Along the crashing waves of time
A sweeter kill, a sour grime
The breakfast of champions
Of words less spoken
Must we eat the rotten vegetation
of syllables?
Of course, it’s only “logical”!
Words–the breakfast of champions
Guilt–the food for the businessman
Pain–the dessert of our children
Lies–they come prepackaged
FOR CONSUMPTION
Less forgiving is the chance
for a clearer mind, a keener stance
Are the suit and ties too tight?
“Without this squeeze we’ll lose our might”
Must we lie on the spiked beds
of government?
Of course, it’s only money!
Money–the breakfast of Fallwells
Power–the food of the snakes
Greed–the dessert of congress
Fluff–it’s what’s
FOR DINNER
“Blow blow!” says the man with the whistle
“No no!” says the man with the keys
“Go go!” says the woman with knowledge
“Sorry!” says the wretched disease
Must we always be aware
the madrigals of one man’s lair
They feed us many vowels
and make us eat our bowels
Must we clean the bathrooms
of infinity?
Of course, it’s only sh!t!
Words–the breakfast of champions
Guilt–the food for the businessman
Pain–the dessert of our children
Lies–they come prepackaged
FOR CONSUMPTION
Chauvinistic distress and a feeling of never getting enough
Anticlimactic confession and the ceiling of something that’s between the lines
Angry derivatives of army and navy and something not understood
Look, the fountain is flowing red
And the halo is over my head
And I thought I fell out of bed
So long as the window leaks enriched uranium, we all suffer
12, 18, 21, 25 years for the lower insurance
8, 16, 24, 32 lines for the timing of 4
Nothing to argue
Nothing to possess
Nothing to use Kleenex for the next one hundred cycles
Use permanent press and high heat
For the establishment is weakening
And the cards will fall
And so it was
And so
DEATH.
Something is in the way
It can’t be the whining
Nor the bath of sour milk
Caused by the disenfranchised crumbling
Of the government at bay
Something is in the way
It could be someone dining
On the feelings inside our minds
Caused by the disembodied fruits
Of our labor
Someone is in the soup
There’s too many cooks
And too many partisan potatoes
Laughing at the way we shovel shit
And the odor
The substance of our feelings
Is not digestible via policies
Is not recyclable via politics
Is not renewable via large portions
It sits in a stew of partisan potatoes
As they are laughing all the way to the bank
And here we sit
At the bottom of the world
With our fists clenched and our minds full of mildew
We drive the stake into the hearts of our ancestors
Years ago and for years to come
It rots in the blood-red sunrise of fear
And filters through our televisions
And the joke is on us and our democracy
Of lost wages and outsourcing
For something is in the way
And it can’t be the whining
Nor the bath of sour milk
Caused by the disenfranchised crumbling
Of the government at bay.
You can drop a beat but can you work 14 hour days in a car factory pushing a button?
Because I’m pretty sure the guy or girl doing that doesn’t want to, either.
Just because you’re somebody doesn’t make you something.
Stop being so f****ing arrogant. No one likes the depressed guy, neither.
A pile of shit is a mountain of personal endeavors unfulfilled and unreached
If only you had a lot of money then the world would listen to what you preached
Even if it’s garbage, f**** you.
I’d like to be a self-concious little prick today.
I’d like to tell all homophobes I’m gay.
I’d like to be so rich you’d want to suck my dick and think I’d pay.
I’d like to see your face when my load sticks between your teeth and you stop smiling.
Contemporary poetry should look at spam emails to get a new flow. I’m serious. I’m quite bored with poetry, thousands of years old and it still sucks. I’ve read spam that I thought was quite good though, new frontier stuff. And I absolutely hate spam. I like poetry to challenge me rhythmically, and assault me verbally. I like to write it sporadically then go back and still ‘feel’ something. If i don’t, it’s garbage. Clever doesn’t cut it, deep is over, I want my mind blown.
Also, we live in what I like to call a “Post-Colonial English Society” and I would argue that language is also over. Poetry should address that, where a world of english as a second language is reading.
Thousand years of prose and i’m still bored
Looking at spam email for a new flow
Post-Colonial English, language is over the top
Like Sylvester Stalone in the 80’s arm wrestling
Started off a bum and semi-retarded
There’s your Philadelphia story
Not some Mile High autobiographical allegory
Conveniently written at the end of the road
Hollywood take on what it takes to make it
Respect the rich ain’t I supposed to eat them?
Peace for sale but who’s buying my records?
At least Rocky was about the future.
RIP TUPAC
The tyranny of a bad design
The tsunami of relinquished religion
Nothing fallen on leaves fallen on society
Nothing ventured but something gained
But only a drip at a time
As the droplets fall
The smoke rises to the top
And forms a crust on the canvas
The colors of truth and justice
All mixed together with hate and impunity
In a single stroke
The tyranny of the undefined
The tsunami of unfiltered fear
The droplets fall
And the leaves cause craters in our minds
Infinite and absolute
The math of our existence
Troubling our inferiority
The Dead Swans, by Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Wasp Villas, Greenbridge, Essex, England
The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool’s mire.
They also smelt a great deal.
