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.

Hail Madness

We're all here again
Relating more to pain
Since we are all just sad, sorry fucks
With one too many drinks
And a stockpile of roaches,
Empty cans resembling our brains
Next to the cartons of ash bibles.
Well, "pleasure is pain", anyways
That's what they say at least.
Loveless like one hogging the love seat
Wrapped in insecure blankets of smoke screens
Bleeding through tongue-tooth piercings.

Whoa, humanity, so paper-like,
So roboticly sounded
In every swoon to take doom
To the bedroom
And eat her pussy out.
So twisted to blow kitchens
With drone kisses
To the brain lesions;
I'm so impressed to get undressed
In front of screen saviors
For the night light mimics
Politically recorded misbehavior.

What a sorry state we are left in,
What a lonely place I live in
Where madness proves wonder
And wonder proves nothing
And nothing gives something to the madness,
It's exactly what everything else lacks in.
Tragically, concealed for the masses
Because happiness can't be capitalized,
Except for the ones showing off their asses
While everyone else capsizes--
Keep relating to pain
Everyone else is here anyways.

Life and then Some

Politics becomes a drinking game
When the debates start to feel the same
I'm not ashamed of what I became
But I'm not used to this spinning fame

Understanding without knowing
It comes easy when you're not showing
From a balcony time is slowing
That's when my dreams start flowing

A cigarette for my cold bare hands
A novelty that I can't comprehend
The gossip that breeds on command
Won't ever meet my ancient demands

In the grand scheme of everything
Dangles infinity on a string
& it swings from a young white dove's wing
Wondering what red gifts it could bring

Women Are

Women are
delicate summer flowers
hacked off
by the vicious blade
of a lawn mower
screeching like
an old dog's howl
under fingernail thorn piercings
with soft skin
like velvet rainfalls
over funeral mornings
pouring down a sewage stream
of shanty town ghettos.

Women are
oyster pearls
swallowed by ignorance
and purged in personal notes,
talked like doll-faced
bedroom jerk offs
wide eyed
in wonder
with ribbons
tied at the throats
forced to sing
off key
mainstream madness.

Women are
faint rainbows
teasing folklore
gold lovers
licking dirty truck windows
on highway go-go bars,
the water mirage
on a desert surface
when you most need a drink
that fades
like sinking guilt
swallowed by
quicksand romances.

13

Terrible movie-like dreams,
maybe prophecy or tripping,
tube breathing,
13 year-old sinners,

concert winners,
ghost whisperers,
death defying forces,
"Wild Horses" ♫,

nude choices,
basement jails,
microphoned schools,
police state rules,

lab created diseases,
the servitude that never pleases;
Dreams like movies.
Terrible.

CCTV Love Poem

If I had to calculate the hours and dollars spent
To record the disconnected urban civilians
To ensure our justice is met,
I would indefinitely go insane
From the time frame that has created
A brave new 1984 society showing off for the lenses
Caught by a one eye reflection,
Jostled by the Americana fabrication,
Leaving freedom waiting like
Insects digging for hopelessness,
Like the anarcho-pie-thrower at the Murdoch trial
Dripping in loony froth captured by point-and-shoots,
Invisible now to the riots of London towns
That were set ablaze in the corporate gaze
Of banging glass sound explosions
By ghetto squats claimed by poor comrades
That were established unsafe from community colleges
For murder-loving poems of war veterans,
Sullen in their sad states of drunken loneliness
Served by the communist and socialist clowns
Crooning at dusk when the zombie croaks come out
And their heads full of lead to ease the trauma
While blurring each day by mind control,
Nodding at the elite teleprompter
Where information babbles like the brooks bubbling in opaque bongs
Glowing from a television sets mocking and laughing and laughing,
Laughing, laughing, laughing, as if we should be smiling at a time like this
When punched walls becomes the common decor
Along with burnt marks & ashes on coffee stands
Struggling for art madness in airbrushed models
Between their Photoshopped cleavages and camel-toed personalities
Lost in fantasies of Film Bums lost in fictional conversations
Lost in back bars of bare backs lost in jointed over thinking, dwelling
Since there's no work to be done except internally
Where the market fails to profit and lacks yuppie Viagra
To slave for the Federal Reserve fiat currency
Weighing our wallets and emptying our brain stem juice,
Shackled by the institutionalized cops coming on webcams
From their lost pot of coffee crack baffled at the marijuana mind,
Condemned by fundamentalist rapture flashers
And the Zionist courts cupped by the sack of the anti-scientist
Hitting puberty in truck stop bathrooms under etched "good time" numbers,
Late bloomed and consumed by dimensions of meaningless realities
Marked by tattooed chips implanted with 1010011010 designs
Listening to our very conversations and nakedness,
For the perverted politician pounding on the taxes and
Skywriting the slums of the low income population,
And scatter brains to decorate the street lamps with colour,
Besides the blue lights echoing sirens
To shatter the security of the night walkers.

All that I need are pictures floating from balcony trees singing
Of dead pin-ups and closeup plant crystals coating my blood stream,
Infesting and caressing balanced pituitary & pineal glands
In order to stand the experience of rejecting ego plans
That would rather indulge in physical pleasure,
Which never comes and blows away in rip tides
On seas of everlasting security of the cosmic royalty
That lays in the hearts of all mere beings
Who are awaken, awoken, and seeking,
Across bell-free towers and strip malls
& strip clubs and freeways,
Looking back on something not exactly aware
Of their coughing/coffin of double helix codes
Sown in oil buttons of our Chinese robes.

Lo an' behold! Bottom feeders,
On the railway roads
Sleeping by sewage plants
& stripped concrete streets in a cold season,
There's always something better
Than this same sleepy town
Down and out of well water baths
With the same angry barber shop loitered by teenaged druggies
Looking for the same way out as everyone else.

Oh closed-circuit cunt-screen, why must you bother me?
Why must you record for the govern-lords
That tatter like young Napoleons smacking a tether ball
Back and forth, a scratch for a scratch in the loom of evenin's moon?

For every still taken by store,
Fuck you,
For every turned neck lens staring back at me and them and us,
Fuck you,

For every recorded call and surveillance stolen innocence,
Fuck you.
Fuck you grand ol' government and the Satan that backs you,
Fuck you for hijacking this state of being,

For every cigarette banned and drug demonized,
Fuck you,
Fuck you,
Fuck you.

Fuck. You.

Escapism

Empty handed apologies reaching towards me
where I have learned to love & see
for every grief is a returned joy,
a part of myself longing to not be destroyed
and the past is unwelcome
as my ego withers in the dry sun,
passed by the passing fly's hum,
decayed in a way that fades to none.

Dark repetitions of squalor numbers,
possible death threats of inevitable afflictions
from rushing neurotic compulsive waking slumbers
followed by addictive deceptions from my restrictions.
A haunting to pass the time
when you've run out of cellar wine
to swallow inside your empty brain,
too plain to pay for a black and white fame.

Lips like cherries hung between two peace fingers
dripping forgetfulness as the outside lingers
warm grassy dew-dreams in shallow creeks
lost by hill peaks among the hazy weeks
taken in stills and photographic memory,
nude and unasked, but existing,
rough like files of emery,
but twisting in her insisting,
broken, but whole and ratified,
continuously born and dead and satisfied,
smiling like a faithful street;
If you're all that I need then why can't I sleep?

Blur

Her eyes where strawberries half eaten

by ant hills and parachuted pills

popping passenger paperhanger small talks

clocked in silver tongue look away confessions

and she bit the skins of many bottom lips

just in case it wasn't a mistake of imaginations,

loving herself in lone reflected lust

locked inside mistrusted paranoid rust

rotting under thousands of mind fucks

floating in blue lights captured by slight glances,

caught between the valleys and troughs of nothing's cost.

"Ctrl, Alt, Delete" they cry,

"Rise and rise or everyone will die!"

Fought on the campaigns of fear'd hive slaves

Stitching their fallen morals on foreheads.

She sees repeated seas sunk under tree trunks

stuck in grimy lost-thought stillness,

vanished by impaired drones

dragging their fist in everyone's brain.

Will her claims remain ignored

by Do-Not-Disturb door signs

or hushed by market masters

after truth speakers leaking troubled instincts?

Something & Nothing

Spools of endless planes

driven over cycled chains,

long, thought-gone and lived,

whether found or ignored,

stretching immeasurable space echoes

endlessly unifying all that exist

within a tree cosmos,

expanding/retracting/blooming/f a d i n g,

quenched by everlasting knowledge-dew

proving the beyond that was never gone--

it's living in our head-room,

pulsating light windows in resume.

There's Nothing that you see,

& Something that you don't believe,

everything that you will be

manifests in your dreams.

Repeat After Me: I Am Free

Running, always in circular patterns carving

Truth within the caves and valleys of my brain

Etched and typed in the eyes of the few

Who seek to expand the infinite walls crashing around them

A continuous fleeting wanting fading & overcoming

Static paradox pushing through thought-water

Floating in plain view, bobbling on the surface

Closing lids for dream-speak lucid escapements

Morning becomes this different view from night paranoia

Sailing on a fragment of insecurity and misunderstandings

The words held on for so long becomes an outcast

Claimed for the occult when the truth is too hard to stomach

Upside down deadbeats born to accommodate law,

To serve you food, to cut your hair, or to uplift anti-nature

With their rules and the rules made from nothingness

Which they fear because we are all fucked

Happiness isn't anything more than a chemical boost from neutral

Since everything in reality is what we make of it

There has never been a matter or circumstance to create emotion

Just a false illusion to justify reactions