This May Be Used Against Me in Court

Bare bones of teeth combs tickle teat drones of bombed homes
Lone clones drop meat phones, robbed stones strip police robes
Stare for flair for televised improvision fighting fisted gloves
Loved for statist drugs & monetary rapist running the show


Slowed and stirred like molotov cocktails
Burning with the dead stars, housed in slave jails
Shining as bright as a flaming cigarette stuck in a bad mouth
Black and red and yellow and white and a maroon moron matching mouse


Kill or just kill because it's something to do
When you can't turn back time or have a clue


Praying to the misery god until five o'clock
Living the mystery life until you're knee deep in cock
Pulling the stage rope until time just stops
Or your breathing, either way.

Blue and Old News

Follow the frames and you will get cornered
By the boys in blue
With radios singin' staged suicidal tunes
Sittin' in the back of a drug cafe
Attentive for your cream conversation
Stirred for a feelin'
Licked like a sidewalk drive-by peelin'
Who waves for the traffic cam voyager
And you burn your body on the grey asphalt
For a real sensation
To get a taste of trans-meditation
As you outline your existence in children's chalk
When everyday sticks together like the crust between your eyes
& the chewed gum in your frontal pockets
Picked with steel forks in electrical sockets
You're keepin' it so cool that it's old news
Time to blow your brains with nicotine
Time to level the tides with more alcohol
Instead of stickin' your soles on money balls
Roll with the spiked punch and not give a fuckin' shit

Wanderlust

I walked through the most crowded house

By the Broadway Market with a package in my bag

I dared not to know the contents inside

But it burned my hand with every gracing pass of a finger tip

I wrote 7 poems in my head along the way and forgot every word except "Validity"

Oh, how I marched through the doorways

Like a follower of Jim Morrison or Jesus Christ

The golden juice sat in my hand like a Snitch

And the hat sat on the bed, giving me 15 years of bad luck

I recalled his face, but never from a real life memory

He dismembered my friend, not a real friend, more like an associate

I've dreamed of her before, but never reconnected

"Just take a pass, look through the mall and you will know all"

Under the door, laid women weeping in blankets

Like the legs of caterpillars smashed by a unicycle,

They weeped helplessly as I strolled on by

And I looked in their eyes,

covered heads for no hair dared to wave hello

I imagined they were a 6-string activist and nothing more

It was a failed comedy that did well at the box office

A masturbation session that was inconclusively delayed

A paid politician that wrote a speech in 5 minutes

A paragraph for every personal venture

Of a folk singer that never made a laugh

On the first line that waits for a perfect time

Where a book of matches told a better story than the Bible ever did

"In order to create, one has to be destroyed"

I always wondered why they cut out paper-people from the pages

And briefly showed off the most important text like it was meaningless

I'm too drunk to have an audience smile or quit a job they hate

When the questions make a punched clown wish they were in an expert in apathy

Talk Show Rubbish

The world is a screaming massacre on a fuzzy AM radio station
Popping bullets on the Grand Central bus stop
Ending existence with a wig and a holy Sharpie
Clothed in iron sadness for the devil madness to drop
Walking miles to steal smiles set in clock dials
Turned celestial sovereignty from the modern hop
Pigtailed with a pillow for suffication
Which suffices more than an armed cop
Toking fluoride pills in the back of a flourishing dumpster bin
Longing for the bells of crack pipes to play rushing songs
Loaded in the man-made loyal loneliness
Looking for anyone to come along

The Chant Poem

Capturers seek to take the mind,
But will never steal the Heart
Flawed by the way,
Never stay from the start
Don't listen to the informers,
For the eye be evil in nature
Molded not from earth,
But from worldly paper

Propaganda is their architecture,
Deception is their rapture
Light is to our vapor,
Oneness is truth of taper
Never fear,
Here is now,
Take one step each time,
You will know how

Suffering banks illusion when you allow,
But thou shall know the forever vow
Formed from nothingness,
Aglow far from ego
The experience of endless vertigo,
Away from foolish pride
Sided with the Most High,
H.I.M. that grants us this life

Framed in the omniverse,
They try to spoon us lies
Divided by their selfish advice,
Still trying to criminalize the wise
Don't let it cage the truth that underlies,
For the skies answers the "whys"
Vast in freedom, endless in observation,
Baptized from disguise

Still there exists pain,
Still there exists love and truth
The balance of humanity
Is more than the eye can see,
Money cannot buy the Covenant,
But awareness can guarantee the life of the Tree,
Branch out, float in the space around you,
Land where you be, and the knowledge of freedom is guaranteed.

As Much Freedom As

If only ashes had a voice of despair, I'd chew them in my mouth for stimulation
For a lovemaking suit of a severed tongue in a galactical parked van
Offering red balloons for bullet wounds and candle wax trails,
To hear the wisdom under an ultrasound radar,
Ravished and unspoken, tokened and traded Neptune philosophy,
I'd romanticize a thousand imaginary fantasies of the lost minds who offered their beings to the slag market.

Like the dance of the secret service and militarized brothels
Banging bedposts of Liberty barebacked, delighted,
I surf the hallways of corporate gardens,
Picking unbloomed fruits, the blossoms that burst in allergens,
Mysteriously swallowing the winters waiting to come around,
Alive and unsound in the old days of cable news.

A town of infected sheep sleeping soundly in mourning trees,
Tousled by humanitarian torpedoes aimed at the esophagus,
Routinely stripped searched in glass screens for a bad mix tape
Hidden in a desk draw full of break up junk
Floating on a firework powered bicycle, burning
As much freedom as a ridden dogtooth.

Pinched between the unwashed digits and cucumber sandwiches,
A factory of the classy and coldly unsatisfied and unsurprised,
Smiling a wave at pricey pins on coat hangers,
Stalking the money round-about in shady armor for sleep,
The price of sold souls sewed on slowed grandfather clocks,
Ticking their chimes backwards for a dreamed far-away venture of child nostalgia.

Remorse for Modern Art

Looking from the outside in, swallowing words into a vast ocean of meaningless garbage,
Picking apart what has not existed, only to frame what a simpleton can comprehend.
They shatter the art with their phlegm-brained elegies, for death is the cost of a published paper back-scratcher,
Petting political rants like a wet dog; a cat in heat that mews at the moonlight.

Coped with degrees of insecurity, though affirmed by their debts in communist Beatnik-wannabe gatherings
Around round tables topped with overpriced wine and lacking feasts, stumbling as if their process of mind was any clearer when sober.
So high strung in their store bought nooses, framed in their over-hanging eye wear;
Oh original, I see! None like the whores before your time, you be.

The cafes, now lost without cigarette smoke, now lost without the mad men, lost without troubles of real despair, without merit or purpose--
Harvesting rotten fruits from the flats of naive screamers, pocketing perfect polished papers of mouth-water.
No where do I belong with such death trap for a cover charge, no where shall I seat myself amongst the deaf and dumb,
For the Judge already exists in the soul, whether you bash him in the mouth with His own hammer or sidetrack Him with a little skin.

Fabricators of America

The Fabricators of America wove a cloth with their own spit and fecal matter, vomited stripes of pride and stars of suicide. The Fabricators raped and enslaved their own people for a fiat nightmare made up of little kids' dreams, who played in dirty needle alleyways, who licked lead painted walls, and drank from asbestos fountains. Those shape shifters with masks of a billion phrases that rhymed with change came to liquefy gold for blood, tore tectonic plates in halves and sky-wrote 666 grids in the suburbs.

The Fabricators of America sold careers with venture smiles with parsley stuck between their tooth-rots, gathered face-pages for terror watchers, fisted the international community with their grubby hand-plants. They washed the brains of the youth with arsenic and ammonia, slimed their way to ensure that more soldiers hung themselves for the evil the One-Eye commander. The Fabricators opened their corpse-purses and chucked pennies for bloodsheds hidden behind freedom propaganda kits for a uniform and necklace.

The Fabricators bombed the media and education system with white phosphorus, deforming the truth into a mailable glass that enclosed the public to turn to ignorance and hard drugs. They've routed the child traffic highway and commercial food industry, so that we were reminded who owns who. The Fabricators of America lusted for civil unrest, to weed out the rest and throw them into military prison camps that capped the unshepherded behind silver barbwire.

The Fabricators met on their ships, glowed with Luciferian rituals to praise their genetic modifications. Those who refused to be implanted were left to rot from point-blank rounds of poisonous darts; those that refused were cast in the dark pit of unworthy snake chambers. The Fabricators of America created a land that no one would understand from just a glimpse of a computer screen.

Skid Row

My baby came home all strung up,
all shining and beautiful
like a candy wrapper on the streets of Skid Row,
waiting to be played for the system
that camps out for change
even when the dollar has been broken since 1913.

I spent the day smoking it down the filter.
hoping cancer comes to me sooner
and spreads indefinitely to my casket,
pondering how a soul could be so infinite
in a world that couldn't give less than a fuck
about the whole story.

I imagined that God experiences time
like a whisper going a million miles an hour
slowed down to a chop and screw,
enough to make any modern man
blow his brains out
on a crowded bank of bird shit and plastic.

The CEOs pronounce "freedom" as "capitalism"
and Washington's security is for our safety,
and the cops finger their noses for taxes,
and the people hide in their houses for entertainment,
and the children play doctor for excitement,
and I'm never sober for the hell of it.

The Ego Of A Writer

What is the formula to be a writer?
Well, I'll tell ya:

A pair of eyes to flood the brain,
A set of ears to hear the pain,
A pot of coffee to feel the tongue,
A packet of cigarettes to burn the lungs,
A love that hurts more than desire,
A spot of rum to flame the fire,
A can of ash to build a book,
A life that everyone overlooks.

Times a band of dirty socks,
Divided by a history of cocks,
Subtracted by common demure,
Plus a voice of pure allure,
Accompanied by natural luck
And the people that actually give a fuck,
A tour to masturbate the media scene
& magazines to give you a dream.

All together equals the ego of a writer
Draining the fluid from life's lighter.

Gone to Hades

Schools are for strippers
High on fluoride pills,
They do not care what they lose
As long as they can prostitute their existence.

A rat cage for political experiments,
The agenda to house the psycho-intelligence,
Bleeds through the pages
Of mind-wash laundry basket manuals.

The professors are system pimps
Polishing paper cuts cuddled in framed degrees,
Stacking their affirmed knowledge
Amongst biblical textbooks honored at their alters.

Art is no more than a copy skill here,
Poetry is fecal bags for the dream eaters,
History is a balled piece of notebook paper in the waste can,
Time is everything to make the dollar stand.

We're living to die,
To know that we mattered;
What a wonderful world
Gone to Hades.