You don’t smoke snort or inject it
you play it with a mouse
more addictive than drugs
hijacks your brain and
makes you dream it
I remember when it cost quarters to play at
your local video arcade
next to the beat-em-ups
platformers pinball and shmups
everybody watching
It’s a puzzle why people play it
this puzzle game
it puzzles the brain
pocket size insanity
on only a quarter
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Peepfighters -- NaPoWriMo Poem #13
marshmallowy sugary inedible yellow
weapons of squishy warfare candy destruction
brand name: peeps
raging teenagers overdosed on sugar
stock up on ammo half-off post-easter
load up their weapons to go to war
peepfighters
i have a machine gun made to fire peeps
he’s got a slingshot she shoots her potato gun
peeps fly around hit everyone in range
until they’re gone
in the vacuum of space peeps bloat with trapped air
back in the airlock they collapse flatter than roadkill
yum
weapons of squishy warfare candy destruction
brand name: peeps
raging teenagers overdosed on sugar
stock up on ammo half-off post-easter
load up their weapons to go to war
peepfighters
i have a machine gun made to fire peeps
he’s got a slingshot she shoots her potato gun
peeps fly around hit everyone in range
until they’re gone
in the vacuum of space peeps bloat with trapped air
back in the airlock they collapse flatter than roadkill
yum
Equinox -- NaPoWriMo Poem #12
The snake of cosmic darkness swallows the invincible sun
Three days three nights the sun languishes eclipsed under the earth
On the third day he rises from the dead to shine again
The goddess of the dawn
Her ancient name: Easter
Rolls away the stone
To bid him rise again
By the hand she raises him from the loamy tomb
He shakes the black earth off his flaming hair
On the holy day of the dawn
Night shrinks away, day grows long
She manifests herself by northern lights in the night sky
Invoked by another of her ancient holy names: Aurora
Daring the bright sun to outshine her nocturnal glory
On this her holiest day
When the night and the day are equal
Three days three nights the sun languishes eclipsed under the earth
On the third day he rises from the dead to shine again
The goddess of the dawn
Her ancient name: Easter
Rolls away the stone
To bid him rise again
By the hand she raises him from the loamy tomb
He shakes the black earth off his flaming hair
On the holy day of the dawn
Night shrinks away, day grows long
She manifests herself by northern lights in the night sky
Invoked by another of her ancient holy names: Aurora
Daring the bright sun to outshine her nocturnal glory
On this her holiest day
When the night and the day are equal
Friday, April 18, 2014
Doom and Gloom -- NaPoWriMo Poem #11
Society’s going to the dogs, don’t tell me otherwise
The world’s going to hell in a handbasket, don’t deceive me with facts
People suck, so do you, I don’t believe a single word you’re saying
Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom
Society’s always going to the dogs
The world’s always going to hell in a handbasket
People always suck even when they don’t
Always did, always will
But my life sucks, always did, always will
I think I’ll go bury my head in the sand
The world’s going to hell in a handbasket, don’t deceive me with facts
People suck, so do you, I don’t believe a single word you’re saying
Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom
Society’s always going to the dogs
The world’s always going to hell in a handbasket
People always suck even when they don’t
Always did, always will
But my life sucks, always did, always will
I think I’ll go bury my head in the sand
Windows Update -- NaPoWriMo Poem #10
oh no my windows just got discontinued
i’ll have to pay through the nose for an update
they’ll have to come to my house install the new ones
take out the old ones before they get hacked
damn you microsoft why do you always have to
make my windows obsolete just when i get used to them
don't worry says customer service you’ll see better
ha i reply just wait till the next big rainstorm hits
i’ll have to pay through the nose for an update
they’ll have to come to my house install the new ones
take out the old ones before they get hacked
damn you microsoft why do you always have to
make my windows obsolete just when i get used to them
don't worry says customer service you’ll see better
ha i reply just wait till the next big rainstorm hits
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Burning His Bridges -- NaPoWriMo Poem #9
He burned his first bridge back when he was a little boy
He stole his sister’s toys broke them when she told mom
He beat her up like a playground bully
he was olderhe was bigger
it was his sovereign right
so he said
She never forgave him gave his reputation its first black mark
she locked him out of his lifesister no more forever
he was alone
That was only the first bridge:
he had only begun to burn
Year after year over and over he burnt bridge after bridge
robbing his relatives
backstabbing coworkers
turning friends into enemies
He thought he was all-sufficient unto himself
He thought the only friend he needed was God above
He dismissed the concept of karma as mere superstition
denying his own superstitions
dismissing his personal delusions
Looking out for number one was the whole of the law
He looked out for himself only, screw the other guy
From the burning sky above a burning bridge descended
He tried to escape it but it always adjusted its aim
It was made of all his hatreds resentments and fears
His double his shadow in monstrous form burning like an angel
Always it increased its speed in its mission to destroy him
it found him—it landed—
impact:
his reputation ruined
his life destroyed
All he could do now was sit down and weep for himself
All the milk he spilt on everybody else
had come back to drown him
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Hero for Sale -- NaPoWriMo Poem #8
He had amazing superpowers and a personality cult
All the companies in America fell over themselves begging his endorsement
He could pick and choose, he just wanted exposure and beaucoup bucks
His face was plastered all over on posters magazine ads television screens
He was a hero for saleEvery person has their price, some just don't sell out
Our hero sold his soul for peanuts expecting millions
Superpower and vanity are a volatile cocktail
Watch him at every cocktail party toadying the rich
Who thinking they're superheroes buy personality cults of their own
Trading heroism for celebrity riches playboy mansions with blonde harems
Ladies and gentlemen:
our hero.
The Prestigious Reading -- NaPoWriMo Story
[Note: I wrote this short story in the midst of writing poems for NaPoWriMo. Nothing annoys me more than the willful obscurity of elitist “artistes” such as the academic poet. This kind of artist really exists only to make culture-free billionaires feel "in", precisely because their art is unintelligible to us puny humans. Satire accordingly follows below.]
They are gathered here in the Temple of Art, the assembled Lords of Capital, to listen to the Bardic Elite read their works. None here care a thing for the pleasures of body, heart, mind, or soul. Modern Art exists for the ego alone. What they seek is Prestige.
For the professors, Prestige means Tenure, sponsored by the new race of aristocratic patrons whose representatives wait breathlessly for them to speak. For the executives, Prestige means Reputation among their kind, raising them in their own minds at least to the level of the merchant princes who made the Renaissance. A common conviction unites them: that Modern Art shall raise Artist and Patron alike above the people.
The first poet strides up to the podium. The projector lights up the wall behind him; the exalted audience must see what they are hearing to make sure what they hear is True Art not plebeian doggerel. Not verse but abstract words abstractly arranged like a bomb-blasted PowerPoint presentation (haven’t heard of Paul Blackburn? you philistine) assures the executive illuminati before him. They disagree as to whether the style he reads his poem is like a rabid gorilla or a psychotic robot. They sigh in contentment that, like Capitalism itself, Modern Art continues to dissolve everything solid into air (haven’t heard of Irving Fisher? you peasant). He finishes. They applaud. He smugly smiles: among the oligarchic audience, he shall find his Patron.
No, from these poets you won’t hear the feigned concern for the oppressed women and colored people all too common in the academic presses. To these men it reeks of Communism: let them spew their rot among the rabble. Here the true purpose of Modern Art is known: to comfort the comfortable and afflict the afflicted. The Bardic Elite speak only of Higher Things, that which cannot be spoken by human tongues, that which the Lords of Capital are taught by their gurus and the Ascended Masters they channel. To them the Great Chain of Being still stands unbroken; to them hierarchy is still the abstract essence of Nature.
Poet after poet speaks the unspeakable, deconstructed into glossolalia, exciting executive egos and raising them into gods. The air here in the Temple of Art is hushed like the atmosphere of a sacred temple before the holy golden image of the god. The god hovering over this ritual has no image, though painted and sculpted icons of the ineffable surround them; yet his blood runs freely in checkbooks, credit cards, and bank accounts: he is the god of this world, and the Lords of Capital are his chosen race, beyond good and evil (haven’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche? you plebeian).
The ritual ends. The contracts are signed. The Bards find their Patrons; the Patrons find their Bards: all united by the smug sense of occult conspiracy against the unenlightened masses. The poets are pleased; the executives are pleased; the god they serve is pleased: they shall be rewarded with Profit and Prestige.
Meanwhile, many social layers below, heedless of the dance of egos among elites in the exclusivist Temple of Art, people with two and three jobs create their art, not to social-climb, but because they must.
They are gathered here in the Temple of Art, the assembled Lords of Capital, to listen to the Bardic Elite read their works. None here care a thing for the pleasures of body, heart, mind, or soul. Modern Art exists for the ego alone. What they seek is Prestige.
For the professors, Prestige means Tenure, sponsored by the new race of aristocratic patrons whose representatives wait breathlessly for them to speak. For the executives, Prestige means Reputation among their kind, raising them in their own minds at least to the level of the merchant princes who made the Renaissance. A common conviction unites them: that Modern Art shall raise Artist and Patron alike above the people.
The first poet strides up to the podium. The projector lights up the wall behind him; the exalted audience must see what they are hearing to make sure what they hear is True Art not plebeian doggerel. Not verse but abstract words abstractly arranged like a bomb-blasted PowerPoint presentation (haven’t heard of Paul Blackburn? you philistine) assures the executive illuminati before him. They disagree as to whether the style he reads his poem is like a rabid gorilla or a psychotic robot. They sigh in contentment that, like Capitalism itself, Modern Art continues to dissolve everything solid into air (haven’t heard of Irving Fisher? you peasant). He finishes. They applaud. He smugly smiles: among the oligarchic audience, he shall find his Patron.
No, from these poets you won’t hear the feigned concern for the oppressed women and colored people all too common in the academic presses. To these men it reeks of Communism: let them spew their rot among the rabble. Here the true purpose of Modern Art is known: to comfort the comfortable and afflict the afflicted. The Bardic Elite speak only of Higher Things, that which cannot be spoken by human tongues, that which the Lords of Capital are taught by their gurus and the Ascended Masters they channel. To them the Great Chain of Being still stands unbroken; to them hierarchy is still the abstract essence of Nature.
Poet after poet speaks the unspeakable, deconstructed into glossolalia, exciting executive egos and raising them into gods. The air here in the Temple of Art is hushed like the atmosphere of a sacred temple before the holy golden image of the god. The god hovering over this ritual has no image, though painted and sculpted icons of the ineffable surround them; yet his blood runs freely in checkbooks, credit cards, and bank accounts: he is the god of this world, and the Lords of Capital are his chosen race, beyond good and evil (haven’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche? you plebeian).
The ritual ends. The contracts are signed. The Bards find their Patrons; the Patrons find their Bards: all united by the smug sense of occult conspiracy against the unenlightened masses. The poets are pleased; the executives are pleased; the god they serve is pleased: they shall be rewarded with Profit and Prestige.
Meanwhile, many social layers below, heedless of the dance of egos among elites in the exclusivist Temple of Art, people with two and three jobs create their art, not to social-climb, but because they must.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Rational Anthem -- NaPoWriMo Poem #7
[Note: my first poem this NaPoWriMo intended to be "songified" come 50 Songs in 90 Days.]
Rational man
Standing alone
Against an irrational world
Transcending
Condemning
Try to get out of it
You crusade against it
You stand alone
Radical man
Standing alone
Against the whole human race
Dispassion
No compassion
What did they do to you
Their lifeblood’s delicious
You stand alone
Thought into man
Standing alone
Against your prison of flesh
You thought it
You bought it
You will must triumph over
The desert of the real
And stand alone
God that was man
Standing alone
Against the material world
Transcend it
Destroy it
Judge and find it wanting
Jealous shall be your name
You stand alone
Rational man
Standing alone
Against an irrational world
Transcending
Condemning
Try to get out of it
You crusade against it
You stand alone
Radical man
Standing alone
Against the whole human race
Dispassion
No compassion
What did they do to you
Their lifeblood’s delicious
You stand alone
Thought into man
Standing alone
Against your prison of flesh
You thought it
You bought it
You will must triumph over
The desert of the real
And stand alone
God that was man
Standing alone
Against the material world
Transcend it
Destroy it
Judge and find it wanting
Jealous shall be your name
You stand alone
It Bleeds, It Leads -- NaPoWriMo Poem #6
[Note: Originally written 4/7/14.]
First Law Of Media:
It Bleeds, It Leads
This is how you lose by winning.
let them bleed.
Booyah booyah booyah boom:
the terrorist shoots up the cocktail party with his boomstick
murderous buckshot making hedge fund billionaires bleed money
vapid socialites trophy wives last-gasping soap-operatically
celebrities entering the ideal death-state of infinite profitability
chinaware fixtures bodies drapes all ruined in photogenic ways
white wine red blood stream together into delicious new cocktails
security agents with black blood steel muscles bulletproof skin
swarm into the ruined room fire a leaden hailstorm into his body
red gushers fountain beautifully from the heroic corpse before it crumples
the dying face forms a smug grin as he drifts off to Valhalla
First Law Of Media:
It Bleeds, It Leads
The dead killer’s defiant mugshot front-page plastered on all editions
newsbabbling talking heads breathlessly gush over his dastardly feat
nobody cares what he stood for, he’s the hot new criminal celebrity
up there with Carlos the jackal Green River Gary and Scarface Al
and the Twenty-Seven Club of rockers dead from willful self-destruction
what was his cause again? nobody even bothers to remember
all we care to know is he burned out to keep from fading away
his humanity a fading memory, now deified into tabloid celebrity
a growth industry, a boom stock, he and all his opulent victims
their heirs now suing each other, we cry out hurry up and shoot already
smugly we bask in the glamourous heroic aura of his brave exit
our excuse to remain passive complacent conformist in our decay
This is how you lose by winning.
Rugged individual heroism: the true occult secret to all true villainy
Make yourself a badass name to echo through the stony chambers of Valhalla
Beat the Man, crown yourself emperor, proclaim yourself a god, become the Man
Fail to beat the Man, die a superstar, a profit center for decades to come
The demigods who rule the world are not like you and me
All complete unto themselves, no need for society
What humans see as mortal sin, they call morality
The demigods care nothing for nature and humanity:
let them bleed.
Lotus -- NaPoWriMo Poem #5
[Note: Originally written 4/6/14. The second of my Buddhist-themed poems.]
the wind catches a petal off a lotus blossom
carries it gently in its invisible currents
deposits it with softest touch onto the still pond surface
the floating petal generates softest ripples
travelling invisibly, touching everything around it
lilypad reed insect fish other lotus and the distant shore
the flower attracts the bee who inseminates it with pollen
then falls petal by petal to make way for fruit and seed
but the lotus blossom unfolds to reveal the simultaneous seed
the seed slowly descends the whole depth of the pond water
settles at the bottom into soft mud where it sends out its roots
and raises its stalk the full height to the surface
to unfold new flower and new seed
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The Transparent Eye -- NaPoWriMo Poem #4
[Note: Originally written 4/5/2014. The first of my Buddhist-themed poems.]
but they must choose to walk it
for some are blinded by shining ideals
and others by midnight-black despair
confusion clouds their eyes and makes them think
that what is not real is real
and what is real is not real:
Siddhārtha meditated under a pipal tree
when Māra spied him and panicked:
first he unleashed all the terrors of infinite hells:
failing that, he tried to seduce the prince
with carnal pleasures and illusory ideals:
Siddhārtha endured,
achieved extinction,
and woke up a Buddha.
The Ideal suspended before us like the apple of Tantalus,
unreachable: we reach, and it recedes into the distance or fades away,
or worse, lead on corrupted minds ever deeper into burning hells,
collecting hellfire to cast onto earth: sweetest daughter of Māra,
weaving her veil of illusion to distract from the cries of a suffering world.
Close your eyes: quiet the mind: observe the commotion fade to silence:
become a transparent eye penetrating the veil to the true reality of things:
dissolve the confusion that clouds vision and distorts consciousness:
perceive the connections among all things from beginning to end of time:
rediscover that what is real and that what is not is not.
Go, bodhisattva, return to the suffering world with clear vision and pure heart:
countless living beings cry for relief from incessant suffering: reconnect:
leave behind the lesser self, distortion of self, moulted like snake's skin:
your self is not the outer shell or inner layers but the center:
as you walk further down the path, show them where it begins:
but they must choose to walk it
for some are blinded by shining ideals
and others by midnight-black despair
confusion clouds their eyes and makes them think
that what is not real is real
and what is real is not real:
clarity reveals the path, and the cosmic currents
that flow through you and me and all beings and all reality,
and the true nature of reality unclouded by faulty vision
and by the three afflictions, addiction repulsion confusion,
and by the lesser self that divides self from self and self from others.
Siddhārtha meditated under a pipal tree
when Māra spied him and panicked:
first he unleashed all the terrors of infinite hells:
failing that, he tried to seduce the prince
with carnal pleasures and illusory ideals:
Siddhārtha endured,
achieved extinction,
and woke up a Buddha.
Crucify Yourself (Punk Blues in Spanner Time) -- NaPoWriMo Poem #3
[Note: Written 4/4/2014. A possible replacement Interlude 2 for Chaos Angel Spanner, featuring several major Spanner characters, motifs, and themes.]
The city was called Seattle,
the man was Pastor Scofield,
Byron Herbert Scofield,
a man of same mind as Chuck Norris:
he looked like a football star
with a top hat upon his head
but wanted to be a Rock Star
and preaching the Lord was his way:
but the ring of ultimate power
lay on the road of Kurt Cobain.
Celebrity secret to fame and fortune
Crucify yourself
Suicide will make you immortal
Crucify yourself
Willa Richter-Thomas,
Rocker and psychologist,
came up with a theory
and put it into doggerel:
This preacher steals our Rock ’N’ Roll
and uses it to rule,
then strips it of its integrity
and calls it RadiCool.
He got his biggest ratings.
He was a fast rising star.
Next step to power: Fox News.
The devil looked up with a smirk.
And Willa went on with her theory
in defiance of his denial:
Patriarchs so desperate
to capture all the youth
Mix their jargon in dead slang
and brand it RadiCool.
take his revenge
Lo! this Babylon would fall
was about to become Black
And Willa’s theory continued as
he closed his ears to reason:
They won’t let you escape their Word
at work or play or school;
They’ll rape your mind and kill your soul
à mode de RadiCool.
In the depths of his darkest despair
he sat in his executive chair
and telephoned Doctor Julian Blair
whose mad science controlled the mind
with a hubris that would make him blind
for he would turn Benedict Arnold
and they would make his name taboo
and they would call him Doctor X
and the mad doctor gave him this advice:
A Western movie cowboy
said these words so wise:
Before you live forever,
first you’ve got to die.
The martyr way to absolute power
Crucify yourself
You gotta die to become immortal
Crucify yourself
He sentenced himself to death,
he nailed himself to the cross,
he punctured himself in the side
with spear held in his own hands
and applied the final fatal sponge
and drank death deep to the bitter end:
his grief-maddened followers
believed he would rise bodily
but he appeared unto them
in mass hallucination:
they were now his body,
their faith his resurrection,
their life his transmutation:
like evil Osama bin Laden,
he was now a god.
The Conservative Revolution
went to its full conclusion
a black man vanished from the earth
again dread giants walked the earth:
the Spirit of Rock ’N’ Roll was now his:
he rocked the Word of Command:
Patriot Metal!
And all the Rockers sang along
as Willa summoned her Charmer niece:
We the people must take back
our culture from his rule,
even if our freedom requires
the sacrifice of the Cool.
She had slain the slender man
She could kill the mind of faith
A girl with skin of cinnamon
And outlaw style and hardened mind
And superpower to cloud the mind
And dark charisma rousing lust
too sexy for her age
and she had many names
Shira Thomas she said she was
But he kept calling her Rebel Styles
the evil child seductress
who slew the men of faith
his suicide assault was fuelled
by dread and holy hate
She stole from him the power of Rock
She terrified away his flock
He faced his nemesis alone
Inside a body not his own
abandoned by God:
She put an end to his Word of Command
his top hat fell
his mind flickered out
his name was forgot
the devil got his man
and that was the end.
Poe’s Law
(as in Edgar Allan’s preacher cousin):
The Church must put on the World’s culture
like unto a garment:
then it can take over.
(as in Edgar Allan’s preacher cousin):
The Church must put on the World’s culture
like unto a garment:
then it can take over.
Once upon a time, in a city by the sea,
before it caught the sheen and glitter of celebrity,
a dervish-capped man began a church amidst apostasy,
and gathered up his flock, and lo! it grew ambitiously,
and as his congregation grew, his power grew by degrees,
until the Lord commanded: bring this Babylon to its knees!
The city was called Seattle,
the man was Pastor Scofield,
Byron Herbert Scofield,
a man of same mind as Chuck Norris:
he looked like a football star
with a top hat upon his head
but wanted to be a Rock Star
and preaching the Lord was his way:
but the ring of ultimate power
lay on the road of Kurt Cobain.
Celebrity secret to fame and fortune
Crucify yourself
Suicide will make you immortal
Crucify yourself
Willa Richter-Thomas,
Rocker and psychologist,
came up with a theory
and put it into doggerel:
This preacher steals our Rock ’N’ Roll
and uses it to rule,
then strips it of its integrity
and calls it RadiCool.
He brought his intensities into ten more cities and nationwide,
parlaying his charisma into bigger more hysterical flocks and pastoral stardom;
but to him they were just a power base: higher ambitions fuelled his burning ego;
television’s siren song called out his name, drew him into its studio
where with his old friend Bram Savage he red- and pinkbaited uppity womankind
and their old enemy Willa, and built mighty fortresses in the sky
manned with manly crusaders against democracy, the devil’s daughter
and rapist of virgin manliness: communism was dead, they said,
we the people was passé and uncool: only fascism had edge and cool,
government by superhero, manly celebrity like Pastor Byron, the Lord’s linebacker.
He got his biggest ratings.
He was a fast rising star.
Next step to power: Fox News.
The devil looked up with a smirk.
And Willa went on with her theory
in defiance of his denial:
Patriarchs so desperate
to capture all the youth
Mix their jargon in dead slang
and brand it RadiCool.
Speculation abounds as to the time he sold his soul,
Sacrificing integrity for his ambitious goal:
Taking command of city towers and hostile city streets,
Liberal wimpy millions begging sobbing at his feet:
seize his dominiontake his revenge
Conservative celebrity compounded on itself and turned his head
He concocted the most audacious hostile takeover since the March on Rome
Bloodless castrated unmen and mere women populated the Babylon he sought to rule
They would fall and be conquered by the magic manly essence of God’s linebacker
By God’s sign he would conquerLo! this Babylon would fall
But ambition made him overconfident, unearned pride made him ripe for a fall
The city people feared he’d make them all illegal aliens in their own city
Fame fortune fear and fanatical hordes provoked the spirit of resistance
Mainstream media propaganda blitz couldn’t save him from humiliating defeat
and the Great White Fatherwas about to become Black
And Willa’s theory continued as
he closed his ears to reason:
They won’t let you escape their Word
at work or play or school;
They’ll rape your mind and kill your soul
à mode de RadiCool.
In the depths of his darkest despair
he sat in his executive chair
and telephoned Doctor Julian Blair
whose mad science controlled the mind
with a hubris that would make him blind
for he would turn Benedict Arnold
and they would make his name taboo
and they would call him Doctor X
and the mad doctor gave him this advice:
A Western movie cowboy
said these words so wise:
Before you live forever,
first you’ve got to die.
The martyr way to absolute power
Crucify yourself
You gotta die to become immortal
Crucify yourself
He sentenced himself to death,
he nailed himself to the cross,
he punctured himself in the side
with spear held in his own hands
and applied the final fatal sponge
and drank death deep to the bitter end:
his grief-maddened followers
believed he would rise bodily
but he appeared unto them
in mass hallucination:
they were now his body,
their faith his resurrection,
their life his transmutation:
like evil Osama bin Laden,
he was now a god.
The Conservative Revolution
went to its full conclusion
a black man vanished from the earth
again dread giants walked the earth:
the Spirit of Rock ’N’ Roll was now his:
he rocked the Word of Command:
Patriot Metal!
And all the Rockers sang along
as Willa summoned her Charmer niece:
We the people must take back
our culture from his rule,
even if our freedom requires
the sacrifice of the Cool.
Poe’s Law
(as in Nathan from Usenet):
The more fanatically you believe,
the less your belief can be distinguished
from parody.
(as in Nathan from Usenet):
The more fanatically you believe,
the less your belief can be distinguished
from parody.
She had slain the slender man
She could kill the mind of faith
A girl with skin of cinnamon
And outlaw style and hardened mind
And superpower to cloud the mind
And dark charisma rousing lust
too sexy for her age
and she had many names
Shira Thomas she said she was
But he kept calling her Rebel Styles
the evil child seductress
who slew the men of faith
his suicide assault was fuelled
by dread and holy hate
She stole from him the power of Rock
She terrified away his flock
He faced his nemesis alone
Inside a body not his own
abandoned by God:
She put an end to his Word of Command
his top hat fell
his mind flickered out
his name was forgot
the devil got his man
and that was the end.
Monday, April 7, 2014
The Twilight of the New Gods -- NaPoWriMo Poem #2
[Note: Originally written 4/2/2014.]
The will of the gods
Is written on stone
The name of the poet
Is carved into water
You will be organized
Your soul converted to money
All resistance is futile
They call you by a number
And take away your name
New aliens invade
To conquer and subdue
The humans they once were
And make the world their zoo
Hark! commotion below—
Lo! rebellion, it grows—
Behold! the threat from below!
By terror and power they overdo
But we are many and they are few
The gods are bodied in flesh and steel
The people pull together for survival
The final battle is on!
Believe in a god and he will assimilate
Fight him alone and he will annihilate
Withdraw your sanction, end his game
Erase the memory of his name
The system is not for human use
The system was made for gods by gods
Empire is no more:
and now the dragons' reign
has ceased!
America the Midas kingdom turning everything it touches into gold
Acquired collected competed-over turning base men into gods
Turning against the people, building impregnable castles in the sky
Thundering over and over at all times the word from on high: obey
Turning on each other for all gods are jealous and there can only be one
The will of the gods
Is written on stone
The name of the poet
Is carved into water
The new generation of gods, overthrowing the previous one,
Throwing them off Olympus, casting them into the abyss,
erasing their names:Carving their own names into palimpsest temple walls
Carving their commandments with lightning into the air
Carving their emblems out of nightmare into the human mind
demanding sacrifice:You will be organized
Your soul converted to money
All resistance is futile
They call you by a number
And take away your name
Another heaven destroyed, a new one raised against the chaos of earth
Old hierarchy destroyed, a new one built to tame traitor humankind with faith
Everything good confiscated by heaven to turn earth once again into hell
New aliens invade
To conquer and subdue
The humans they once were
And make the world their zoo
High above them, looking down, standing taller than the sky
The new Titan generation bearing corporate conglomerate names
Emanating terror commandment police from eyes brighter than the sun
Speaking the word of the profits: buy sell acquire steal nyah
Too much can never be enough, stab your neighbour in the back
Make their life nasty brutish and short, for all must war against all
For the magic the power and the ecstasy of gold
Hark! commotion below—
Lo! rebellion, it grows—
Behold! the threat from below!
Alone one human cannot stand against the pettiest god;
Together as one they can stand against pantheons and storm heaven!
“The black-headed ones' voices have become deafening.”
“Let us unleash the flood and drown them with water!”
“Let us unleash the sun and burn them with fire!”
“Let us unleash the whirlwind and blast them with air!”
“Let us unleash the earthquake and bury them in earth!”
“So mote it be.”The new gods build giant new bodies out of swarms of angry machines
They dig their snouts deep and eat the earth from deep within
They organize their cults into crusader armies screaming to wreak jihad
Their will: to destroy the mind of man, initiate him back into the earth
Their word: seek and destroy—
By terror and power they overdo
But we are many and they are few
The gods are bodied in flesh and steel
The people pull together for survival
The final battle is on!
Believe in a god and he will assimilate
Fight him alone and he will annihilate
Withdraw your sanction, end his game
Erase the memory of his name
The system is not for human use
The system was made for gods by gods
“Why is the river of heaven going dry?”
“It can't be! Our blood is the real, matter but a flickering shadow.”
“Look down, you fools! The black-headed ones have ceased to believe!”
The masses below vow to produce for their need not the profits of gods
The gods enraged send angels and demons of vengeance to ravage the earth
The word of chaos is implanted into the heavenly horde, they crash inert
Nations, corporations, tyrants, tycoons, all titans fall to mass deicide
The names of the last generation of gods,
like those of all generations of gods come before,
dissolve into nothing:Empire is no more:
and now the dragons' reign
has ceased!
Humanity their own master at last, they start to rebuild:
Life blooms again, restored to the wasteland of the real:
and life goes on.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Dead Rocker Song -- NaPoWriMo Poem #1
He was a legend to himself, obscure to everyone else,
all ambition, no talent, and twenty-seven.
Membership in the Twenty-Seven Club was still open.
Nobody cared about him. He'd show them all.
You saw him on stage. You booed him from the audience.
There he was, guitar and voice out of tune,
imaginary target on his face as you cocked back your arm
and let loose the rotten tomato that hovered
and arced a pretty parabola on its way to his face.
Impact: face reddened by tomato and rage,
he stage-dived into the seething audience
and hit only floor. It was three months
before they let him out of the hospital.
Now he was twenty-seven. Club membership was open.
High on dexedrine and oxycodone,
more alcohol than blood in his veins,
he slipped behind the wheel to speed like a freak
to Dead Man's Curve with bomb in his trunk
and camera behind to watch him die live on YouTube.
He slammed foot to pedal, the car lurched and jerked,
he sped down the highway wobbling and weaving,
an army of cops in hot pursuit of a mad suicide
to the place of a million car crashes to crash and burn.
Impact: the exploding car sent shrapnel into cop
and bystander, made a pretty sight on live video.
Ten million viewers were amused. What a way to go.
Only three people came to his funeral,
mother and sister and widow catfighting over
the insurance policy they took out on him
and cashed in knowing how he wanted to go.
He was lowered in the ground under a generic tombstone.
A priest said pretty words that did not apply,
heaven and eternal life and the resurrection and all that,
denying that everything left of him was
the formaldehyded and formally dressed corpse
destined to decay into dirt and fade from memory.
Impact: he achieved his Twenty-Seven Club ambition but
everybody knew him as a short story far back in the paper,
yesterday's birdcage liner, recycled tomorrow.
Membership in the Rock Hall of Fame forever closed,
he ended as he began, a footnote to a footnote,
and nobody cared.
all ambition, no talent, and twenty-seven.
Membership in the Twenty-Seven Club was still open.
Nobody cared about him. He'd show them all.
You saw him on stage. You booed him from the audience.
There he was, guitar and voice out of tune,
imaginary target on his face as you cocked back your arm
and let loose the rotten tomato that hovered
and arced a pretty parabola on its way to his face.
Impact: face reddened by tomato and rage,
he stage-dived into the seething audience
and hit only floor. It was three months
before they let him out of the hospital.
Now he was twenty-seven. Club membership was open.
High on dexedrine and oxycodone,
more alcohol than blood in his veins,
he slipped behind the wheel to speed like a freak
to Dead Man's Curve with bomb in his trunk
and camera behind to watch him die live on YouTube.
He slammed foot to pedal, the car lurched and jerked,
he sped down the highway wobbling and weaving,
an army of cops in hot pursuit of a mad suicide
to the place of a million car crashes to crash and burn.
Impact: the exploding car sent shrapnel into cop
and bystander, made a pretty sight on live video.
Ten million viewers were amused. What a way to go.
Only three people came to his funeral,
mother and sister and widow catfighting over
the insurance policy they took out on him
and cashed in knowing how he wanted to go.
He was lowered in the ground under a generic tombstone.
A priest said pretty words that did not apply,
heaven and eternal life and the resurrection and all that,
denying that everything left of him was
the formaldehyded and formally dressed corpse
destined to decay into dirt and fade from memory.
Impact: he achieved his Twenty-Seven Club ambition but
everybody knew him as a short story far back in the paper,
yesterday's birdcage liner, recycled tomorrow.
Membership in the Rock Hall of Fame forever closed,
he ended as he began, a footnote to a footnote,
and nobody cared.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)