With more skat
than a stray cat
can poke his eyeballs at
the punk
in the Midnight Choir
starts to twist and shout
Yet …
the All in All
all too beautiful
for even a bird on a wire
to sing about
Like that
concert hall in Vienna
where your lips
were so warm and wet
Getting a feel
of the real deal
… that love thing
Upon a mission
a royal commission
seeking foremost
the rock solid Kingdom
It all starts from within
Seizing the living moment
Best be in it
to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
To find truth
without love
or at least a trace
of faith and hope
like trying to climb
the highest peak
of Mount Everest
naked
without oxygen
or even a rope
Not saying it can’t be done
but man …
sounding much like
a clanging gong
in the Temple
of a world gone wrong
Or have I found
that love thing?
From the mire
of the dire basement
that we’re standing in
try as you might
to sight the heavens
across the endless skies
Far better
in the light
seeing the world
through heaven’s eyes
Heart and Soulful
Holy Mindfulness
is the rightful place
where we all belong
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I too
have tried
in my way
to be free
If it be your will
then let it be
Yet
here on earth
they sentenced me
to forty years of mayhem
for spying
the celebrants
of sin
Tell me
where does
this world end
and the next begin?
Because
I don’t like your
toxic culture mister
And I don’t like
the choir
you’re singing in
I don’t like Big Brother’s
twisted little sister
The King
of everything
He’s coming back
He’s coming to reward them
The King of hearts
and minds
the Prince of Peace
returning
But first
we seek the Kingdom
Then let freedom ring
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’ve been buried
and I’ve been dug up
I call it grace amazing
You called it dumb luck
And thank you
for those items
that you sent me
The stone monkey
and the ink
under my skin
I’ve tunnelled
towards the light
and now I’m ready
First
we occupy the Kingdom
then
let the revolution begin
Yes … Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water
Seeking the lost at sea
and the drowning
The stranger
the gambler
and me
And Leonard Cohen
he’s sailing on
to the Tower of Song
Through all
the rise and fall
the pulp fiction
from hell’s kitchen
I really like
to walk
that tightrope, baby
I really like
to hear
those Sirens sing
But to see that nightmare
of deception
prowling through creation
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom starts with
Remember me?
I use to to live
without rhyme or reason
Remember me?
I plugged your Hi-Fi in
You loved me as a loser
You’d hate
to ever see me win
With Christ Jesus
my ship has finally
come in
No longer tied
to a kitchen chair
With a Glory
and a broken Hallelujah!
But first
we take the Kingdom
Losing it all to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’m counselled
by a whisper
from the heavens
Once I was blinded
by visions in a spin
Now it’s …
So long Chicken Maryland
That frozen turkey
who nearly did me in
For now I’m guided
by the beauty of creation
and a thirst
for the Kingdom
where I first heard
those angels sing
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom begins within
And Leonard Cohen
he’s singing along
from the Tower of Song
~ by David B. Redpath © 2017-20
Artwork;
‘La Musica Sacra’
~ by Luigi Mussini
Photography:
David B. Redpath © 2017-20
David Redpath 
the poet’s deepest self
in search of a subject
fragments at best
departures
myths and folktales
Dollar Store Bible virtues
to never detour one’s own interest
to cultivate the right inside the Law
the social ladder
where magazine people reside
they harbor contaminations of respectability
giving it to one another from behind like dogs
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heavy with the mock and shock
doing some stand-up comedy
at the poetry workshop
where an expulsion in short pants
is a constant threat
all covered in that scent
‘Vajayjay Spray … by Britney’
Good God Almighty! … free at last
to express kindness
from in front and behind
If only she’d learnt how to dance
with daddy there to hit her
one more time
Who’s your daddy now, baby, baby?
Please tease and squeeze
my governorship blind
. . . if you’d be so kind
a broken shipwreck
upon the cheap seats of Las Vegas
is my spearheaded destiny of crime
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is it an ill wind that delivers intellectuals to poetry workshop ?
so often that which separates the poet from average life
aggressive bedroom language that cheapens
tenderness and compassion
affection pieced together
for the time being
(+) the thing to fear: occasional sex
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in a town called Placebo
the only thing you have to fear
is the Placebo itself
that Mother of All Strife
who shot down both
the deputy and the sheriff
Intellectuals of the pseudo
romanticise about
their sexual peccadilloes
with proud boasts
of an extended shelf life
as they all ran after
the farmer’s wife
who then cuts off their tails
with a carving knife
at poetry workshop
there’s hardly a dry eye
left in the house
after those poets in short pants
start reciting Robert Frost
and Sylvia Plath
in an age old struggle
of life or death
always bet on the one
with the gun
rather than the sucker
with a small pen
and a big mouth
that’s down to earth
Placebo Town wisdom
at it’s very best
too profound for some?
… I hazard a guess
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poets smoke THC-8
legal hemp
not THC-9
20 years hard labor in Kentucky
anyway back to THC-8
the exact high from 1970
you can smoke for a hour
get up and go outside
and change a flat tire
current levels of THC-9 in Florida
three puffs and you’re sofa bound
unable to watch TV
too many bad memories
serious thoughts about calling 911
panic attacks on the childbirth level
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stepping heart and soul
into the cannabinoid void
but rather than empty
I found it mysteriously filled
with moving pictures
whispers and secrets
like some herbal ouija board
a spiritual peek into the mystic
talking all poetic
to an angelic stranger
curiouser and curiouser
only to wake up in a puff of smoke
with a hand written note . . .
“You’ll never come back
the way you went. Good Luck!
~ The Night Manager”
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lesbians circled town
cursing rulemaking
the largest clan, the Misdiagnoses
famous for downplaying
“sex for permanent love”
(+) thorny doubts on obligation
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humanizing poetry workshop
identity based on separation
identity based on attachment
androgynous with a bad rash
toilet tissue twisted
self-disclosure
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pawnbrokers standing in blood
poets up to their knees in manslaughter
a simple Babylonian urge
just think of it as an unresolved issue
the scorned son from serpent seed
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the thirteenth tribe of Placebo
led by it’s supreme matriarch
the Sumerian Sun Queen
marches out of Canaan
heading straight for Babylon
no roaming the wilderness
no Bed & Breakfast at Mount Zion
no couch surfing in Nazareth
for the Child Bride Androgynous
in the Ray-Ban® sunglasses
who survived being sacrificed
to Baphomet as a teen
making a mess of her dress
with stains yet to come out
I read all about it at the airport
in a cosmopolitan magazine
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bound to the corpse of mother
every boy from clay
the hands of a woman made
an early taste for solitude
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to copulate and nothing more
no holding hands
or baking a cake
far from those
who focus on
disappoint
disappoint
disappointment
socialization: worms in a can
men who fish have effeminate fingers
they reanalyze their choice of bait and little else
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you wake up discovering that you are singing the Ave Maria
perhaps you rolled Mary up into a pillow
constantly shuffling women
like playing cards
insects and childhood trauma
the homemade girdle around your spout
E.A. Poe was forced to wear one also
he was thrust below the human condition
forced to live like an ape in Eden
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back in the land before time
where apes growing wings
and flying off with the fairies
wasn’t considered such a crime
I had a sweet painted lady
her name was Mary
her tender love
it nearly killed me
ever since
that fragrance of the street
has never left me
the sweet aroma
from livin’ la Placebo loca
waist deep in the delights
of the night
no one much worries
about what’s wrong
or what’s right
I never did mind
where she got her money
I was far too busy
mixing up the medicine
that leaves you half blind
somewhere between
Heaven and Hell
with no guardian angel
to point the way home
we were both so young
and on the run
a couple ot teens
refugees fleeing
the toxic fumes
of the kingdom machine
to a darkened park
full of diabolical fun
they found her much later
in a locked room
with a loaded gun
her name was Mary
her tender love
it nearly killed me
ever since
that fragrance of the street
has never left me
the sweet aroma
from livin’ la Placebo loca
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she said that her heart was lodged in my chest
trying not to think about the last wretched train wreck
Karma smacks me daily, my kindness full of wounds, almost undone
the lips of men excite me, having been forbidden all touch
four feet six inches and full of quarrelling worms
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rumors about the doors of Heaven being open
are not true
street humor about the seat of mercy
being donated to a thrift store
what can one say ?
Satan is everywhere
often surrounded by cherubic wings
Bob Dylan (precipitated)
his faces looking at one another
pockets full of earth manna
his pecker budded
shadowed nearly forgotten
it was not Dylan who hideth and covereth us
hideth and covereth us from the wrath of God
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the sign read:
THOSE ON THE PATH SUFFERING FROM A PSYCHOPATHOLOGICAL STATE OF FANTASY
SHOULD DISMOUNT AND ASK FOR HELP
the jugular of marriage
seems to be prostitution
sex in exchange for another day
24 hours from becoming a cast-off
Daddy has a new mommy
nipples wrapped in youth
a saddle-free vulva
Mommy has a second job
sofa bound and sad
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me with a cigarette in one hand
and my wife’s cooter
gnawing the other
her mother worked Coney Island
she would strap on a dong
and give as well as receive
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covering up what was underneath
psychological continuity
in baggy pants
penis envy torn out of the tabloids
at first sight
someone with too much
(+) forbidden in so many
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someday the children of Noah
will look back at Earth
from outer space
the rectum
of Disney
will be
open
astronauts
will suck their own tongues
tasting themselves in a sexual manner
astronaut sex is in the manual but in code
one chapter, “Seeing your father naked”
Stradivarius was afraid of nude adults
his stick figure drawings complete
with overgrown pubic hair
nasty looking butt cheeks
incestuous stick figures
human sandwiches
STRADIVARIUS
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shoes full of blood
the jury was tainted
both sides of the street
littered with human faults
casual sex with acquaintances
a bride-to-be among the drunks
what a thrill to slip her the sausage
ignite her crotch and warm my meat
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Jehovah pounds on the metal door
intelligent people scatter and hide
poets light in the loafers
question who tutored
the Lord
CONSTANT RAWNESS
Eve with her edges
coming undone
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devils ask for words
back hallway devils
elevator devils
devils standing in long lines to get an autograph
bootleg STRADIVARIUS, possibly Picasso embroidered
two lines at the book signing: father living, father deceased
I asked why and was told, “buzz off Pocahontas”
I was pushing a wheelbarrow full of Pocahontas
(+) problematic erections
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a genuine tubular bell
trumps a placebo violin
ever since Mike Oldfield
made that Virgin recording
for a hungry Richard Branson
all my friends fell under the spell
of the tubular bell
me as well
it wasn’t what I was drinking
or whatever I’d been smoking
it was musical reprogramming
with headphones plugged in
and the turntable spinning
that vinyl opium
every now and then
I’ll see someone
just staring out into space
a far away look upon their face
as if in a celestial trance
and I can tell what’s happening
for evey day of the year
I also still hear
that tubular bell ringing
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bait on the hook
large breasts
hot pants
blond
Daddy takes a detour
$50 ready to burn
a tab of lucid
a snort
supper from a can
microwave shot
baby size spoon
Mommy at the second job
not a single concern
mister sofa ready
new batteries
in the wand
a look-alike she used to pry open the gap
deep and deeper till it touched home
wild wet orgasms alone
free of conversation
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THAT TUBULAR BELL (S)
Jesus freaks sprang up
singing and praying like there was no tomorrow
symptoms of psychological distress / perspiring
like a polar bear in Florida in August / trembling
daydreaming of cuddling and cunnilingus regardless
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LIP GLOSS
FAIRY FLOSS
AND OTHER LUBRICANT (S)
polar bear opposites
vibrant and young
trembling in short pants
ying and yanging
hysteria in living leather
words perspiring
rolling off the tongue
into love’s endless abyss
a tubular disappearance
with bells chiming
a slow crescendo to come
the taste of pure bliss
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hair on the floor
hair in the tub and sink
restraint from sexual experience
seekers never set limits
until they grow old
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when asked to initiate sex
he curled up on the floor
a dead man on the floor
has more to say
about the type
and frequency
of possible
sex
than
one alive
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people say that I’m a liar
but I was up in the sky
when the electricity
got turned off
eternal night
I was sitting next to Johnny Cash
the day they took away his youth
he tried to strum his guitar
but it wasn’t possible
he had claws
(+) the horned god of common property
(+) exponents and interpretations of ideas are common property
the librarian told me, “love is just selfishness”
love dressed in the skins of gratification
nude in debauchery
boil on your dong
collapsed nut sac
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BAD JUPITER
that country music
drives me insane
since Abby the Spoon Lady
stuck a fork inside my brain
she plays her spoons
… and you play your game
you give poetry a bad name
a rash of selfishness
in a king-sized bed
fortune and fame
in peace may they rest
now Johnny Cash is dead
… and you’re to blame
you give poetry a bad name
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always happy to give poetry a bad name
falling short on the romantic beach walks
where young lovers hold hands and smile
Hallmark cards and valentines
hands on the Reader’s Digest Bible
sleeping in separate beds and praying
(+) my favorite hobby, Bad Poetry
often falling on hikes
young love spent kissing
parked cars and hyper hands
praying I pulled out quick enough
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in Placebo Town
according to the prophets
of prosperity theology
symbiotic love poetry
makes the common property
go ’round and ’round
“I’ll give you a heads up
when your stock market goes down.”
In Placebo Town
there’s a critical race
against a not guilty verdict
to keep you’re trigger finger in place
What goes down
has a nasty habit of coming around
and blowin’ up in your face
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Karma
stick multiple michaels in one body
cut IT in half
give IT a vault of cash
a night porter
and watch IT explode
boom, boom, boom
————–speaking of music awards
that Machine Gun Kelly sure is pretty and talented
someday his works will sit on the shelf next to Robert Frost
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The You Tree
good old wood
cut down to size
dragged inside
and decorated nicely
The You Tree
lush and evergreen
with a rich grain
that can be seen
when you take a branch
and polish it lightly
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bad poetry is like horseradish
in so many ways
I see images of women
with their mouths open
and one could park
a car on the flesh
between their teeth
and their upper lip
bad poetry
the first time you realize your wife has a mustache
later in life, bad poetry
the first time you notice she has breasts on her back
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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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that gent Longfellow
was he the pooch
that drag his bottom
across the carpet ?
“dust to dust”
what a load of crap
“footprints on the sands of time”
the new Machine Gun Kelly hit
(+) horseradish on my soul: YES
(+) wasabi on my soul: NO
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satanic verses
a splash of horseradish
haiku me silly
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Machine Gun Kelly
he coyote wasabi
horseradish relish
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big bad poetry
American death sentence
the dead junkie talks
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FROM THE HAIKU MENU
Poetry Workshop
souls with holes in bubble wrap
turning Japanese
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Baby Bird,
“with Cedars crowned above all hills”
The Lesser Angels
think about that
pride concealing despair in all places
ultimate humiliation
(+) effeminate slackness
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angelic curses
a haiku of wasabi
on bad poetry
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unhealthy haiku
no good tubular bellboy
Honeymoon Hotel
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Machine Gun Kelly displaces his need for love
into a need for recognition
his momma made him
now he gives birth
to entertainment
Lord have mercy
is he pushing
or pulling ?
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Machine Gun Loaded
red carpet plastic attack
Mother Bubble Wrap
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My dealer
the main man
of Placebo Town
and Night Manager
of the Honeymoon Hotel
uses Uber Eats
to deliver the drugs
fresh from Hell’s Kitchen
He no longer uses Just Eat
since Snoop the Dogg
went feral
like a dog on heat
and ate all the product
Such a shame to see
Snoop had to be
unceremoniously put down
Just another rags to bitches
hard luck story
from that dirty old city
called Placebo Town
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POETRY WRITTEN
poetry written in the restlessness of hell
in a world of sight and sound
constant agitation
Mister Pick-me-up
and point me
pull the trigger
I’ll take care of business
half-jokingly
(+) romance by force not reason
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dissolving oneself into God
an empty line
no barkers
ancient B&W reel of God inhaling angels
self-abandonment is NOT re-absorption
nude ingression
less fingerprints
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IF ANGELS COULD WEEP
their pillows would be wet
a constant fear of God
a terrible fear of God
heavy-handed love
(+) deflating heroes like Macy parade balloons
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The Walrus was shot down
by an underground agent
a misfiring unit
of the Placebo Town Conglomerate
His seal cubs were left to lament
as the angels wept
and the crows fell silent
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SHINING THAT FLASHLIGHT LIKE A MADMAN
“return our legs”……… “guide our feet, Lord”
how shamefully much one needs help
the young man somehow cast
into the skins of another
plural skins for one
multiple michaels
the divided self
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Infinity is a multiplicity
of possibilities
Yet originally the entire universe
was a point of singularity
A single point that beheld eternity
… the never ending multiplicity
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shame games (plural)
short pants and strangulation
the guys at the Truck Stop are rough
but all in good fun, no bruises or damage
love is the law (+) love is the law
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The library
in Placebo Town
has wheelchair access
but the books
are all kept six foot
above the ground
The librarian
has no tolerance
for complaints
from the living dead
as she’s busy
up to her armpits
weighing hearts
with her bestie Anubis
on the River Styx
In Placebo Town
the residents
drive around
and around
in very big cars
but all they can find
are tiny car parks
far too small
for their bumper bars
and fat behinds
In Placebo Town
The ladies
of the night
are rarely kind
yet willing and able
to lay their cards down
if the price is right
In Placebo Town
they shake the snake
under the table
In Placebo Town
where nothing matters
the crying game
is an angelic thing
as those Hell’s Angels
(the local debt collectors)
know no shame
and just love the chance
to inflict some pain
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children with rose tinted cheeks
caught the seal pups and fed them
the very best bluegills from Kentucky
God is no slowpoke
the thoughts and intents
of your heart are rapidly digested
many know the opposite of God’s nature
bless Sunday School and the Reader’s Digest Bible
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The congealed brethren
of the Sacred Strangulation
are just waiting to catch you
with your short pants down
It’s a traditional past time
of fun and shame games
for the whole congregation
here in Placebo Town
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upon entering the library
I immediately journey to the “Passion” section
it is there one can find promiscuity and alternatives
sexual beings behaving in a sexual manner
humans kindled and full of zest
where love is more not less
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my library card
was stamped ‘HUMAN’
and being human
means doing hard time
there’s no room for sentiment
in the darkness
of the Head Librarian’s basement
as love is a heinous crime
within the precincts of Placebo
beware the secret agents
who come and go
in their sexually active wear
who torment with a love that’s bent
and without a care
“Strike another blow
against your oppressor!”
since being human
it’s only natural to do battle
with the supernatural
choosing a side to be on
the soul junkie dependent
on a lovin’ spoonful
of heavenly affirmation
grasping validation from any direction
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THE GOD OF PLACEBO IS EL DIABLO
In the Altered States of Gomorrah
It’s not easy to get sanctuary
as the Church of the Poison Mind
is just another leper colony
for the deaf, dumb, and blind
There’s an idol in Placebo Central
with a head of gold and feet of clay
erected by some whore from Babylon
where the lepers go to pray
Spirits ready and willing
as the offerings are preyed upon
Souls rotting and bodies bleeding
The Abomination of Desolation Motel
is a great place for those without grace
to get some rest and relaxation
Just don’t make it a final destination
Well may we say . . .
“Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.”
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they opened the head of Robert Frost
only to discover it full of mayonnaise
backed-up sexual juices
he reeked of spunk
safety valves
wide open
thick jism
rot was there in his manhood
a rot that he shared with others
those fearing the business of living
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—————sexually active wear—————
a love too intense
nothing dainty
fractured multiplicity
stuffed in sexually active wear
combat intercourse
savage recognition
of her throb
the blood
was mine
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without
a singular doubt
from anthropological me
the throbbing clitoris
hand in glove
with the spouting penis
has set the course
of human history
upon a stage
of rebellious rage
where the blood flows freely
without so much
as a “Thank you for your crutch.”
or even an apology
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the last throbbing clitoris
was racing at the Kentucky Derby
thinking about shade through the day
longing for more complete darkness at night
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I heard that mare 🐎
won by a short half head
leaving the punters ecstatic
and the bookies in the red 😢
LikeLike
Placebo Town
the realm of absurd apocalyptic fantasy
moving curtains with no one at home
paranoid delusions reinforced
agents knocking on doors
neighbors wearing Old Spice
Placebo Town, the Sodom of America
rotted, toothless America
agonized grin city
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In Placebo Town
where flogging a dead horse
is the sport of paupers and kings
I was killing time when I found
that I had empathy with Satan
yet despite all my crime
an angelic friend of mine
paid dearly for my protection
covering all my bets
against the House of Placebo Town
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If you’re fleeing
that Town Placebo
be sure to raise
both hands up in the air
for on the border with Gomorrah
they’ll assume
you’re from El Salvador
and shoot you without a care
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the night porter brought a friend over last evening
Laurie Anderson (O Superman)
it was a real joy to visit with her
she has grown old
like a (hermit crab) condo dweller
complete with pants
made to hold a heavy duty diaper
she repeatedly asked to see my album collection
she wanted to verify that we were in a photo together
was it possible
that a Michael could have appealed to her finer needs
could have autographed her imagination
was it possible
that a Michael opened her jar
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trim and well-groomed
a Michael that other apes will approve/admire
a Michael that has the genius for casting aside fear
making things go off well, naked rollercoaster highs
all doubts and questionings out the window
a Michael whose mind is like my own
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tongues in a dance of passion
she wanted her tongue to grow long and thick
to slide back and forth in his mouth until that magic moment
it slid past all safeguards, sinking deep into his throat
where it emptied a payload of reproductive snot
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Adam busy validating differences
Eve not yet awake
her legs open
the portal
visible
angels were curious about this creature
that could squirt out baby humans
there was no such being before
Heaven was male complete
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Placebo Town
where aspiring intellectuals
nest among the homeless
life on the streets
vacation daily
at the library
guilty of Harlequin-type reality
where others have overcome their aversion
to odors, filthy clothes, moss covered teeth
the library staff lovingly welcomes one and all
(+) enjoy being overwhelmed by the Mother Superior
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Biology is a broken book
in the Placebo Town library
‘A Means To The Living End’
The Head Librarian
insisted I take a long hard look
as she put her handcuffs on me
and unslung my hook
In the background
Bob Dylan was singing . . .
“Please release me, let me go,
for I don’t love you anymore.
To live a lie would be a sin.
Release me and let me love again.”
The Head Librarian
she did eventually release me
but things have never
seemed the same
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MULTIPLEMICHAEL
DOUBLE, TRIPLE, QUADRUPLE
happy as a rooster wearing socks
people beg me to strip off
layer after layer
naked as Adam
the more I strip away
the more I subtract
the more pleasing I become
my cup empty
full measure
(+) the night porter and myself floating over Galilee
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A SIN-GULAR OF MANY COLOURS
with eyes wide open
rippling on the surface
of a space-time continuum
talking to a stranger
talking to himself
contempt for the mundane
and the unforgiving familiar
the alienated peculiar
has my sin-gular attention
(+) Jerusalem Shuttle Bus Service
from airport to Central Earth
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