Day: December 8, 2023

Refrigerator parasites,
living in a hole,
smoking a bowl,
losing your broken soul.

Tired of the sky pain,
living in the toxic rain,
the MAN says I’m insane,
but he ships in crack cocaine.

I pedaled on my trike,
undeterred by the slog,
and roaches chased my ass,
as I swallowed broken glass,
and the sun was nowhere near,
my urine filled with beer,
the old duded called me queer,
and his insults? – they did seer,
in the juices,
for the gooses,
stepping out, on, truces.

Your mind laser did a thing,
and then my cell phone rang,
“Charlie McGibbons gets OUT TODAY!”,
OH, YAY!
We’ll have a spread,
where they bury the dead,
crazy ZED will cook up the meat,
in your seat,
staring at the bacon heat,
and living on jizzle-gases and grease.

I sped by with cherished ease,
the sleaze followed me,
beyond the sea,
beyond the hills,
tormenting me and my bell bottom spirit.

And candy man nightmares stare,
dithering bad boys lay siege to Grinken Town,
the mayor frowns as desert winds blow,
and you are on the go,
not too slow,
with your trike – one gear, never fear.

The dark soldier lurks nearby,
you can hear his horrid sigh,
a slouching beast of iron and smoke,
he ain’t no friendly bloke.
You think you’re broke?
wait till the deals are made,
wait for the KOOL-AID,
wait in the musty cave,
it will be your grave,
and the soldier will give a speech,
storming that final breech,
Nordic whores stand at the gap,
sitting on your lap,
you tired old sap – it’s crabs man.

“I SAW THE MOON PRINCE!”,
said Sadie Bintz.
Her heart is clotted,
her mind engrossed,
a book left open on her desk,
some paper written,
ripped,
soaked in cow’s blood and glitter,
she doesn’t litter,
she takes those bodies to the landfill,
after she and her cat have had their supper,
then she takes an upper,
and passes out,
massaging her boovula.

The TRIKE sped on,
from old burnt tree,
to New London Town,
a gaping wound,
an out of tune song,
you long for the stew,
of dead cat and mold fern,
a stern goo,
that you eat on your feet,
and you stand blindfolded,
on the edge of the WORLD,
a heart spun too fast,
a dandelion in the grass.

The frontier is dead,
the tires are melting,
the snow is haunting,
a grease is spilling into the stream.

A mind BEAM glows,
as coastal cities swarm with rats.
And the BAT KING stands tall in BOSTON,
as cast iron critters deal cards in VEGAS,
and the last of the sewer monkeys builds his rocket,
something in his pocket,
labeled: “LOVE”.

“SHUNT THE CUNT!”,
cried Milly Stamp.
She ruled the final quorum,
she had a hopped up forum,
her spirit was geared for dance,
but her enemies road black horses,
they whispered tired old lies,
they wandered mystery courses,
and had ships of jelly and sawdust.
Some rusty old MONK,
slunking to the docks,
drunk on muskrat wine,
looking for a good time,
sees Milly and stops …
For a night,
for a drink,
till he sinks below the waves.

I fell asleep by the stream,
reflecting eyes of darkness seen.

I cursed my land,
I fed on sand,
my jaundiced heart could not start,
so YOU left me to die,
in the snow,
far below,
and yet I still crawl towards the fight.

I filled my cup with forest green,
and sent the poet three more notes,
lost in noise,
hanging with them boys,
too many broken hearted,
too many fierce hounds,
sleeping on the ground with our hooker lovers,
not too hard,
pull that shard from your windpipe.