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 
WHITE———REALLY WHITE
Ed Sheeran without his clothes
his physical veil folded and placed away
I lick him with romantic glaze, his erect likeness
successfully expressed, nontoxic length and girth
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somewhere in the past
there was a rule or two
“DON’T LOOK—–DON’T LISTEN”
engaged in other activities
simply eyeing one another
(+) the female has made a good living
providing what is known as “sex”
——————————
——————————
seeing and knowing
fearful of the old crab
barnacles on her back
sputters, mutters
seldom hums
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the less than perfect male
having taken on the new skin
the fall from gender, the woman
Satan, Sin, the creature with no penis
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jigsaw puzzle food
on the side
of the road
words
surrogate
arms and legs
journey off the path
attack like a crazed cat
and yet, snuggle and purr
——————
——————
every mother dies giving birth
every father coughs up black lung
pinto beans arrive in a can, not fresh
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that feeling of recognition
she looked up after
tossing off
a lover
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me mother cried
not a clean spoon in the house
dislocation—yes
narrative fragmentation—yes
white man juxtaposition—yes
“but good God, not a clean spoon in the house”
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all my spoons
are stained with soot
and bent out of shape
yet still they work
giving more than they take
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the lover girl
wounded by the sacred spear
her casual walk, her chatty intercourse
how Adam was pulled from the rubbish
God tangled in roots
Jesus soaking up the sun
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Here comes the Judge . . .
https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/video/2024/apr/15/watch-bruce-lehrmann-verdict-live-stream-youtube-federal-court-australia-defamation-case-judgment-delivered-video-ntwnfb
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Ed Sheeran and Keith Moon
in the front seat across America
every gas station had a peephole
taking turns observing a gay gent
(+) a slice of bread on either side of a man sandwich
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Ed Sheeran who?
I don’t think Keith Moon
(Rock ‘n’ Roll brain damage
at it’s English working class best
with his double barrel bass drums)
would appreciate being mentioned
in the very same sentence
as that pampered ginger poodle
Ginger Baker perhaps
but never Ed Sheeran
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rumor has it
that Ginger Baker and Keith Moon were twins
both are dead and forgotten
perhaps teeth on eBay
Keith known for throwing TVs out of hotel windows
Ginger was famous for his ill temper, angry anal fissures
no fun riding with two Honey Badgers across America
you need to throw in a pampered ginger poodle
someone with a little gay appeal
rumor has it
his pubic hair
glows in the dark
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like a pop music Kristen Stewart
playing Marylou in that movie 🎥
On The Road
sitting naked on the front seat
in between
Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty
with their penises out
that Kristen Stewart
and Ed Sheeran
enough to make
even Jack Kerouac
wake from the dead and laugh
I know a certain Bavarian Lesbian
(Ava the part-time librarian)
who would just love to give
Kristen Stewart a severe spanking
(Keith Moon too if he was still around)
but not Ed Sheeran
as she refuses to ever touch
a ginger haired mutation 🚫
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somehow
sitting in the front seat of an automobile
with famous men airing their ding dongs
would be more fun than making circles
under a Mexican saddle, bugs included
LIFE, if you survive it
finds you the only attraction
at a petting zoo
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as the final animal at the zoo
I was told to entertain myself
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some of us
never disembarked
from Noah’s ark
much safer
hiding in the dark
as a dismembered member
of the beat generation
than having to listen to
the remonstrations
of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan
the endless whining
and suffering of Leonard Cohen
then to be rewarded
with the fairy floss
coated dross of Ed Sheeran
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the single pony at the petting zoo
50 cent rides in a circle
daydreaming about being a female poet
being fingered by her mental health doctor
a famous/troubled female poet
having doctor/daddy generated
ORGASMS
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I once knew a girl
a kind and gentle soul
who’s mental health doctor
would get her
to bend over his desk
and play with herself 🖕
as a means to an end
in making her whole
. . or was it just a sinister ploy? 🤔🕶️
did he simply enjoy
looking deeply at her hole? ⚫👀
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sometimes I tell the wife to stand outside
and wait for money to float down
from an anonymous benefactor
no one can complain, the sky is generous
plenty of vice to feed the madhouse
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The Beatles sing, “Life is easy with your eyes closed”
the Lord’s hand poised above you
your eyes attached to the past
“CLOSE THEM AND MOVE ON”
————————–
————————–
only one name per stone
MultipleMichael
overtime at the quarry
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desperate to shop
the wife begs for sex
willing to work up a sweat
misguided love by the dollar
“make it like a demon ready to devour”
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dishonorable wishes granted
unpaid debts pushed farther back
fabricating money, lengths and girth
fabricating a four corner birthday cake
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in every language
an honourable mention
fornication
a four cornered sandwich
the breakfast of champions
in a state of starvation
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taking her home from the prom
she said, “When you complimented me on saying
“Book of Revelation” not Revelations, I got wet”
aberrations in the driveway
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I’m telling you, Baby Bird
it’s what I call “Big Clouds”
where people
that wear underwear
wear Quaker-colored
I gave the wife money
the joy of isolation
I rest in my scrapebook
touch my night porter and smile
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Orlando
the Baby Bloomer
a placebo Russell Brand
and a counterfeit
Middle-Earth Elf
gave it to Katy Perry
and she liked it
did somebody say
just eat Katy Perry?
since
a baby bird in the hand
is worth
two blooms in the bush
she may well be
a fast food
goddess of fertility
with a working class taste
but to be perfectly honest
I’m not that hungry
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without consent, without satisfaction
no marriage, no honeymoon
no stain of exchange
death lacks luster
G.H.O.S.T. S.E.X.
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when it comes to ghost sex
in the township of Placebo
the Tower of Song . . .
now haunted by the poltergeist
of Ed Sheeran . . . is ground zero
the ginger cock blocker
in the hole of Rock ‘n’ Roll
(Being English I’m certain
he’s just doing it for a laugh.)
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no matter how hard one tries to escape religion
it sleeps outside the bedroom window
it waits to silence man
to make him
accountable
right and wrong
the law reflects the color
the eyes spy and the heart aches
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kissing the lips of Abe Lincoln
offering him a warm silk lined interior
his ownership, tight and comforting
how adventuresome young Abe
welcoming a color
mixed by another man
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while I was sleeping
they made a new law
“LOVE and LOVE AGAIN”
outdoors is already littered with ego barriers
automobiles sprayed with consciousness
with the weight of sensation
no one is safe
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angry talk at the lesbian coffee cafe
“sex with a wound”
————————–
the blood of woman
and the blood of woman
they mix into a sacred stream
no phallus in the valley
no male religion
————————–
————————–
the happy woman derives her justification
from another woman
a voiceless song
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life in a Sylvia Plath paradise
where the vaginas
are both plentiful and nice
to the grateful delight
of a penis hanging on tight
with a scrotum keeping time
upon an ivory white bottom
as the disquieting muses
with a heightened sense
of their own goddessliness
have endless good uses
all plus sized voluptuous
and most generous of clitoris
that rarely if ever refuses
my red path advances
life in a Sylvia Plath paradise
with those disquieting muses
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