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 
me readers need a hammer up beside the head
the populace needs interpreters
sometimes when
I stare out the window
I see complete paralysis waving at me
the bigger question of life knocks on the door
boots covered in cemetery mud and tombstone weeds
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desperation
standard of living
happiness is a loaded gun
where the helpless are feeding
snorting cocaine on the soul train
carnivorous romance
the unforgiven
for the crime of their existence
and a profound lack of repentance
longevity measured in inches
beauty as deep as skin
seeking undeserved riches
the dead and dying
just want to have fun
and a box of free chocolates
R. Kelly and his captive bitches
like zombies still breathing
in the vicinity of Placebo Town
where prosperity
is a gold plated coffin
sadly … not everybody gets one
the love of Christ
is something
I’ll just never fathom
In God I trust
is my only vindication
LikeLike
inside a valentine:
“I have strong reflex action
and you don’t—bug off”
pessimistic seeds
in the sidewalk crack
a sharp cut between
feeling and thought
a very sharp cut
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millions of wolf images from Yellowstone
baby-ass American wolves
what the hell ?
wimpy wolves
could kill the entire lot with a hammer
chase the buggers down and crush their skulls
I remember when a wolf was more than a wolf
one wasn’t safe indoors with the shutters and doors locked
lay there at night holding your breath
hear them outside in a panic
family names in their growl
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in a crisis of hungry wolves
greedy for flesh and mammon
best to stay put in your tent
on the outskirts of Armageddon
again . . . the love of Christ
is something
I’ll just never fathom
I’d much rather save
the sequoias of California
wood being good
much better than human
for a cleaner environment
happiness is a giant sequoia
with a locked and loaded weapon
things can only get greener
LikeLike
I know not but I am told
that they captured the single tear
that Jagger shed for his dead drummer
it will lovingly be protected and on display
The Placebo Town Museum (Relics and Haberdashery)
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as a child
one would never entertain tent thoughts
to be caught outside at night was fatal
one could climb a tall tree and pray
but the odds would not be good
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The shadows
have come out
from under ground
their hiding places
amongst the tall trees
In Placebo Town
they walk around
performing tasks
behind black masks
barely making a sound
Under dark hoodies
fear is the disease
as they congregate
in twos and threes
Only to submerge
like falling leaves
to their hiding places
amongst the tall trees
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the concept of verbal performances
void of an audience
a poetic nightmare
motivated
verbal behavior
abnormal psychology
lesbian librarians assessing
combinations of street drugs
touching themselves under the desk
snuggies on their breasts to keep them warm
perhaps their self-knowing was located in their privates
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When I remember
things taken down
from the library shelves
of Placebo Town
by that so lovely
so desperately lonely
gender bending librarian
Black suspenders
frilly nickers
books and such
I well recall
that dismembering
pain in the crutch
There was just so much
private education
to be found
at that public library
in Placebo Town
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factories make pills
for those unable to escape their childhood
highways have curves
for those seeking an accident
step on the accelerator
resolve don’t repress
explore the significance
of romantic events
(+) the smell of love on your finger
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The past is
forever out of reach
An endless childhood
spent at Spahn Ranch
on the outskirts
of Placebo Town
Pills labelled ‘Chiaroscuro’
The curious and the lost
watching the sun going down
with dangerous lovers
Big Patty, Gypsy, Mother Mary,
and so many others
searching for a saviour
finding only Charlie Manson
turning water into knives
A helter skelter massacre
down on Cielo Drive
where bitter fate had a date
with the sweetness of Sharon Tate
In the darkest corners
where life is reduced to hard time
and the past is black and white
there shines a blinding light
revelling in it’s crimes
as forever reaches out
with a future out of sight
LikeLike
Charles Manson was an eraser on the end of a lead pencil
basically, he turned water into knives
spent his life behind bars
no one knows
if he was a man
if he was a woman
no one cares about his pubic hair
his life was strenuous and frustrating
he needed a sensitive and articulate mother
he needed self-realization and self-fulfillment
he needed Jesus in his heart not that stupid anger
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an X marked the spot
where a black hole of a soul
devoured innocence whole
whilst serving
a life sentence of regret
many have had it worse
yet with amazing grace
managed to overcome
life can be a true blessing
or a curse full of wrath
but more commonly
. . . a bit of both
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AIN’T NO TRAIN TAKING YOU NOWHERE
trains need tracks and Baby Boy
ain’t no tracks going
north or south
you’re on your own
you can shout at cotton pickers
in the fields till they turn to coal
you can cry and have snot
bubble out your nose
but I’m telling you
ain’t no train
taking you
nowhere
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Old fruit in a new suit
and a walking frame
waiting for that slow train
sounding a toot
pulling into Central Station
LikeLike
a photograph of Manson
in kindergarten with tiny handcuffs
years later hanging on a thorn bush
as the other children played
an entire childhood
not one Christmas
not one birthday
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fellowship with lower forms of life
Manson was the victim of animal sexuality
he was never on equal status with average Americans
caged and sodomized in youth, caged and tortured daily
a life lived outside the definable dimensions of being human
(+) a young child in small handcuffs (20/20 vision and living blind)
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what goes around comes around
animals the victim of Manson
turning water into daggers
middle class runaway daughters
into stone cold killers
to overcome their inane boredom
I’ve met Tex many a time
in my life on the run
waiting to be told what’s next
what drugs to digest
a bloodstream full of crime
but I never mainlined
with that Charlie Manson kind
a hungry restless spirit
that would bleed you to death
just to pass the hard time
handcuffs are a tortured comfort
to a traumatised mind
and a soul hard frozen
in the nurseries of Placebo Town
baby Mansons are a dime a dozen
the days of Helter Skelter
just waiting to be born
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in the dream:
Robert Frost stood up and announced to the audience
“I’m going to work up a sweat telling you
something you already know”
they say that Robert was a vital chronicler of the American experience
he milked poetry until the poor creature collapsed
and tortured endless generations with his prose
it was difficult to be poetic in his shadow
young poets were no better
than yodeling cowboys
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young yodeling poets
saccharine love
all-controlling love
romance
a perfect formula of pain and sex
tabloid penetrations
half way in
“I told the doctor
make it so
he can only go
in a couple
of inches”
(+) remind him of his sister
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Just a castaway
undergoing rehabilitation
on Doctor Morell’s Love Island
Sent here by my German physician
in a vein of hope
that I’d get better
Herr Theodor
once worked for Adolf Hitler
so he knows his stuff
That Fuhrer was the biggest junkie
in all of Germany
so there is indeed hope for me
Yet there’s never enough of that
Eukodal and Pervitin combination
to fill my prescription
It’s hard to dry out
on Doctor Morell’s Love Island
when your surrounded
by a pharmacological ocean
LikeLike
sex borne
unwillingly
grudgingly
with regret
always with regret
stirrings for the unnatural
to be stifled under the weight of the flesh
young poets terrified by the weight of the flesh
young poets run the risk of being burned amidst the fire
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taking the schizophrenic pills
seeking the pleasure
amidst the flames
feeling no pain
paralyzed
defilement of the flesh
truck stop showers
squeaky clean
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Feeling no pain
nowhere close
to the master plan
lost in a dream
Conversations strange
upon an ancient pathway
where my Celtic forefathers
made there heroic final stand
Gondwana remembers
and wonders where and when
it all went wrong
Saying nothing
I pointed an accusing finger
to that Garden of Eden
but it seemed to have gone?
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the truck driver leaned over and said,
“my wife releases a disproportionate amount of gas”
I thought, that is a world I know nothing of
in my mind I called her a shabby skank
“the shabby skank”
he went on to tell me of his brother
a transparent boy with a strange heart
often talking in an odd way about death
how we were just clods waiting to be turned over
that nothing could save us, tillage was reality
open pores with an intense thirst
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Picasso was there
a good 99% of him
a first-rate creative creature
he was saying that art was over digested
that he was tired of the common in the commonplace
he was alive in a circle of frozen, catatonic deadness
sophisticated or unsophisticated, he was superb
Picasso was the Grand Inquisitor
hitched up fringe, modern art
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Once upon a time
in Placebo Town
Apollo said to Pablo
“Let’s go have some fun.
If you deserve to
the goddess Minerva
has something to show you
as I know you like ’em young.
Oh, Mighty Minotaur,
just be sure to leave ’em
in pretty little pieces
when you are done.”
LikeLike
I don’t know if you’ve read my latest blog post, David.
I get this notification because I guess I must have clicked Send me comment notifications when I first read it.
Because I’ve been getting them now for 2 or 3 years.
Anyhow I’m asking for your prayers.
If you read my latest blog post, you’ll find out why.
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My thoughts are with you, Chris,
and my prayers are for you 🙏
I do feel rather helpless in regards
to your current housing situation,
being down under on the opposite
side of the planet.
Hang in there, like … what would
Dracul do?
I’m sure your Dad would advise
you to tough it out, and push on
through. Are there any friends you
can talk to at your local church?
After my divorce fifteen years
ago, and giving away my house
to the ex, I found myself virtually
homeless. All my family resided
on the far side of the continent,
but a friend from church rented
me a room. From there things
improved dramatically. There is
alway light at the end of even
the darkest tunnel, no matter
how long that tunnel.
The world geopolitical situation
is spiralling, and needs someone
discerning like you to keep a
gyroscopic eye on it.
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mud cakes around the feet
at some point in time they just snap off
I walk around dirty in a clean world
peasants give me coins
when no one is looking
I throw them away
my wounds have healed
fancy footwear from Elijah
cotton socks from outer space
sometimes I call Mick Jagger
and torment him
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dependence on God
the central theme of each day
coloring books and spelling bees
cowboys desperate to pollinate
shower at the truck stop
happy to lend a hand
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sexual triggers
trapped in a living diary
human flaws at the truck stop
immediate gratification popularity
autographical handholding
names and dong lengths
selfish goals welcome
extreme come and go
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My Persian friend
Omar Khayyám
from poetry workshop
once complained to me
whilst writing some deep
and meaningful poetry …
“The triggering finger,
having triggered, lingers
and never moves on.
Neither piety nor wit
is able to get it to quit
it’s grip on my dong.”
I simply replied to Omar
that his trigger finger
that forever lingers
must be very strong
LikeLike
spin blindfolded towards kissing a stranger
circumstances that hungry lips find themselves in
going down the wrong path
is often most effective
in the education
of the poet
the painter stops painting
a few short minutes of fame
computer-manipulated photos
snapshots of mommy and daddy
countless years of education and lovers
drugs, more drugs, better drugs, real high-wire
miraculously brought back to life by a night porter
no more sense of dread, exit claustrophobic sodomy
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Poets from good homes?
I know they exist. . . . but
I just can’t remember their names
Poetry from a Memphis chain gang
is what it takes to break rocks
and capture insanity
momentarily in a picture frame
At my old alma mater
the Royal and Ancient Babylonian
Academy of Hard Knocks,
conveniently located
in the central nervous system
of fashionable Placebo Town,
a degree in Sadomasochism
is guaranteed to bring you
a world of fortune and fame
with just a lashing
of well deserved pain
Don’t even bother
to ask the Night Manager,
that man with the whip hand,
. . . he’ll never explain
A short spell
at his Honeymoon Hotel
with that strictly down and dirty
town librarian
is sure to take a load off
your swollen and hurting brain
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drink a bottle
spin a bottle
blindfolded
kissing a stranger
hungry lips swollen
going down the wrong path
daddy after daddy with the meat
they say that it hurts during and after
the one chance to feel something unique
the Holy Ghost has no idea, God knows not
rumors are rumors but Jesus was a hand washer
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(+) just think, in the backseat pressing lips with June Carter
a country girl that got passed around
talked her into a simple drink
watching her face glow hot
her insides were swollen
the flaps fully expressed
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The walls were shaking
at that Placebo Town bar
where Johnny Cash
June Carter
and Bob Dylan
got dead drunk
and all snorted up
in a white line fever
longer than the Nashville skyline
That Country ‘n’ Western
burning ring of fire
was no spectator sport
June and Johnny being
one short of a Hall of Fame
ménage à trois
but Bob was only there
for a North Country duet
Much later
being totally lost
on a road commonly taken
at great cost
they mistakenly
stumbled into
a poetry workshop
putting to bed
a sadly forsaken Robert Frost
“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”
The solemn recital
seemed much better
after a skinful
of Tennessee whiskey
despite sounding just like
that goddamnable awful
wimpy hippy
tree hugging poetry
that turned Charlie Manson
into a psycho killer
puppet master
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deep inside June Carter there was a zone
a place with no dictionary name
sometimes it is pronounced
when the seasons change
I know the word
but repeat it not
God swims there
in spiritual flames
a human God with a face
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pull out a gun for practical jokes
a knife slice across family charades
“Baby, you can laugh
just go outside”
catch a nap on the railroad tracks
ridicule prisoners on the road crew
show your dong to the church choir
rudeness to mental health
you pointed under the bull’s tail
the true source of family sentiment
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Robert Frost hated homosexuals
famous for drowning weak students
gay or not
a licensed outlet for poetry
libraries stocked his ware
schools forced him
down your throat
(+) honor students coughed up autumn leaves as they recited his words
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Let the warcraft triumphant
against the forces insurgent
of Placebo Town be thus . . .
Foot soldiers, barbarian librarians,
and poetry workshop denizens,
cover the hills and marshy ground
and let the surrounding woods
grow bow and spear
Let menace lurk in all the narrow places
that the enemy fast flee with fear
upon their bloodied and downcast faces
And let the fields so burn with fire
A funeral pire as a fitting reward
for fools having raised an unjust sword
And enemies in confusion will run
from the Head Librarian’s elocution
bearing words as weapons
as she lays into them hardily
unsparing of a witless enemy
reduced to a prey
all quivering and clueless
in the final act of a victorious hunt
Surely it will be so
As guided by Vague Rant
the proven prophet
and Poet Laureate
of a Free Town Placebo
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blood on my plate
I excused myself
people outside in all directions
I walk home but tire
and fly the rest
taking something from the nightstand
to work off the spasms of irritation
to push me to convey my thoughts
into some equivalent of language
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All my friends
are well bred canines
immaculately groomed
yet sadly rather tame
As for poets from good homes
I know they exist . . . but honestly
I just can’t remember their names
Poetry from a chain gang
is what it takes to break rocks
To capture insanity
in a sparkling picture frame
Like Mick Jagger dancing
in those space cotton socks
LikeLike
good luck with that
like catching
a spiralling maelstrom
in a poem
much like a paper cup
as Pablo once told me
the higher abstract
is no subject
for the feint of heart
It was left to the Salvador
to open the door
and show me where to start
LikeLike
three shades of sodomy
I voted on mushrooming
intercourse with the hand
rather routine without quarrel
words one jabber never spoken
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the smell of men who ride bulls
a friend told me that is the smell of real men
no sissy light in the saddle homos
what did I think ?
what the hell do I know ?
I must admit as we sat there
watching the competition
the bulls were sexy devils
after the rodeo
I picked up my pipe of division
cutting myself off from others
the distinction
between men and demons
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according
to voices unheard
whilst hurtling
through time
and outer space
it’s a fine line
that divides flesh
from the Word
endurance in this
cosmic rodeo
is no Placebo Town
side show
so best run the race
whether fast or slow
like a nice poem
with style and grace
the soul made whole
when embracing the Spirit
LikeLike
like a nice poem
at the feet of Robert Frost
written words not spoken
childhood shadows
UFO abduction
join in or navigate elsewhere
the hardware store
with its miles of wooden floors
they lined the bicycles up
toys for boys and girls
barter
the space craft
hungry for DNA
or soul snot
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strangers suspended
in empty spaces
in the depth of the abyss
there be no peace
only destruction
and violence
drifting
in and out
of existence
under street lights
that disappear into darkness
the heart of silence
that great rift
at the centre of the universe
where this galaxy
was first given birth
my home sweet home
at the furthest reaches
of the goldilocks zone
is where I shall drift
into the heart of silence
an undeserved gift
from the great white throne
creation at it’s very finest
LikeLike
they took us down to the river
they took us down to pray
that good old way
barter
one way
for another
June Carter was there
my lips were watering
I confessed my deepest love
she smiled, “you’re no Johnny Cash”
(+) it was true
died from snake bite
died from lack of water
but never wore the skin
of that varmint
LikeLiked by 1 person
That Son of a Gun … Johnny Cash
Johnny’s mouth full of faith
after spittin’ out them pills of wrath
His inward part at one with creation
His throat an open door to life
after an escape from Folsom Prison
In Placebo Town they forego the truth
and flatter with the tongue
Their inward parts are destruction
Being blind they snort the line
and boast of their crime
I think they’ll find that ring of fire
is way too hot for them
Placebo Town is no place to be
with Sunday morning coming down
LikeLike
it was at Folsom Holdings
that someone told me
“a writer has
as many
accomplices
as he has readers”
perhaps earthworms
obsessed with the brightness
located at the top of the lighthouse
LikeLiked by 1 person
it was on
the Yucatan Peninsula
hanging out
with some Mayan friends
and a bottle of tequila
when their ancient gods returned
from a sky in flames
I must admit
being a bit disappointed
They were just a bunch
of planet hopping aliens
on an interstellar peyote bender
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inmates at Folsom Holdings
faceless, nameless
just wanting a taste of happiness
a day free of prosecution
a hour without egotism
every dog a number
speaking in thought
a complicated set of “selves”
presenting the identity in different ways
the really large diary: The Unstable Self
strangers outside screaming
and waving their arms
inmates at Folsom Holdings
see-saws
between involvement
and withdrawal
LikeLiked by 1 person
In Folsom
the Mark of Cain
is in big demand
That sacred craniosacral
on the forehead
that leaches into the brain
It’s a proud
Placebo Town father
who has a scarred son
and vica versa
The girls who visit Folsom
find the scar very attractive
and look more favourably
on poets who have it
than those without it
Charlie Manson always
got plenty of action in Folsom
A bad to the bone bent penny
who eventually
got withdrawn from circulation
May his helter skelter come
as it is in Folsom
Pseudo death sentence without end
LikeLike
(tonight was Rabbi night at Folsom Holdings)
he pulled me over to the side
and said, “Adam was only 7 hours old when he ate of the tree”
if that was/is true……………what a game changer
7 hours in Eden
one generous Lord
the Rabbi ignores the King James
the cotton candy of holy writings
Dollar Store mental appendicitis
religious Freudian birth control
LikeLiked by 1 person
An hour
in the Garden of Eden
was like a century
for any natural born man
A mere day like a millennium
in a paradise endless
that stretched
to the edge of eternity
Eden shall one day return
along with the grateful dead
for a love resurrection
LikeLike
the Rabbi buys his underwear secondhand
goes home to fish out of a can
mustard and crackers
finger food
he spends a long time before bed
rehashing the bitter story
of his loneliness
(+) his genitals have lost consciousness
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Predatory celibacy
Genitals without conscience
Passive indulgences
Prosperity theology
Nuns with a habit are such a tease
with their rosaries, chains, and beads
Little wonder we await the salvation
of green aliens in flying machines
Who else will come to save us?
The contagion has even choir boys
down on their knees
with an allergy to the clergy
who do whoever they please
The religious hypocrisy
of the self-righteously greedy
is no modern disease
The yeast of the beast can kill fast
or very slowly by degrees
LikeLike
Tom Petty spent some time in Folsom Holdings
he was a quiver of ecstasy
singing tunes
aberrant behavior
cucumber in the trousers
a rich source of inspiration
employing premium reach around
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when I first met Tom Petty
we were both living like a refugee
he was quite young and petulant
strangely prone to throw a tantrum
and swing out violently
but then Bob took him under his wing
the rest is Rock ‘n’ Roll history
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true stories of the strange unknown
bizarre romantic phenomena
Lon Chaney makeup
realistic fright wigs
unusual skills
manipulating
genitals
internal sensitivity
biblical slits and clits
sinkholes & moist caves
Folsom Holdings had it all
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Folsom Holdings, Placebo Town
the villains contained within
those who accuse others
consequences
interior voices
a map of intuitions
progressive nightmares
while pursuing selfish goals
a lapse in moral choices
a willingness for evil
dark influences
a love for rage
adult incest
LikeLiked by 1 person
My good friend
and Russian mafia contact
Boris Badenov
sold me a copy
of that infamous
Trump sex tape
A disappointing rip off
He then told me confidently
that Bill Clinton has the clap
Boris Badenov obviously
has me mistaken
for someone else . . .
someone who gives a crap
or possibly a Russian bot
But what would you expect
from an agent
of foreign influence
He’s always trying
to get me caught
in a honey pot
with his wife
Natasha Badenov
or some other sticky trap
on the express orders
of Big Fearless Leader
Vladimir the Despot
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a Russian girlfriend
with a private gymnasium
paper hearts
and ancient
valentines
personal love jelly
the more removed
the more made
muscular buttocks
strong feces
measured
recorded
actual Ginger Rodgers feces
actual Fred Astaire feces
penitentiary America
Folsom Holdings
Collection
prisoners overloaded with abbreviations
financial worries in every pocket
magazine photos of artificial fruit
a Russian girlfriend
who autographed herself
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my Russian girlfriend paid a lesbian chef to cook pasta
the usual ingredients only rubbed with passion
guilty of derivative love, innocent of heart
although she often posed in front
of ancient bedsprings
her holster was not
on her belt
no one cared
her vulva looked
like a bicycle seat
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I’m often asked if I miss the past
waking up on sand dunes and making love
floating around in outer space cotton socks
rich beyond cash money
open sex with no aftertaste
getting high and staying high
(+) watching countless others slip and fall
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it was all she had
a vulva like a bicycle seat
moustache-and-goatee
fancy girl plumage
sexually expressive
down there somewhere
a second path less sanitary
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poetry workshop:
a dream about giraffes nervous
at the sight of a floating vessel
life on the Ark
was difficult
sleeping next
to imposters
stiff neck
trauma
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Way up in the sky
upon the wings of an eagle
there’s an endless high
beyond life’s daily struggle
To see the wonder of creation
from an atmosphere without fear
in true freedom
without wall or border
without war and disorder
Through the eye of the storm
tribe against tribe
nation against nation
hell bent on destruction
Life is a journey
Through the eye of a needle
I can see the destination
in the beauty of creation
God’s beckoning reflection
To be a rock and not to roll
To be a seed planted
growing and blooming
in the holy soil
of Eden’s tranquil garden
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to be a seed planted and growing in Eden
and a serpent informs you to look about
how many of you do you count ?
the singular Christian
the plane never leaves
the singular giraffe
with a stiff neck
waves from the
cockpit
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I saw what you did
to Brian Laundrie
down on the banks
of Myakkahatchee Creek
when you thought
no one was looking
Who am I to speak
after what I did
to brother Abel?
So don’t worry
I won’t be telling anybody
as some say
he had it coming
after what he did
to pretty little Gabby Petito
He was presumably innocent
till you found him totally guilty
Remind me to insist
on a trial by multiple jury
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choke your girlfriend
of no interest
however
the kid who killed 17 people at school
advises people not to smoke pot
and misses television
most of all
a true human mutt
bad hair
bad clothes
low IQ
questionable mental health
(yes) they question his mental health
all America wants to know about his penis
shape, size, foreskin, pee hole
how often he squeezes one off
and in what manner
does he constantly think about murder
does he think about his favorite pull the trigger moment
does it push him over the edge
violence against innocent people
does it block his personal agony
his upbringing
his school life
everything social
always the victim
never the hero
he has said that he is sorry
what more do they want ?
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In the leper colony of freedom
much frustration
over the size of one’s gun
If social media hurts
and you’re bad at sports
you’d better get a big one
In a land where the glove don’t fit
and repentance often comes too late
Mental Health is the best defence
Even better than politics and religion
for a four course
silver service lawyer’s picnic:
“If the Mark don’t fit
. . . you must acquit!”
Strangulation
full of blind emotion
is a spur of the moment thing
That Mark of Cain
a fashion statement in Placebo Town
is a hard to remove stain
Loading a gun is a decision
as ricochets into eternity ring
Nothing says hate like a
well aimed bullet to the brain
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nothing says hate like poverty
nothing says hate like eating meat
newly opened eyes
people standing in circles
outlined with salt
I said, “look there’s my parents”
the parking lot was full
shadowy characters
in a vast impersonal background
Placebo Town: home of the spiritual paraphrase
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On Bonanza Creek Ranch
they never shoot blanks
Especially when
a big city deadbeat
is in their sights
There they only eat meat
fresh off the bone
None of that fancy stuff
like vegetables
with cutlery and plates
Despite being a notorious
Hollywood stunt double
I knew I was in big trouble
entering those broken gates
Even Alec Baldwin
riding a white stallion
with both guns blazing
couldn’t save us
so I had to do it myself
Those low down hombres
of Bonanza Creek Ranch
now sleep with the ground hogs
in a very deep trench
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remaining very much within the circle of salt
permit “outwards” to remain outward
live within sight and understanding
the organic life
where pills can bring down ladders
and one can rest on angels
ever so thankful
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Beyond the lure of Gomorrah
an interstellar highwayman
fleeing the gravitational
grasp of Placebo Town
finally reaches the promised land
of Planet X-Foliation
with his last gasp of oxygen
Surviving the cosmic radiation
of touching down on solid ground
… a spiritual macrodermabrasion
somewhere between
eviscerated and hot frozen
with every pulsating cell exploding
Many a space bandit
has ventured such a landing
only to face the instant karma
of sudden annihilation
Bare unrepentant flesh is subject
to the Antibodies of Salvation … so
best keep that spacesuit of grace on
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in Placebo Town
fulfillment is kept incomplete
always a hurdle, one more hurdle
the flames from Hell, the shadows
many a good human frozen with fear
narrative dreams crowd the night sky
no one can be safe in the realm of sleep
little sense of before and after, disembodied
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a bull in a gift shop
a giraffe in your underpants
often in defiance of grammar
tenses and genders
what the hell
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a candle in the widow is lit
so the May Queen remembers
the way to the many who
too soon forget
as she knows the unknown
within even a single circle of salt
that bustle in your hedgerow
grows louder with every step
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one drop of blood
and 56 deadbeats
wanting to lick it
who can deny the immense vividness of RED ?
outside witnesses write what they experience
somewhat evasive, more emotional than physical
readers want duckbill intercourse
not naughty crossword puzzles
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Marsupial sex is a thing
at the Honeymoon Hotel
Extreme intercourse with
the monotreme of your choice
if you can afford the duckbill
The Platypus of your dreams
can be found in Placebo Town
for a reasonable price
Sadly … our Chinese guests have
eaten all the Bats and Pangolins
But if you’re into that kind of thing
a bit of librarian discipline
the Night Manager recommends
giving the Echidna a fling
They don’t call her the Spiny
Ant Eating Dominatrix for nothing
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