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 
some people exaggerate their sexual experiences at the library
others downplay theirs, downplay their Armani suits
their tailored socks, 100% pure outer space grown cotton
the librarian told me, “if you want to make a significant change
just alter how you view your reality”
was that Mick Jagger’s secret ?
impromptu nudity with Mick
that football size dong
looking rather sad
MONEY-LOVERS
sitting on the sidelines
participants at cost
willing
to poke around the groin
(@) a colorful aroma……brown
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the librarian said,
“outside, inside, or wherever you please”
she had a snapping turtle
hungry for action
vivid orgasms
more and more
until the jism like a creek
joining a stream, then a river
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At the Senate Hearings
into Disorganised Crime
I swore under oath
when it comes
to the Honoured Society
of Placebo Town
once your in your in
There’s no getting out
Then I took the 5th
and remained silent
I was duly rewarded
by a grateful syndicate
A giant birthday cake
with a naked girl jumping out
The icing was nice
till she got me
with an ice pick to the back
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creatures that Satan has no power over
try to ignore the bridle of morality
“don’t do this, don’t do that”
reality corrupted
(@) reality an actuality
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Lush pastures of pleasure
Where the grass is greener
And the the waters run deep
There eternity is glimpsed
From mountain tops steep
With a clear view to the future
“The Lord is my shepherd,
I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down
in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love
will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house
of the Lord forever.”
~ King David
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white knuckle sex
skip ahead in your life’s story
but stay clear of the last three pages
the Honeymoon Hotel will be razed to the ground
mouths sewn tight and limbs broken
birthdays on the calendar postponed
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In Placebo Town
The jail house rocks
To the sound
Of celebrities in spandex
And space cotton socks
Abusing the substance
With brass knuckles
And black market sex
How can a prisoner think straight
Amid the clamour
Of clandestine trinkets
And dead corpses
Hanging from pearl necklaces?
The rubber lips of glamour
Serving a life sentence
For Rock ‘n’ Roll incontinence
Despite overwhelming evidence
The constant claims of innocence
Outside the lawyers have their picnic
Sitting on cashmere blankets
Eating panckes with maple syrup
Talking stock markets and civil rights
Wall Street profits and race riots
Snorting coke and having a laugh
As the pitcher
In the blood red
Space cotton socks
Takes to the mound
Ball in hand
Tongue reaching out
For the solitary confinement
Of a Placebo Town pandemic
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Hustler Magazine once posted a color photograph
of a pearl necklace
a wicked porno yoke of Torah ?
a warm necklace
or one turned room temperature ?
Mick Jagger loves Maple syrup on his pancakes
not cheap doctored sugar water from Hong Kong
tiny people in black cloaks from the Star Wars franchise
suck the fluids from Maple trees and make heavenly syrup
saliva is the magic ingredient, the more the better
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man was made to serve
upstairs……downstairs
to admire flesh
to take what another possesses
human beauty, human riches
the right to torture and harm
the right to rape opportunity
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“I’d like to share a revelation that
I’ve had during my time here. It
came to me when I tried to classify
your species and I realized that you’re
not actually mammals. Every mammal
on this planet instinctively develops
a natural equilibrium with the
surrounding environment but you
humans do not. You move to an area
and you multiply and multiply until
every natural resource is consumed
and the only way you can survive is
to spread to another area. There is
another organism on this planet
that follows the same pattern.
Do you know what it is? A virus.”
~ Agent Smith (The Matrix)
“As for you, be fruitful and increase
in number; multiply on the earth and increase upon it.”
~ Genesis
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imaginary women are a hot item
in the world of single men
one man after another
floats south
silent farewells before sleep
no visible exteriority
no identification
a strong sense of the quest for pleasure
the smell of overheated sex glands
starved and ready to nourish
modulations of mouth suck
the taste of flesh
perspiration
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lust and violence
daily updates from nurses
rather difficult to type poetry
hanging upside down
they whip my lung area twice per day
dislodging more mature worms
I don’t really vomit
just sort of gag out
transparent slick squirming globs
everything is collected and sent away
money made by labs and white suit techs
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After seven years
as a guinea pig for
Big Bro. Pharmaceuticals & Co.
the intravenous ups and downs
I got to know
Punctuating all those
black holes in time
All sorts of blood sports
Mother Karma
Father of Crime
But just when
I was losing all hope
They got the right dope
Kryptonite
Under the microscope
After decades of decay
I’ve never looked back
Except to say . . .
Thanks for not giving up
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having been out to sea for three months
I can define “white knuckle” sex
I can illustrate it in ink
tales of men
behaving like gypsies and outlaws
with flesh sword in hand
struggling with lewd
thoughts
—————–
—————–
older men tell tales of a demon in the village tart
boiling abscesses around her woman part
a tiny hand from her backside
that squeezes your nut sac
at the right moment
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“Imperfection is beauty, madness is
genius and it’s better to be absolutely
ridiculous than absolutely boring.”
~ Marilyn Monroe
“I have the right to do anything,” you
say—but not everything is beneficial.
“I have the right to do anything”—but
I will not be mastered by anything.
~ Paul of Tarsus
For everything there is a season,
and a time for every matter
under heaven:
a time to be born,
and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill,
and a time to heal;
a time to break down,
and a time to build up;
a time to weep,
and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn,
and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones,
and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace,
and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek,
and a time to lose;
a time to keep,
and a time to cast away;
a time to tear,
and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence,
and a time to speak;
a time to love,
and a time to hate;
a time for war,
and a time for peace.
~ King Solomon (probably)
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Placebo Town
last stop before the shores of Hades
like a city south of the Mexican border
where murder never happens before noon
where blond children bring a boastful price
however,
can one find musicians willing to play notes from a score ?
who refuse to perform African rhythms on the bagpipes ?
who refuse to improvise or huff glue from a paper bag ?
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cleanliness could be purchased in Placebo Town
sons of Adam created in God’s image
a slight cover cost at the door
survival
survival (@) submission before something
larger than human
promising to raise men above themselves
high above corruption
sins deeply rooted
free to roam
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Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul
~ WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
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“Cities are the abyss
of the human species.”
“Man is born free,
and everywhere he is in chains”.
“I prefer liberty with danger
than peace with slavery.”
“The world of reality has its limits;
the world of imagination is boundless.”
~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau
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watch those pictures on television
and your thoughts become small crackers
that one would find floating in oyster soup
the poverty that would drive one to dine on oysters
oysters taking up the slack left by a less than adequate education
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A Psalm of Life
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 labor and to wait.
™ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
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no one ever talks about the things
that were hidden from Adam and Eve
angels were drinking and having wild sex
animals were eating other animals
Las Vegas by another name
was up all night
Adam had a vocation
Eve was involved in leisure activities
They were sharing strong positive feelings
Day after day they would follow God’s design
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Home beautiful magazine
Featured Eden’s garden
Where anything can happen
With a hostess
Floating like a Botticelli venus
Eyes flashing electric neon
Clothed in the spectral glow
Of a sparkling supernatural aura
Blending with her living flowing hair
The diva prima donna
Creation’s pre-eminent daughter
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today a ten-kilometer-wide meteorite landed near Yucatan
in the future, people will invent stories about the event
in the future, Bob Dylan will flick off his autopilot
after the origin of human consciousness
no one will ask, “are you happy now ?”
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The fuse was first lit
the moment I entered
the Morlock King’s crypt
I only ever noticed it
after seven thousand
and eleven lifetimes
The Eloi of Placebo Town
had tried to warn me
but were happy anyway
to see me go underground
Down there I finally grasped
that the ancient past
was just fair karma
for a millennium of crime
as a meteor shower
from the distant future
hit the Yucatan Peninsula
and totally demolished
my very last bottle
of El Mezcal Coyote Tequila
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filled with an evangelical zeal to convert the heathen
to Christianity
Sunday school pleasures itself
with cleanliness
cleanliness on the inhale
godliness on the exhale
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the beasts in a bath of Tequila
poets hee-hawed and whinnied
some barked like dogs
the seed of Abraham and Isaac
their signatures visible
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there was always the family’s anxiety
how they wanted the poet to remain quiet
family and friends hiding in the bushes
hiding in the trees
thinking they were out of sight
watching, constantly observing
would I overtax myself ?
weeks without sleep
rust in the urine
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My companions from outer space,
Jimmy Fingers, James Freud, and
and all the rest, preferred suicide
to hanging around in a broken state.
To be denied the full ride as gods
and goddesses of this existence.
James never come down
from the buzz and the bust
of being a musical toy boy
for a predatory Gary Numan.
Only to be chewed up, spat out. and
abandoned to the back streets London.
Even Johanne, my first true flame,
took a big jump out of a moving train.
A time for Long Tall Sally to ride.
A time to cease and desist
a dead-end twist on the wild side.
So I ducked back in the alley.
The streetwise skydiving,
bedazzled and bedevilled . . .
Or just surviving on sugar coated lies.
Zombies with faces dishevelled.
Be not mistaken, Robert Fost.
There are many souls lost
taking the road less travelled.
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can you name the poet who tied his horse
outside the Placebo Town Brothel ?
advertising that the Swiss glands were functioning
to hell with the fresh air and neighborhood walks
to hell with the censorious conventions of family and friends
in the novel of changing life, a few pages left for shabby sex
two strong orgasms and it becomes difficult to exit without help
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Whenever The Doors
went on tour
in Placebo Town
Jim Morrison
would just stand
on any street corner
with his pants down
singing Light my Fire
Now Sadly
after loving madly
some graveyard poem
he sings only
a creeping ghost song
from deep underground
Like a crawling King Snake
trying to break through
to the end of the night
for a White Wedding
with a coke snorting punk
Likewise
Billy Idol had no need of a brothel
But then . . . he was no poet
Rather . . . a fast forcer
mother of nature
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slobbering baby
a youthful crush on oneself
nicknames, private charades
comical genital eccentricities
the famous unstoppable sexual element
(@) Placebo Town
music, a licensed outlet for rudeness and aggression
any relish for pool hall mischief has moved on down the rails
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I was watching the big cats lick themselves
they had Roast Beef for lunch
and they were happy
like they had just
smoked a fat joint
the big cats could be greedy
instincts with large sharp teeth
courtship ending in pain or so it seems
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loving the small moments of ordinary life
inside the fabric, the ties that bind
seed blaster Adam
often delivering his goods
in a fierce and abrasive manner
yes, there were claims of equal passion
a thousand bed springs prophesying
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for what seemed like several years
he told us his bitter story of loneliness
conventional romance
was as if one scraped their ass
with a sharp knife
constant shyness and nervousness
secretive love letters
containing night-time words
full blast adult words
all his life he walked the path of obstructiveness
he showed us his wallet
and it was full of jealousy
knowing the way of the stick people
I knew it wasn’t simple jealousy
IT WAS SEXUAL JEALOUSY
he was being driven crazy
thinking about the antics of others
those who were concealing their motives
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At the Seed Bank of Placebo Town
Agenda Benders are permanently
set on full Carnivorous Compulsion.
Being switched to extreme itch,
they are often found twitching and
ejaculating on the stony ground.
The Supreme Order of Compulsory
Karma fails to strike fear into the initiatives of Disneyland Trauma.
Despite the Mickey Mouse Club Pox
running rampant in Florida, and
Mick Jagger donating his space
cotton socks to the victims of Viagra, humans and rodents alike are totally
barefoot and out of order.
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it was the kind of gathering
where prime characters
were taking pills
(@) TRUTHTELLING PILLS
one older lady spoke
of hostile feelings she was experiencing
hostile feelings first aroused at the Honeymoon Hotel
the origin of her pain was below the level of conscious thought
she was a library and her husband was happily reading her at random
in defiance to grammar, lovemaking introduced with odd tenses and genders
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SHE WAS THERE WITH HER FLAPS OPEN
he could see the circus going on inside
those wanting entrance had to jump
through fire soaked hoops
female poets with criminal records
pouches warm and ready for occupancy
a suitable location for idolatry
queens of the motion pictures
vocal birds of various shades
cooing the ragged divisions
some with gestures of commitment
others seeking complete withdrawal
who has not kissed the Ivory Tower ?
Baby Yoda daily says,
“try and try again
no other method
but the method
laid down
by daddy
Moses”
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her family became interior decorations
mixed heights and colors
circles and squares
she constantly handed out cigarettes
no one could start too young
as for celebrating violence and cruelty
she refused alliance with the criminal class
cutthroats were everywhere
tattered and easy to identify
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the bride packed numerous flashlights
they were very powerful
and cast cruel shadows
they were like lies
in a way
by marriage she was forced to believe
lies expressed with heroic effort
she was a pack-mule
Peggy Guggenheim
she labored with the whole earth
resting on her shoulders
the art world shrank down
to a simple image
drawn on a farm house wall
a tractor in crayon by a child
a family of Caucasians
dwelling on their whiteness
they were finding it difficult
to be sure of themselves
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Sixteen years
Sixteen banners
united over the field
Where the good shepherd grieves
Desperate men,
desperate women divided
Spreading their wings
‘neath the falling leaves
Fortune calls
I stepped forth from the shadows
to the marketplace
Merchants and thieves,
hungry for power,
my last deal gone down
She’s smelling sweet
like the meadows
where she was born
On midsummer’s eve
near the tower
The cold-blooded moon
The captain waits
above the celebration
Sending his thoughts
to a beloved maid
Whose ebony face is beyond communication
The captain is down
but still believing
that his love will be repaid
They shaved her head
She was torn between
Jupiter and Apollo
A messenger arrived
with a black nightingale
I seen her on the stairs
and I couldn’t help but follow
Follow her down past the fountain
where they lifted her veil
I stumbled to my feet
I rode past destruction
in the ditches
With the stitches still mending
beneath a heart-shaped tattoo
Renegade priests
and treacherous young witches
Were handing out the flowers
that I’d given to you
The palace of mirrors
Where dog soldiers are reflected
The endless road
and the wailing of chimes
The empty rooms
where her memory is protected
Where the angel’s voices whisper
to the souls of previous times
She wakes him up
Forty-eight hours later
the sun is breaking
Near broken chains,
mountain laurel and rolling rocks
She’s begging to know
what measures he now will be taking
He’s pulling her down
and she’s clutching
on to his long golden locks
Gentlemen, he said
I don’t need your organization,
I’ve shined your shoes
I’ve moved your mountains
and marked your cards
But Eden is burning
either get ready for elimination
Or else your hearts must
have the courage
for the changing of the guards
Peace will come
With tranquillity and splendor
on the wheels of fire
But will offer no reward
when her false idols fall
And cruel death surrenders
with its pale ghost retreating
Between the King
and the Queen of Swords
~ Bob Dylan
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every year at Christmas
we prayed that Santa
would bring us
white skins
(@) Hieronymus Bosch
the lavatory attendant
would print your last name
on a small blackboard and for $2
he would erase it as you exited spent
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Commissioner Gordon
asked Hieronymus Bosch
to give Placebo Town
a big medieval makeover,
but he turned the offer down.
Hieronymus likes the place
just the way it is. He even
bought a condo there,
overlooking the lake of fire.
Francisco Goya often visits,
spending his holidays there.
LikeLike
masturbating to the TV show, “Batman”
there was always that moment
when Commissioner Gordon
would pick up the Bat-phone
and place a call to Batman’s butler
I always tried to orgasm
when the red phone flashed
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Alfred always knew something was
up when the red phone flashed 🔴
LikeLike
the honeymoon night
wasn’t really a honeymoon night
too many puzzle pieces in the head
beginning knocks on the door
easy to ignore the weeds
but not the thistles
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a lucky participant at the truck stop showers
The Loyal Order of the Neighborhood Suckle Club
facing the naked test of humanness
was I white enough ?
dreams last night about having an extremely long arm
I could reach up to the stage
and Mick Jagger would ride my thumb
dreams about talking suitcases I enjoy
criminal vending machines
not so much
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The recently discovered Quark Star
was asked what it wanted, but
it had never heard of Mick Jagger
A steady stream
of subatomic particles
was all it really needs
Like the Twitter feeds
of Earth bound humanoids
and their online news service
would more than suffice
Plus the occasional truck stop
for a quick fuel up
with some alien vice
As a Quark Star has all
the attributes of a black hole
LikeLiked by 1 person
people stare at my lower limbs
and ask, “can you walk ?”
no one wants to know about my trickle of water
that I’ve never stood in front of a urinal
sometimes I think about a reality machine
put in a quarter and for 30 seconds
I can walk
put in a quarter and for 30 seconds
I can piss anywhere but in a bag
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the lower limbs
factory seconds
Dollar Store specials
bones wired together
transparent skin
my suitcase told me
that I was mighty white
LikeLiked by 1 person
dreams of stainless-steel teeth
leaving marks on mechanical legs
darkened hollowed-out eyes
a sure sign the curtain will soon fall
common people born brainless
nonstop torture night and day
the words of Robert Frost
coughed up and saved
LikeLike
Holy Moses met the Pharaoh
Yeah, he tried to set him straight
Looked him in the eye,
“Let my people go!”
Holy Moses on the mountain
High above the golden calf
Went to get the Ten Commandments
Yeah, he’s just gonna break ’em in half!
No one ever spoke to Noah,
They all laughed at him instead
Workin’ on his ark,
Workin’ all by himself
Only Noah saw it comin’,
Forty days and forty nights,
Took his sons and daughters with him,
Yeah, they were the Israelites!
Holy Father, what’s the matter?
Where have all your children gone?
Sittin’ in the dark,
Livin’ all by themselves,
You don’t have to hide anymore!
All you zombies show your faces,
All you people in the street,
All you sittin’ in high places,
The pieces gonna fall on you!
All you zombies show your faces,
All you people in the streets
All you sittin in high places,
It’s all gonna fall on you!
~ The Hooters
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the guy on the evening news
mentioned my upcoming surgery
everything was to be removed
with a butter knife
YES
they tried sticking spores from Switzerland
into the heart of my bones
odd lights from UFOs
even the touch of a beautiful woman
but I remain crustacean
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(+) MULTIPLEMICHAEL (+)
two brains in one skull
daddy and mommy Michael
constantly afraid of the future
they daily check the eyes of the cows
cutting back when the whites turn grey
with the handbrakes of an ancient bicycle
trying to slow down on the egotistical path
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They’ll come crying
and I’ll lead them
as they pray for mercy
I’ll make them walk
by streams of water
along a straight path
on which they won’t stumble
~ Book of Jeremiah
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autopsy after autopsy
everything mends
mathematicians keep tabs
on the codeine
the girls at the clinic
ask about my astronaut pants
acquaintances without romance
they struggle to see my junk
no more additions or corrections
very impressive, very definitive
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At times by burden
is more than I can bare
Science seeking answers
Shakespeare providing assurances;
“Rough winds do shake
the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath
all too short a date.
Sometime too hot
the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold
complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair
sometime declines,
By chance,
or nature’s changing course,
untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer
shall not fade,
Nor lose possession
of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou
wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines
to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe,
or eyes can see,
So long lives this,
and this gives life to thee.”
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paper cut-outs at the mental health lair
conversation balloons
filled with the names
of the doctor’s immediate family
he showed signs of fear
I told him I needed something
to slow me down
that I never sleep
I told him that I felt discarded
translucent and discarded
he was sweating alcohol
and twisting his eyebrows
I showed him my socks
and made mention of his
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I told him that I needed something
to slow me down
that I never sleep
I told him that I felt discarded
translucent and discarded
I was really white under the office lights
he was careful to avoid
being psychically wounded
by my whiteness
he knew there was a sense
of self in my socks
there was shame in his
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the poet was a boy robbed early
licked a thousand times
and told that there was a need for salt
you tried to hire a famous television personality
to construct a protective zone around your manhood
standing next to him you could hear an AM radio station
to see was seeing, to hear was hearing
Satan taking a daily poop in Paris
listeners were calling in and asking, “why”
it was sort of obscene
logs falling
from the Eiffel Tower
notes for a poem
rather than the poem itself
you tried to hire a famous television personality
to wipe down your lovers ankles
your lover over-crowded
with offers to count
backwards
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My tortured confession
Waterboarded
And stone washed
Failed the acid test
After returning a false positive
Yet compulsive quarantine
On a celluloid negative
Was obsessively the best
Serrated innocence
A melting mattress
With Salvador and Gala
Graciously hosting
The Collective Paradox
Reality congealing
Where you least expect it
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notes for a poem
not the poem itself:
a funeral urn
with a skeleton
decorating the exterior
Gore Vidal fanning
the sweating bones
Gore Vidal thinking
about Satan squatting in France
claustrophobic thoughts
about his rear interior
caveman art inside
images without narrative
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Babies on fire
Freebasing petroleum
Raining crustacean
Over Eiffel the Tower
Rubber cadaver stranger
Singing Maurice Chevalier
With both ends burning
In the mire of clay where
Myra Breckinridge’s underwear
Live to stray another day
The Great Satan of Ayatollah
A lock, stock,
And two smoking barrels
Rock ‘n’ Rolla revolver
Born in the USA
With love from Iran
Goes Hollywood Frankie
On a summer holiday
Atomic the pandemic
In a Mexican Standoff
Gore Vidal and Philip Roth
Remembering the Alamo
Now have nothing to say
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I showed up at the Robert Frost Memorial
with a trumpet
and they asked me to leave
Death came and took him away
it took away all there was to take away
and I was so upset that Death
left so much behind
he’s there in every spoon
of solitude
he’s there in every question mark
every lukewarm cup of tea
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the wheel fell off the bicycle
the steering wheel
came off the automobile
the future wife with a Colt .44
asks why she smells ham salad
knowing you’re a vegetarian
the future wife finds it progressively harder
to grasp your genitals
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the local librarian claims that Robert Frost
was SELF-CREATED
(@) Robert Frost
he was a swimmer with a mission
the product of a painful orgasm
holding too much
for too long
the function
was without noise
or commotion
daddy penis out of breath
mommy thinking “no more of that”
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Self-saucing poetry
is a Placebo Town delicacy
A wild beast in the kitchen
and a facilitator of debauchery
when eaten on your knees
under a blood wolf moon
In the grip of a deep
lycanthrope frenzy
Brown sugar
fairy floss
and all things nice
covered in hot spice
Rolling stones tumbling the dice
It’s a fine line to squeeze
between poetic pleasure
and gluttonous greed
All thistles and puppy dog tails
Slugs and snails
The need to exceed
with pants down
in the back streets
of Placebo Town
where excess spells success
expelled on the ground
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riding around with Johnny Cash
the windows rolled down
no one was safe
Johnny loved it
when I wore my Moses skin
no longer connected to a bed
or breathing through a tube
I was Superman in make-believe
surrounded by cartoon characters
eating ham salad sandwiches
denying religion and Karma
I was Moses lubricating
the weariness of existence
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Placebo Town
traced and retraced
the city was one of signals
surfaces slick and pedestrians more slick
especially males, supremacy without struggle
white people whether lovely or loathsome
patriotism for people right or wrong
history damaged is a bad sign
the fruit of children rotten
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The refugees of patriotism
scoundrels, abominables,
mild mannered Klingons,
and veterans still returning
from the jungles of Vietnam,
huddling under the rubble
of a rotten cotton schism.
Placebo Town white royalty
made rich on the scarred back
of black slavery.
Yesterday is a dirty prison.
Only 160 years
since Abraham Lincoln.
Just moments ago there
was enforced segregation.
Human history is in need
of a good bitch slap.
Today’s shit didn’t just happen.
The statues glorifying
Confederate soldiers,
and slave traders,
truly need to come down
and consigned to a museum.
A bullet
from the back of a bush
took Medgar Evers’ blood
A finger fired the trigger
to his name
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man’s brain
But he can’t be blamed
He’s only a pawn in their game
A South politician preaches
to the poor white man
“You got more than the blacks,
don’t complain.
You’re better than them,
you been born with white skin,”
they explain.
And the Negro’s name
Is used it is plain
For the politician’s gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game
The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers,
the governors get paid
And the marshals and cops
get the same
But the poor white man’s used
in the hands of them all like a tool
He’s taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
’Bout the shape that he’s in
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game
From the poverty shacks,
he looks from the cracks
to the tracks
And the hoofbeats pound
in his brain
And he’s taught how to walk
in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide ’neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain’t got no name
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game.
Today, Medgar Evers
was buried
from the bullet he caught
They lowered him down as a king
But when the shadowy sun
sets on the one
That fired the gun
He’ll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain:
Only a pawn in their game
~ Bob Dylan
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many readers ask about income and funds
idiots on the street question medical expenses
how does one cut themselves out of poverty
to escape the command of the vulture
to spend freely without fuss
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To quote John Lennon … again:
As soon as you’re born,
they make you feel small
By giving you no time
instead of it all
Till the pain is so big
you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
They hurt you at home,
and they hit you at school
They hate you if you’re clever,
and they despise a fool
Till you’re so fucking crazy,
you can’t follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
When they’ve tortured
and scared you
for twenty-odd years
Then they expect you
to pick a career
When you can’t really function,
you’re so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
Keep you doped with religion
and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever
and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants
as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
There’s room at the top
they’re telling you still
But first you must learn
how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like
the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you want to be a hero
well just follow me
~ John Lennon
(But then, they’re only pawns in the game)
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inside the warm mouth of Placebo Town
everyone will be more comfortable
one day everyone will be
huge crates of American pain pills
skin patches that help selfish love surface
you find yourself singing on the inside
making notes for poems never written
you purchase words that might jolt others
honeymoon scenario after honeymoon scenario
the over-crowded bed
the Rabbi pointing
numbers
always numbers
his enormous finger
slick and sort-of-platypus
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(@) TIMES OF TROUBLE AT THE FRONT DOOR OF ROMANCE
the school bus was crowded with pranksters
there were predecessors
autographs and art
and there was the day the Rabbi shined the flashlight
years of five finger abuse, chaos coated
nothing escaped the light
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as impossible as it seems
Siamese twins down the hall
one marginal the other hopeless
i swear I could smell ham salad with homemade relish
paupers lined along the route of rapid release
the pleasure of chemical make-believe
seize and subdue and overpower
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sometimes talking with the Rabbi
is like driving a car with four flats
(@) Kentucky
people living in poverty
barely distinguishable
from animals
outdoors
nature is converted to human purposes
no longer free, saddled to perform
sunshine and wind perverted
violence open for market
gun or club, your choice
children for rent
have your way
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Going up the country
for a family insanguination
A full moon Viking cremation
Battleaxes at the ready
The day will be long
and bloody
Ready to rewrite
the Bayeux Tapestry
Only the good
and the vey bad
get to have such fun
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only the good and the very bad have $700 socks
words travel without a ticket
words that sneak on
refusing to be
controlled
words like Jerusalem
home of the invisible edifice
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just think of the times
you’ve made the X
in the correct box
the number of trash cans
full of romantic literature
addressed to you
the diabolical torments
living so deep in the woods
the birds have to walk
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poets in rags
driftwood underpants
sleeping naked afraid of flames
the psychiatrist wearing gloves
nicknaming the poets
favoring lesbians
(@) log cabins out of Popsicle sticks
intimate relations outside the travel-agency
a loving spouse who possibly faced the other way
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Well, there’s reasons for that,
and reasons for this
I can’t think of any just now,
but I know they exist
I’m sittin in the sun
’till my skin turns brown
I just wanna say that hell’s
my wife’s home town
She can make you steal,
make you rob
Give you the hives,
make you lose your job
Make things bad,
she can make things worse
She got stuff more potent
than a gypsy curse
One of these days
I’ll end up on the run
I’m pretty sure
she’ll make me kill someone
I’m going inside,
roll the shutters down
I just wanna say that hell’s
my wife’s home town
Well, there’s plenty to remember,
plenty to forget
I still can remember the day we met
I lost my reasons a-long ago
My love for her is all I know
State gone broke,
the county’s dry
Don’t be lookin’ at me
with that evil eye
Keep on walking,
don’t be hanging around
I’m tellin you again that hell’s
my wife’s home town
~ Bob Dylan
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(@) distinctively human (warm eyelids)
scrappy women for sex
bald spots crazy teeth
androgynous fruit
fruit gone soft
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Contemptuously bent
Compassion out of fashion
A hole in the soul
Savagely
And ravenously rent
Goodness
Graciousness
Great balls of passion
Hot love heaven sent
On an urgent
Insurgent errand
From high in the sky
Burning bright as the sun
Kindness and forgiveness
For the many
And for some
The fruit of hard won wisdom
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no animal strong without violence
people asking me to verify myself
living on parole, a tad bit blurry
I was alone
but something
worked its way
into my reality
female specific questions
wanting a partner to pummel
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