Master Racism

I followed the money trail
That sap laden root of evil
Through the land of Mordor
To the heights of Mount Doom
Only to discover
Under a shadow of gloom
The dark arts of Sauron
Veiled behind the illusion
Of a philanthropic institution
Euphemistically referred to as
A reproductive health foundation

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The Tower of Song

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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

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The Grand Artisan

God, the ultimate Artist.
The supreme Scientist.
The intimate presence within,
and throughout this existence.
Regenesis … poetry in motion.
Is she masculine?
Or is he feminine?
Is the answer
beyond our understanding?
Is this life
but an artistic documentary?
Seen through all the agony
and the ecstasy …
the triumph and the tragedy?
Have we truly
been given a free hand
by the Artisan Grand?

Or are we rats in a laboratory?
Are we but particles
within the part and parcel
of subatomic intricacy?
Just mere quarks
traversing the dark?
An infinitesimal part
of a dimension mechanical?
Speaking relativity,
where is the power and the glory?
A perpetual quantum
crunching the numbers
in some mindless continuum.
Is that the universal story?

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Sunshine Mandala

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Mr. Fire-ring Philanthropy
of the Wall Street Diddle
and effluent magnate
of all things plastic
that float upon the sea …
to whom do you compare?
31 million light years away
in the centrifugal centre
of the Whirlpool Galaxy
lies a hungry black hole
All stardust to recycle
somewhere way past
the Milky Way’s middle

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