Category: Poetry

All this living under a bushel for humility.
Our coat of arms’ luster fading swift from its filigree.

Keep those character flaws & broken laws under your hats.
We greet our guests with all the subtlety of baseball bats.

Smile til it hurts, a polite nod & laugh insincerely.
All cards on the table at once will cost us quite dearly.

Better to ease the new folk in & hope they miss details.
With luck it’ll be your avoidant eyes & carnage trails.

For, you just don’t seem to believe we can clearly see you.
Make mirror eye-contact & see if you see it too.

There was dark, then lights, then fire & smoke from the stage.
Lights down, music starts & mosh pits ramp up the rage.

The drugs & drinks all start to finally kick in.
All stages rock & blend into devilish din.

The lion’s share of patrons on music will coast.
Peace & Community vibe take over for most.

Circle back to the mosh pits & the groovy drum circle.
Clouds are moving in & their sky’s turning purple.

Two polar camps soaked & slick with rain, sweat & mud…
Had a great greasy time; til they hosed down their duds.

Are you glitchy tonight?
Does your screen glow blue bright?
Hieroglyphics coded in error white?

Is your loading screen frozen?
Troubleshooting you’ve chosen.
All you wanted was to get some prose in.

I hear your fan’s spinning purr.
Now, the standby light concurs.
The Pavlov chime & the familiar whirs.

Does your RAM start fast or slow?
Update your O.S. to know.

Do you ponder use of tech we don’t understand.
Do you gaze at code stumped by magic born of bland?

Is your disc scratched once again?
Were you left out in the rain?
Tell me, P.C., are you glitchy tonight?

Meter set to: Are You Lonesome Tonight by Roy Turk & Lou Handman.

Fuck my reputation…I am consistent.
My past assignations…pretty persistent.

I did it before & I may do it again.
I’ll bathe in the miracle of absent sin.

The car wash of souls is pretty big business.
Yet, one has to pay for that kind of ingress.

They sell us all invisible salvation.
Vulnerable need; a priest’s salivation.

I think I’ll stick with healthsome pleasure.
A fucked reputation…product of leisure.

Is what you see the artist’s doing?
Or, are you viewing & imbuing.

“I don’t know much about art” they say.
“I just know what I like & I’ll pay.”

So, we artists toil at this & that.
Avant-guard, bread & butter, Old hat.

We say the same thing several times.
Different…without repetition’s crimes.

Your whole life’s work…you’ll love a quarter.
You’ll think “fair trade”…for love on barter.

We grow scales on our hearts with every tear.
They plaster our poor pumps with every year.

Barnacles of barbarism cause us drag.
They weigh down our blood & cause souls to sag.

The best of our selves slings swing off of the side.
They’ve a shucker in hand to, the hull, debride.

They work a thankless job with indentured pay.
Although, without them, we would make no headway.

Bluster can beat against my blood muscle walls.
It’s only our best keeps us from being trawls. 

Ridiculing power; who Chaos has strewn around.
Making evil glower; whose greed has yet to be bound.

No lie matches money; its bottom to top we made.
Lie of milk & honey; even plastic flowers fade.

Workers sort random numbers in pre-fab data banks.
Blithely unaware they’re culling us with remote tanks.

Clocking in & clocking out; all under comm blackouts.
Hangmen have always worn hoods…they’re effective cop-outs.

If there is retail for all; then we are all for sale.
Cheque for beta-testing…writ in ink of widow’s wail. 

Oh such easy dramatics & pastel rage.
Ill-habilimented for their war to wage.

You’ve military trimming on your loungewear?…Goals!
“Safe Space for Anger’s” a bit too off the nose.

Give it time & you see that it’s mostly shit.
Instinct reacts bad but never give up or quit.

Being good’s not tethered to woman or man.
We all hold onto nothing; tight as we can.
 
Still, time comes for us all; no matter how weird.
Yet, Time’s just worried about shaving his beard.

Barbresses? Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos.
Funnily; the Fates Shave Time…apropos.  

Oh shit! Here come the self police.
Pick up your hood; Pull down your fleece.

Too, constables of inner ought…
Patrolling borders…speech & thought.

Do not just hand the mic away.
First, ask them what they have to say.

If all those turkeys talk is jive…
Flip their switch; Don’t leave them live.

For, true tight ships have got no leaks.
The same applies to which voice speaks.