  Who comes from the north,
                  west, south and east
                  Of the passions of a spirit
                  Witl all the flight
                  of the wildest beast
                  To ever spurr a stirrup
                  Whose pulse
                  is the master of action
                  Whose heart
                  is an everlasting secret
                  Whose arms are desire
                  Whose lips are welcome
                  Whose eyes tell stories
                  Whose head is a journey
                  Whose hands unfold
                  Whose feet fly
                  Whose face is the stained glass window of a continuous orgasm
                  Whose being is mine
                  Whose wounds are precious
                  Whose poem is a flower
                  Whose gentleness is the devil
                  Whose indentity is naked
                  Whose magic is a gift
                  Whose power is the transparent tapestry of history
                  Whose stamp is a freak
                  Whose wits are battles
                  Whose cousin is dog
                  Whose times are well fought for
                  Whose stoneage is clever
                  Whose poets know
                  Whose music is barbarian
                  Whose artists are helpless spherical mirrors spinning
                  on the horns of a tidal wave
                  Whose information is belief
                  Whose complexes become religion
                  Whose foundation is spread
                  Whose word is god
                  Whose books are projectiles
                  Whose message is must
                  Whose excuse is holy
                  Who passed it down to me;
                  Whose enemies are landmarks
                  Whose fear is himself
                  Whose hope is lust
                  Whose wish is fresh
                  Whose position is wary
                  Whose mottoes are covers
                  Whose name is hidden
                  Whose nose is suspicious
                  Whose technology is a tangent
                  Whose strategy is dissent
                  Whose thoughts are games
                  Who shares his lot
                  Whose ace is death
                  Whose fingers invent
                  Whose tales weave
                  Whose knots are tied
                  Whose mouth is open
                  Whose ears pierce
                  Whose direction is out
                  Who is aware of disease
                  Who feels the need
                  to cleanse his soul
                  Whose style is disguise
                  Whose dream is innate
                  Whose woman is soothing
                  Whose little children are the delicate blossom of an orchard
                  of electricity
                  Whose spell is for conflict
                  Whose quest is strength
                  Whose war declared
                  Whose suicide is noticed
                  Whose shadow is cast
                  Whose vibes you feel
                  Whose pedigrees are haunted
                  Whose age is unknown
                  Who takes under his wing
                  Whose freaks are real
                  Whose reality is hunger
                  Whose words are jagged
                  Whose tears are shed
                  Whose sick hang
                  Whose weak are kicked
                  Whose cities are bad shelters
                  Whose sanctuary is an idea
                  Who sat round a fire
                  Whose teeth chew
                  Whose faith is change
                  Whose old age comes quickly
                  Whose youth burns
                  Whose systems
                  are white sticks tapping walls
                  Whose prize posession is the planet;
                  Whose wildest lust is escalation
                  Whose cul-de-sacs are feelers
                  Whose main route is massive
                  Whose run is a dance
                  Whose vehicle is fantasy
                  Whose home is high
                  Whose role continues
                  Whose bearing is savage
                  Whose saints are dead
                  Whose sons bark
                  Whose daughters play
                  Whose strength is against
                  Who grows in the sun
                  and sleeps in the moon
                  Who roams deserets, plateaux, mountains, forests and plains
                  with vast armies
                  Who am I
                  The spirit of those who
                  were not here
                  And never knew it
                  Who left this prayer to elope
                  A lover’s journey through it
                  So children
                  leave your windows open
                  Across the sea
                  Join our hands across
                  the many land
                  You and me
                  Never grown old
                  Seeing without ever being told
                  Something to say
                  Shut away
                  Blackboard so grey
                  Anyway
                  I’m dreaming
                  Out along the back row
                  Out the window
                  Cast away
                  Be free with me
                  Today
                  Great heart mean streak
                  Spare part speed freak
                  I set myself a problem
                  when I built myself a wheel
                  I got myself another
                  when I rode a horse to feel
                  The plains underneath my reins
                  As fast as running water
                  And the big lady I’m playing with
                  Has played a game of poker
                  With me and cat and this and that
                  Until she scored my joker
                  Now we ride in chariots
                  By the side of one another
                  Her soft side
                  My rough ride
                  Nothing to fear
                  The unknown soldier’s grave
                  is already here
                  Is it too late
                  To create
                  A world made with care
                  Is it there
                  Or fleeting
                  Here today and gone
                  Tomorrow’s child
                  Looking so wild and free
                  Are we a choice
                  With no voice
                  Can it be
                  Great heart, mean streak
                  Spare part speed freak

                  ~ The Lord’s Prayer by Roy Harper

                4. standing beside other pioneers
                  at the new wing of the Spandex Hotel
                  proud to be an American with a wireless phone

                  (when the policeman asked me where my cellphone
                  was—-I replied. “at home in a shoebox”)

                  the policeman did not find humor in my truth
                  the damn thing was at home in a shoebox
                  Pentecostal voices told him that I was trouble
                  people who look for trouble often find it

                  Walt Whitman suggesting
                  that the aroma of armpits
                  more heavenly than prayer
                  Walt Whitman in the front row
                  inhaling the public pubis
                  Oh Walt Whitman,
                  they say that you’re untrodden

                5. If there’s a bustle
                  in your shoebox
                  don’t be alarmed now
                  It’s just a tweeting
                  for the May queen
                  The Piper who keeps calling
                  has recently been seen
                  In the Pheromone Suite
                  at the Spandex Hotel
                  for an encore performance
                  of Adolphe Adam’s Giselle
                  Starring a ballerina’s armpit
                  With Rudolf Nureyev’s leotards
                  clenched firmly between her teeth
                  as she pirouettes upon his codpiece
                  The cast and crew
                  were soon arrested
                  by the Dream Police

                6. standing beside other American astronauts
                  at the new wing of the Spandex Hotel
                  the deeper underground one travels
                  the more one elevates

                  blossoms and blooms
                  the cycle of the little man

                  shame and concealment
                  dead beside the stagnant water
                  of a stifled and choked education

                  “I was calling life
                  but life was only a shadow”

                  with a dishonest vocabulary
                  I wore a mask to the marketplace
                  mesmerized by the variety of truth available

                  imprisonment through procreation

                7. The croupier
                  deals the cards
                  from the shadow gallows
                  where the Joker is wild
                  One man’s truth
                  another man’s fake news
                  strangled in a noose
                  where the mandrake root grows
                  and the beast is loose
                  The masked man
                  at the marketplace of creation
                  is granted sanctuary
                  at the cathedral of Notre Dame
                  Still smoking
                  from the implosion
                  of the Master’s plan
                  As the Autumn rains falls gently
                  upon the River Seine

                8. Jesus running around the Spandex hotel
                  with his hands up in the air
                  “I alone would expect to be your God”

                  there are those who have written books
                  who claim to deny his existence
                  those who deny the hermaphroditic self
                  those who say, “turn out the lights
                  and there are no shadows”
                  the darkness has no tongue
                  no ear, no nourishment

                9. My twin sister
                  from Planet Pandora
                  is a prototype hermaphrodite.
                  She was a big hit
                  and very popular
                  at her all girl boarding school.
                  They would play
                  and stay up all night
                  with the odd pillow fight.
                  Till the Head Mistress caught
                  her having a piss in the pool.
                  Her crime at the time
                  was peeing standing upright.
                  It came as bit of a shock,
                  and drove some to distraction.
                  So she was duly expelled.
                  We, her loving family, don’t think
                  that was cool of her school!
                  Now she works in construction,
                  as a part time jungle mercenary.
                  In her tool box, a secret accessory.
                  In her arsenal a hidden weapon.

                10. 30 drops of the strong stuff
                  and I needed no plane
                  I just soared across the sky
                  and exploded on a military officer
                  who I knew nothing about
                  he and I went up in flames
                  on the evening news
                  on global feeds

                  30 drops and all conformity
                  to reality was abandoned
                  self-seeking no more
                  I became a sacrifice

                  intellectual curiosity
                  30 drops and death
                  to die without bearing fruit

                11. Since the days of Cain
                  it has been ever thus
                  Mankind’s inhumanity
                  to his fellow man
                  in a world gone insane
                  Poetry is a journey
                  for the Seeker
                  and the Freedom Rider
                  Not a drone of vengeance
                  A tool of propaganda
                  It is poetry’s business
                  to be dangerous
                  A flame burning ever brighter
                  The bold novice
                  The master wordsmith
                  who’s paid the price
                  ever making a creative choice
                  to be Liberty’s voice
                  Not bound up like a mouse
                  A lover on the beat
                  A fighter on the mean street
                  With words of peace
                  to overcome
                  the mindless violence

                12. Adam and Eve had three boys
                  I can never recall if Cain
                  was conscious, preconscious, or unconscious

                  Adam was famous for giving things a name
                  the boys were obsessed with measuring curves
                  no matter how hard they surveyed
                  the earth wasn’t round

                  the genitalia of Abel
                  made Cain nervous
                  the fear of being shipwrecked

                13. the clean clouds up above
                  gray with the gossip
                  “THE DISSECTION OF ABEL’S PELVIS”
                  with a pickaxe and a spade
                  Cain wasted no time

                  the thoughts I had when I was a young boy
                  Jesus enjoying my innocence
                  I was a Living Museum
                  autobiography in motion

                14. I was the lost sheep
                  Innocent as the night is black
                  Gone wrong on a crooked track
                  But I made one good choice
                  I listened for the shepherd’s voice
                  Despite partying hard with goats
                  and drowning in a sea of smack
                  Violence is the consequence
                  of rebellion
                  Company Cain
                  and Sister Morphine
                  a vice of choice to ease the pain
                  Unfortunately
                  the separation anxiety
                  will drive a lad insane
                  Or was it providence
                  that drives a man
                  to jump the fence?
                  Was Cain simply jealous 🤢
                  of Abel’s upstanding phallus?
                  I’ll just make a quick reference
                  to the book of Genesis 📖 👀

                15. YES, separation from the mother (separation anxiety)
                  lost vowels in a world overpopulated with skidrow consonants
                  the dark forces ridicule me because I share my name
                  a million Michaels running around
                  endless fragments of memories and dreams
                  enough guilt to fill the Grand Canyon

                  I saw agents trying to locate a safe distance
                  from forbidden curiosity
                  poor fellows

                  secret passengers on the poetry train
                  prose requires a ticket
                  unwanted guests are tossed
                  prehistoric sodomy perhaps
                  physical combinations possible
                  geography without birth control

                16. My multiples from the
                  collective unconsciousness
                  lack all scruples.
                  They killed my cat
                  for the crime of being curious
                  Screaming,
                  “Death to fluffy cuddly hostiles!”
                  Jack Kerouac just sat there,
                  drinking beer, and laughed,
                  as Charlie Manson impersonators
                  climbed over
                  the poetry train turnstiles.

                17. “There are more things in heaven.
                  Mama always told me not to look
                  into the eyes of the sun.
                  But mama, that’s where the fun is!
                  Some brimstone baritone anticyclone
                  rolling stone preacher from the east
                  Says, “Dethrone the dictaphone
                  Hit it in it’s funny bone, that’s where they expect it least”
                  And some new-mown chaperone
                  Was standin’ in the corner,
                  watching the young girls dance
                  And some fresh-sown moonstone
                  Was messin’ with his frozen zone, reminding him of romance.”
                  ~ Manfred Springsteen

                18. it was on the front page of truth
                  I suffered my sins, I didn’t commit them

                  the line I was standing in
                  was I to be castrated ?

                  the question of identity
                  no matter how disturbing
                  prints out repetition
                  drama written a dozen ways
                  physical hyphens, dashes, and dots
                  two pounds of dong waddle

                  artificial stimulants
                  with a final deadline
                  a loving sensitive portrait
                  hanging in the truck stop lobby

                19. To thine own self be true,
                  or to sing soprano
                  as a castrati
                  in the rat race choir?
                  That is the question.
                  As Rey Skywalker
                  defies her grandfather,
                  the Sith Emperor,
                  to side with the Resistance.
                  Whilst Kylo Ren
                  keeps popping
                  those dark side stimulants.
                  Nothing like a fist full
                  of illicit spice
                  to make you feel nice
                  and uber heroic.
                  But the force
                  will never be in balance
                  till Kylo lays low
                  at the Betty Ford Clinic.

                20. very strange
                  no one works in the back
                  of the Betty Ford Clinic (?)
                  it is just a large waiting room
                  filled with a gigantic collection
                  of famous people magazines
                  I noticed that Adele was on all the covers
                  the poor girl looks like a flat tire
                  in need of being replaced
                  she didn’t lose weight
                  she’s just deflated
                  “God help her”
                  that’s what I told the receptionist
                  who seemed awe-stricken by my presence
                  she recalled seeing my portrait in the truck stop lobby

                21. The FBI most wanted
                  facilitated by CIA psych opps
                  plastered on the bathroom walls
                  of Route 66 Truck Stops
                  Where undercover secret agents
                  get their clandestine kicks
                  Next to the phone booth of truth
                  where Suoerman takes all calls

                22. no one wants to read
                  about experiences
                  shared by everyone
                  readers want voyages to the unknown
                  regions without maps or footnotes

                  beautiful creations
                  in the waiting room
                  at the Betty Ford Clinic
                  a dwelling of instinctual drives
                  a playground for all ages

                  employees of self-observation
                  ignoring
                  the dangers of opposite sex
                  rubbing against fiction
                  the back-and-forth of friction
                  between the two modes
                  fiction and friction

                  wanted: exceptional readers

                23. Forever a fracture
                  A fissure of friction
                  Spawning a drive to thrive
                  in the fiery flame
                  An all consuming consummation
                  Love and lust
                  Loss and gain
                  Breaking through all tribal taboo
                  born of suspicion and superstition
                  Survival a must
                  where life is a game
                  Is it all a waste
                  for the lost and the lame?

                24. renunciation of the pleasure principle

                  had to air up the tires
                  add some oil
                  drove off

                  who designed the lock protecting love ?
                  years and years of torment
                  a key that would function

                  no matter how deep
                  or how shallow
                  the number of times a night

                  intellectual curiosity
                  like an outside hound
                  at the base
                  of some distant tree
                  barking up at the demon

                25. The thrill of it all
                  the thing that rings
                  behind the door d’amour
                  put into overdrive
                  Beyond the strive
                  to just survive
                  To reach the peak
                  that angels seek
                  and demons of despair
                  dare to deprive
                  with visions bleak
                  and a poison chalice to sip
                  full of jealous malice
                  This life is too precious
                  to waste on a guilt trip
                  Love is where it’s at
                  Love from above is hip

                  “Beloved, let us love one another,
                  for love is from God, and whoever
                  loves has been born of God and
                  knows God. Anyone who does not
                  love does not know God, because
                  God is love. In this the love of God
                  was made manifest among us, that
                  God sent his only Son into the world,
                  so that we might live through him.
                  In this is love, not that we have loved
                  God but that he loved us and sent his
                  Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
                  Beloved, if God so loved us, we also
                  ought to love one another. No one has
                  ever seen God; if we love one another,
                  God abides in us and his love is
                  perfected in us.”
                  ~ John, the Disciple

                26. Sunday School with its pictorial elements
                  look without succumbing

                  tiny tots hardly three feet tall
                  human kaleidoscopes of
                  figurative expressions
                  they who whisper
                  in the labyrinth
                  anatomical
                  whispers

                  the inventiveness of metaphors
                  adults with no last name
                  human museums
                  life witnessed through the cinema
                  light thrown from different directions
                  sometimes over-estimating the value
                  poets, philosophers, mystics, Lexicon Charlie

                27. At Sunday School
                  I was nobody’s fool
                  I remembered
                  that Good Shepherd
                  who was super cool
                  But by Monday
                  back on the highway
                  with little Miss Hijinx
                  who makes
                  even those demons drool
                  whilst chasing the Sphinx
                  channelling Jimi Hendrix
                  in speedway spandex
                  Wrong place
                  Right tool
                  Like Brian Jones
                  face down
                  in his swimming pool

                28. the very language of our perceptions

                  one second face down in the swimming pool
                  the next, in heaven eating pancakes with Jesus

                  clerks at the gas station
                  discussing their fascination
                  with taboos of representation
                  daily imperfections haunt the Moses clan
                  Biblical mothers with scaffolding
                  to hold up their enormous breasts
                  so the entire village can suckle

                  clerks at the gas station giving free rein
                  to their speculations
                  first they observe reality
                  then they reproduce it
                  or attempt to reproduce it
                  what does one do with untranslatable reality ?
                  (dreamer boy Charlie invents grammar)

                  manuscripts of memory litter the sides of roadways

                29. I was the first in my clerical class
                  to fail the Rorschach test when
                  I discovered that 6 was actually 9.
                  A blast from the future past
                  then gave me a free pass to pursue
                  Buzz Lightyear to the end of time.
                  Expressions of all manifestations
                  hang in the celestial gallery, right
                  next to the gas station of slavery.
                  The price of admission is freedom, but
                  masks must be removed upon entry,
                  For empty you were written into the
                  manuscript, and naked you exit this
                  crooked roadway. Persistent is the
                  memory of eternity. Though many
                  are busy doing their damn best
                  … to forget it.

                30. ……………………. Michael,
                  Good News! If we can get this post
                  over 200 “comments”, Charlie will get
                  a free upgrade to Cyborg Platinum
                  for his site. Plus a set of WordPress
                  steak knifes, and a Martian Lexicon!

                31. just too lazy to nourish a friendship
                  gestures of closeness
                  secret names
                  witty language
                  ———–how there is a strangeness
                  to wearing new underwear
                  people mumble about elasticity
                  stretched out loneliness

                  a goat with a hunger for physical friction
                  mutual admiration, lights on or off
                  one must accept the limits
                  the hint of a crust of indifference

                  quiver little plum

                32. Thirty pieces of silver
                  will get you new underwear
                  from a sweatshop in China.
                  But as the pathologists say
                  you must wash straight away,
                  because they’ll be
                  covered in foreign DNA.
                  But are those stains
                  of indifference here to stay?
                  At a stretch
                  I would guess
                  elastic loneliness
                  snaps when let out to play.

                33. in high school
                  fingers under the elastic
                  was a favorite sport (hobby)
                  Bob Dylan would be singing about elastic loneliness
                  condemned to outlive the new bought
                  that love that leads to forbidden union
                  fades away with eyesight and length
                  absence reduces the binding force
                  the cement fades away in the wash

                  the guys at the gas station
                  boasting of their preference
                  for fantasy over reality
                  disembodied pleasure
                  not skin-to-skin
                  but deep in jelly

                34. Kids will be kids
                  All curious as kittens
                  and spurting their lids
                  whilst losing their mittens
                  Just one jelly doughnut
                  is never enough
                  An hour later
                  your craving another one
                  and they never truly satisfy
                  In a town called Malice
                  just like Jimi Hendrix
                  you may as well kiss the sky
                  A wise pastor once told me
                  that sex is the glue
                  that holds a marriage together
                  But at the time I was married
                  to a princess of fair weather
                  A Temptress
                  from the Tarot deck
                  who then became
                  a female eunuch
                  And little did he know
                  that my tube of super glue
                  had already got me stuck
                  in all sorts of tantric trouble
                  So when
                  back then
                  standing next
                  to a mountain of sin
                  it was suddenly
                  all washed away
                  by the “blood of the lamb.”
                  I picked up all of the pieces
                  and wrote a poem
                  as I like to raise
                  a little Armageddon
                  ‘Cause I’m a Jesus child
                  A Jesus child
                  Lord knows I’m a Jesus child

                35. I’ve heard of drunken phone calls to fellow poets
                  more than one gorilla recalled from childhood
                  various episodes of daydreaming
                  Tarzan on top

                  so few tourist attractions on WordPress
                  gynecologists with snakes exposed
                  fake hallucinogenic substances
                  erotic gratification humor
                  explicit codes for psychiatric sodomy

                  potential perpetrators
                  outnumber potential victims

                36. Here on
                  Planet Vice
                  where comedy
                  comes at a tragic price
                  the beat poet never rings twice
                  And I think to myself …
                  what a wonderful WordPress 🏵️
                  The gorilla on my back
                  wearing a leopard skin g-string
                  for a dose of self inflicted terrorism
                  and chasing some Tarzan substance
                  Whilst reciting primal poetry
                  to the victims of a bad choice
                  since Robert Frost got lost
                  in the translation
                  of self medication
                  Where rebellion
                  is an orphan
                  without a
                  voice

                37. the Lady Poet
                  mania and instability ever present
                  capable of give-and-take
                  capable of digging in the sensitive areas
                  Lady Poet with dirt-under-the-nails
                  feared at the pool hall
                  for her skill at methodical civilizing
                  many a brute lost to her charms
                  lost to a respectable life
                  lights out at eight

                38. The lady poet had me in a trance
                  as she plunged her gauntlet
                  down my pants
                  But
                  I had said
                  that there was
                  a hole in her flowery prose
                  that even my cudgel couldn’t fill

                39. minor transgression often represents a deeper subversive impulse

                  next door nagging, suspicious complaining
                  a marriage corroding from the inside out
                  the word wedded to a wordless reality
                  sliding back and forth, shoes with casters
                  the poet in a delirium
                  intoxicated
                  by vulgar kitsch

                  love delivered with an eye-dropper
                  creepy upper eyelids before sex

                40. Love is a battlefield
                  I came armed
                  with only a paintball gun
                  dressed in sackcloth and ashes
                  The rules were all bent
                  Days and nights spent
                  in an opium den
                  face down
                  through a rabbit hole
                  to the House of the Rising Sun
                  The success
                  of the Temptress
                  is to leave you undone
                  But in a game
                  of survival
                  of the greediest
                  Where the lover
                  the poet
                  and the dreamer
                  are left far behind
                  I found that the hole
                  in the heart of mankind
                  was greater than the total sum
                  True love
                  is a doorway
                  to Kingdom come

                41. love is one of those situations
                  where you go and you go
                  and finally you have to get out
                  and put chains on the tires

                  guys at the pool hall
                  constantly speak of the dense fog
                  swirling around the Honeymoon Hotel
                  groom and bride circling the nest
                  any reward
                  would require physical
                  and psychological stamina

                  bulging eyes from a perfect orgasm
                  that felt bruised for days
                  five bandages on the dong
                  a solid performance

                42. Your going to need to get some
                  bigger bandages, because …

                  “Here comes, Dolly Dagger
                  Her love so heavy gonna
                  make you stagger
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She drinks the blood from
                  a jagged edge
                  Ah, drink up baby

                  Been ridin’ broomsticks
                  since she was fifteen
                  Blow out all the other witches
                  on the scene
                  She got a bull whip
                  just as long as your life
                  Her tongue can even scratch
                  the soul out of the devil’s wife

                  Well, I seen her in action
                  at the players choice
                  Turn all the love men into
                  donut boys
                  Hey red hot momma,
                  you’d better step aside
                  This chick’s gonna turn you
                  to a block of ice
                  Look out
                  Here comes, Dolly Dagger
                  Her love so strong
                  gonna make you stagger baby
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She drinks the blood
                  from a jagged edge
                  Right on
                  Drink up baby, hey
                  Yeah, look at old burnt out
                  superman
                  Tryin’ to shoot his dust on the sun
                  Captain comic is the man
                  on the run
                  On the words of love
                  Do they ever touch dolly brown
                  Better get in some highway
                  and clear outta town
                  Here comes Dolly Dagger
                  Her love’s so heavy,
                  gonna make you stagger
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She ain’t satisfied ’til she get
                  what she’s after
                  She drinks the blood
                  from the jagged edge
                  You better watch out baby
                  here comes your master, alright
                  Watch out there baby
                  Gonna give a little bit of that
                  Dolly heavy mama
                  Get it on get it on get it on
                  Dolly heavy mama
                  Get it on get it on get it on … ”

                  ~ Jimi Hendrix

                43. a cranky curmudgeon
                  who complained of the carny life
                  in his neighborhood
                  his little crooked street
                  both sides of his crooked house
                  they say that he was a voyeur
                  an eye at every window
                  BUT THAT WAS ALL A LIE

                  a poet with a pet trombone
                  a poet with body language
                  once forced to admit
                  that the smell of family Bibles
                  could arouse him
                  flirtatious behavior at used bookstores
                  painful awkwardness at the checkout
                  postcards of Victorian London
                  nature books with apes
                  bright blue behinds
                  teasing trollops

                44. TRIGGER WARNING:
                  Curmudgeons Mentioned. And not
                  all of the following tale is a lie 😎

                  He was
                  not just an
                  excitable boy
                  But a guitar genius
                  and a psychedelic circus freak
                  I met the ringleader in East Berlin
                  on an Explore the Cold War Trip
                  peddling some Afghan crime
                  Calling it his Golden Dragon Treat
                  It was hard not to vomit
                  as I tried a near lethal sample
                  He was working undercover
                  as a Russian Cosmonaut
                  Only 5 foot, 4 inches tall
                  Another cranky curmudgeon
                  They had to be short to be able
                  to squeeze into a Soyuz capsule
                  Grigori told me that from space
                  with a taste of martian spice
                  everything looks like a comedy
                  The only tragedy in space
                  is coming back down to Earth
                  I could see the truth of it
                  engraved upon his haggard face
                  He then shared some secret
                  Kremlin information
                  as he was proudly named
                  after that mad monk Rasputin
                  Saying in broken Russian,
                  “You’ll find out Mr. Nixon,
                  in Vietnam you can never win!”
                  I thanked him for the free tickets
                  to the Moscow Circus
                  promising to pass on
                  right away
                  some of his Afgan special
                  to Mr. Jimi Hendrix
                  Then to a debriefing
                  with the CIA
                  But they never
                  listen
                  Alas

                  But they were very interested in
                  that Golden Dragon, and how to
                  fund their next Black Operation.

                45. when I went to change the battery in the clock
                  I saw a photo of you and not that WordPress image
                  it was the one from the cover of your paperback
                  you looked super happy—like the yeast infection had cleared up
                  I remember purchasing your paperback at the local CVS
                  the clerk had tired eyes and an odd tubercular cough
                  he asked if I liked poetry and I pondered if he was hitting on me
                  the master stoke that would ignite romance, “do you like poetry ?”
                  a safecracker to a locked heart ?
                  a man who would reshuffle my deck ?

                46. “For poetry to really ignite
                  ask a stranger for a light
                  … in the dark.
                  A bit of strange to spark
                  the infection of a broken heart.
                  A fraction of friction
                  to start the ball rolling
                  of a private Armageddon.”
                  ~ The Paperback Writer of Pulp Fiction

                47. in a world of submachine guns
                  and gray suited men with attack dogs
                  citizens walk around with color-coded skin
                  knee deep in shame, humiliation, and a sense of futility

                  soon we will receive the new guidelines
                  from the Republican Minister of Propaganda

                48. The Minister of Propaganda,
                  The Chief Beast, and the high
                  flying Wing Commander, will all
                  be broadcasting new guidelines
                  from the New Improved Vatican.
                  As the Chinese say, young padawan,
                  … May you live in interesting times 😎

                49. life speeds by
                  reflected
                  in all sorts of cinematic chrome

                  smoke swirls studiously
                  around every pool hall attendee
                  although tobacco has been outlawed for years
                  how does the common man locate tobacco to purchase ?

                  possession
                  of the devil weed
                  carries a stiff sentence
                  selling any form of nicotine
                  guarantees life in a hellhole prison

                50. Sister Nicotine
                  has never been
                  far from my tongue
                  We were first introduced
                  when I was quite young
                  A much older woman
                  who seduced poor pitiful me
                  just for a laugh
                  and a bit of fun
                  She would sprinkle
                  a bit of herbal green
                  in between my brain and spleen
                  as she sucked the breath
                  out of my lung
                  Whispering …
                  “I am your kingdom come.”
                  But it was all a smoke screen
                  The memory of her sweet dream
                  was to vanish in a puff
                  Sight unseen

                51. Iron Butterfly performing IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA
                  on the school bus stereo
                  all the children are smoking
                  homegrown tobacco
                  the driver drinking
                  from a cough syrup bottle
                  deviant lifestyles are the norm
                  strictly platonic relationships
                  but zero homosexual subtext

                  Elton John rides around town
                  in a limousine
                  the only man in town
                  who wears a pearl necklace
                  many a guillotine’s blade
                  has his likeness
                  poor little Elton John
                  couldn’t escape the curse
                  —married with child—

                52. I turned
                  a whiter shade of pale
                  as my school bus
                  ran off that yellow brick road
                  The driver just staggered about
                  drooling, eyes bleeding,
                  as he went off hunting
                  the horny back toad
                  In the fast lane hospital
                  the attending nurse
                  cursed as she noticed
                  that my complexion
                  was much too white
                  I tried to tell her
                  that was completely normal
                  Fearing I was heading
                  off into the light
                  she held my hand
                  and called me her Rocket Man
                  as she squeezed me real tight
                  The consequent swelling
                  of my Saturday Night Special
                  gave even me a big fright
                  But she was most kind
                  and blew me out
                  like a candle in the wind 🕯️

                53. comedy and horror are Siamese twins
                  re: the evening news

                  centipede-like puberty
                  topless women in Parisian magazines
                  females envisioned rather than realized
                  Bruce Springsteen on the radio singing
                  “you get a boner and no where to put it”

                  LIFE: yearning for things one can never have

                  caged animals in school
                  caged animals in the workplace
                  caged animals in automobiles

                  self-bruising religion
                  twitchy mannerisms at best

                  poetry about mindless conformity
                  dark cinema prose
                  voice-over literature
                  night gives birth to night

                54. separated from the correct alignment of words
                  not by an innate inability on the part of the poet
                  but by arbitrary restrictions of dictionary followers
                  somewhere, somehow tell-tale information is reported
                  it doesn’t take nitroglycerin to ghost the poet

                  nerve-wracking at 90mph
                  other-worldly mental dilemma
                  headlights from famous writers
                  that glare through metal
                  white-knuckle baby

                  another poet holding the bag
                  seems out of options

                55. Poetry is what gets lost
                  in regurgitation
                  The linguistics of this existence
                  struck dumb on the tongue
                  of Braggadocio the All knowing
                  As meaningless
                  but ever so stylish prose
                  endlessly flows
                  from the holes
                  between deaf ears
                  and frozen tears
                  Why? Nobody knows

                56. I was on my way
                  to the harbour of Havana
                  minding my own business
                  to get a bag of travel sickness
                  There was a long que
                  at the Castro Beauty Parlour
                  giving away a free face tattoo
                  just for using
                  an American Express credit card
                  I only ever use Visa
                  Even a Mastercard wouldn’t do
                  I’m one unlucky guerilla
                  as I missed out
                  Strange but true
                  ~ Ernesto Che Guevara

                57. driving on country roads at night
                  shadows suggesting that one should self-navigate
                  “poetry found lacking by a child’s standards”
                  and most people think of themselves
                  as an eleven
                  (a ravenous eleven)

                  living in a world
                  where dinosaurs are six inches long
                  dongs scratch the ground and squawk

                  DISCOMBOBULATING:
                  the first time you see Bob Dylan
                  in an adult diaper commercial

                  the shyster falls over dead
                  insurance reward floats into town
                  youthful-looking harlots
                  constantly rubbing crème
                  down below
                  the bumps of employment
                  do they ever go away ?

                  the shyster leaves behind prose
                  his agonizing descent into despair
                  his accidental-discharge
                  (multiple words for the muzzle flash)

                  in court they returned the gun to his hand
                  they asked him to pull the trigger
                  and say, “bang-bang”

                58. Unemployment is a ploy
                  for the fast food poor
                  sinking in an upsized soda
                  after a golden promise of MORE.
                  As Bob Dylan, sponsored by
                  Dependable adult diapers,
                  sings golden oldies
                  to expired baby boomers.
                  “My Kingdom for a boner!”
                  comes a cry from the audience.
                  “My seed is all spent,
                  and I forgot where it went.”
                  Dylan’s rather sly reply,
                  “Don’t ask me. I’m just the crooner.
                  And nurse, what time is dinner?”
                  “Time wounds all heels.
                  Now take off your pants Mr. Dylan,
                  it’s time for your cream.”
                  whispered the geriatric nurse
                  from behind a shower screen.
                  A score out of ten
                  was soon given
                  by Meals on Wheels.

                59. the conversation of the Beat Poets
                  focused on bitch-slapping
                  someone suggested purchasing some poison
                  everyone agreed on a generic product
                  a little blow, a little meth, a speck of cyanide
                  suddenly Heaven opens up its gates
                  to be a Have, rather than a Have Not

                  an Orgasm so powerful
                  that the body
                  would have to go through
                  a painstaking restoration

                  just a simple glance at the crotch area
                  would cause one to shed tears

                  if only Janet Leigh was available
                  to make an audio commentary

                60. what cuts the poet off
                  from the fulfillment of his/her true destiny ?

                  the flashlight of God
                  illuminates “FRAGMENTATION”
                  the cruel question,
                  “was it written by a poet in particular ?”
                  in the background of the hellish dream
                  10,000 poets repeat
                  the same limited selection of words
                  love was the most common collection of letters
                  love, love, love, love, love, love, love
                  enough love to arouse the Beatles
                  and countless songwriters

                  Love is the Law
                  yet, average people are uncertain
                  of their love capacity
                  the more the sophistication
                  the greater the uncertainty

                  trying to place abstracted ideas
                  in a hostile space without notice
                  trying to walk around with a blue butt
                  and hoping not to excite the boys

                61. If love makes the world go ’round
                  it must be hiding under the ground
                  as it is so hard to find.
                  For love is not rude & self-seeking.
                  It is self-sacrificing, and kind.
                  Neither is it angry, envious, or jealous,
                  and full of malice.
                  Leaning ever towards forgiveness.

                  “It not just a little
                  bit of this
                  A little bit of that
                  It started with a kiss
                  Now we’re up to bat
                  A little bit of laughs
                  A little bit of pain …”

                  As Tina limps up
                  from the floor
                  after a back-door delivery
                  she wasn’t expecting

                  It’s all in the game of eros,
                  that some call love.

                62. marriage, bound to one another
                  each the other a crucifix

                  hummingbird feathers in a pillow
                  who would honor my birthday wish ?

                  nursery rhymes on television
                  about a bad man
                  neither black or white
                  rather orange
                  a linguistic demon
                  stuck in the seventh grade
                  Big Daddy Crime
                  (photos of the President without a bra)

                63. (Sex tape from the Kremlin:
                  Putin & Castro with a strap on dildo)

                  Happily married couples
                  (it does happen) live longer.
                  Unhappily married ones also.
                  They like to stretch out the torture.
                  But one should never be
                  where one does not belong.
                  The tribal imperative of fertility
                  and the state religion of conformity
                  … The artist forever
                  striving to break free.

                64. I had to laugh
                  the gents at poetry workshop
                  were trying to measure silence
                  how easy was it to absorb such a concept ?
                  the past catching up with the present and interacting
                  thoughts beyond the bounds of human communication

                  passion seems to be everywhere
                  males walking around with their key in hand
                  locks come and go and sometimes they linger

                65. “Everything in life is foreign territory.”
                  ~ Jack Kerouac

                  We breathe in noise
                  and store it between our ears
                  as the lonesome poet
                  tells us again … and again
                  of his pain and fears.
                  Enough to being even
                  the most heartless troglodyte
                  to tears.
                  The silent oasis
                  under the cover of darkness
                  is where my Jean Genie appears.
                  The plot to a never ending story
                  from a far off land
                  is what she comes to hear.
                  Wiith the keys
                  to an infinite tomorrow
                  held firmly
                  in her outstretched hand
                  … drawing ever near.
                  I offered her my soul,
                  and body.
                  But she only ever asks
                  for a happy ending
                  to my endless story.

                66. a happy ending to an endless story
                  the reviews are in
                  and the disappointments are out

                  Anne Sexton reminded me that applause
                  is the beginning of abuse

                  the guys at the pool hall
                  desperate to escape
                  the ordinary routines
                  of life
                  cross their fingers
                  and pray to Mary and Jesus
                  they know not of their need for reunion

                  the restoration of the divided self

  12. There is smoke
    on the water
    down here in Australia.
    With fire in the sky
    wildlife running for shelter.
    The storm is too fast
    and most will die.
    Tourists are fleeing.
    in a summer swelter.
    Happy holidays
    all up in flames.
    People are dying
    trying to save their farms.
    A black cloud now stretches
    from here to New Zealand.
    A funeral shroud
    now covers
    this sunburnt land.

  13. Married with Children was my favourite American sitcom
    back when The Bill Cosby Show
    was drugging women
    Al Bundy became the Anti-hero
    for all the shoe sales men
    chained to their dead-end jobs
    under the debris of ground zero

    “A working class hero
    is something to be.
    Keep you doped with religion
    and sex and TV.
    And you think you’re so clever
    and classless and free.
    But you’re still fucking peasants
    as far as I can see.”
    ~ John Lennon

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