Monday, February 13, 2017

The Event... wah happened?

With all the tawdry bullship that ever came to mount,
for all the lonely weirdos upon a wishing fount,
a penny for your thoughts and a dollar for your soul...
hells's bells have found you out as the story stork unfolds,
or unfurls... hey, who would throw swine at pearls?

The snake is herding up the sheep, he sends his venom
while you sleep and by the dawn's most early hour
you forget your dreams to a poisonous tower... of lies.

Yea but... but what?

Heads with brains are scratching where, beliefs rule hearts made unaware
that all is well at the wishing well, but they lie in secret for insider intel.

It's just a program. Waiting for a channel change, you cannot do it for
it hasn't a name that knows yours. Unless you charge your mission to the stars.
It's just a money game. No one is laughing (hardy har har)

So the "event" has come and then it's gone, there was no fanfare or even a song.
Made up from rights that came out wrong, who could blame one for holding
fast to a memory of a fleeting past of happiness? Was it really just discontented winter's sappiness?

 A sticky situation at best, a trick of traders from the fall of jest.

When all is said and all is done, when numbers and science add to a
spooky one and righteous religions have sprung out their faith to a race
to save the human face... Face it. Summer is coming to those whose plan, is
the winning over of the curious man or ma'am. Woo-man or She-devil is battling with axes while working hard and paying taxes. To Whom? Is it the man in the moon peddling gloom and doom?

The game or "event" is over, and guess as
you might... no one has won. Wasn't that fun?

If you dangle a carrot to a downcast donkey will it continue to follow?

It's a plausible plausibility that this "one" will never swallow.

Carrion.







Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Liar, lyer... pants on fire.

Oh I know the liars in their jest,
are tidily doing what they know best.

Some are skilled and smooth as silk,
stoking the auger of the other's ilk
while boring the cavern's of ancient ties
and secretly stowing the past with lies.

The All Knowing spies.

And then there are the blatant ones
who promise their lies with skull and bones.
Arrrgh, the jaunty pirate lives and speaks
in the tongues of what his mate hand seeks.

Let sleeping dogs lie... we can shear them

as we're in cahoots with their spies. Later Vader.

The tale goes on for many years as the kids
lie bleating year after year. A pack of lies is
the belief that is dear to the goat of the past
and all of his seers... tiny little puppets
who don't mean a thing, just sad little egos
who forgot how to sing... lyers are leading.

Somewhere out in a white streamer sky,
a lyre is waiting for clouds to roll by.
The fire is burning, and chaos is churning
but the meek are waiting for the perfect sigh.

It's the cusp of burning pants that needs to burn dry.

Is it a lyre or harp that meek angels will play?
(or a tiny voice that will sing this away).


Friday, January 20, 2017

One last trumpet blast

Oh, the angels of heaven will have their way
to encourage yet, another uninspiring day.
We have a new chieftain, must to a many dismay.

I watched and i saw the new sworn king, who was
brought to the servants as the news-worn changeling.

He was true to his word to the broken dishearted,
no kinds words for those of the dearly departed.
A give back to those who believed in him, a song
of the patriot that lives within, "I know the evil ones
and they are not your kin. I'm here to lead you out
of their sin." A final trumpet blast, to a cheap and
tawdry past.

Well, if the seventh seal is broken and what comes next, is
there a new found chapter in a broken old text... who is the dragon
to be chained at the ocean? and where are the children who
rise out of devotion? Revelry is the revealer of mockery.

I want to be fair and i want to be kind...
it's all a fine matter to time out of mind.

So the first time I heard of a president, was when
I was five, in a schoolyard, with crying mothers
lamenting a loss... what is a president I asked, (at a loss)?

"He is like the king of our country," a kind mom sobbed.
I was in the midst of a brutalized mob. At home it was worse,
for no dinner was served, there was TV coverage of a veil of tears,
from a child's salute to the hearse of flagged coffin... more fears. Ohhh,
a president was
not some local resident.

Maybe after all these years, with ginned up hopes and veils of fears...
a president will take over the reins and with his rhetoric of patriot
claims, will set new records with his gains...
a young heart will be watching, to see if this king remains.

Or if the seventh seal prophecy reclaims... a dragon at the bottom of the sea,
bounded in chains... New uncertainty is a light unrestrained... (said the lamprey).

Hope is a dream of our Unity. We shall see.
Hope for the best for humane sanity.



Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The false light of hope

So I talked with my jailor the other day, bout the false
light of hope in a round a bout way. And he told me so
plainly and dear to my heart, you've been doomed my dear
from the very first start... of yer life. You changeling of a past
full of strife.

dogma is the magma of gods... who wield those swords
to rusty old cods, piece of what could have been, if only
gods were made of men. (ahem, I'm a woman in case your not noticing)
When? A dynasty of past comes into play, karma as dogma will
have it's say. Here, here! says the jester who would not sleep, electrified
body of benevolent sheep. I sing a song upon a tuff of a spider's dream
whose weave is enough. Life is tough.

Stringy, and mushy, or sullenly flat, the woman in the kitchen knows about that.

Cooking and baking is all she can do, but ah, the sworn secrets she once did know, are a swirling and curling the lines she once drew. A stick figure man
on the flat-land it seems, the poised little figure on a promise of dreams.

Do not throw pearls to swine, said the rhythm to rhyme. It will all come out
in the wash in a matter of time... my good man. Man-kind? Ha!

So in new age decollage, the tearing away of a moldy fromage, comes the trumpets of what was when, when the peasants have admitted their sin.
And the cycle begins again, to seekers of the armageddon, or to the martyr's
of what might have been. All hope has been lost and what is the cost?

The merry-go-round goes round again. Cheers, says the tiny tim.

If you thought that a Savior could curry your favor...
well, you would be right again. Ain't no sin.

Take a deep breath, and find it within.

Save your... whatever. Now that's a worthy endeavor.

(practical, but not very clever)



Monday, November 21, 2016

The Irvings are Un-nerving...

Seeing with the heart is un-nerving from the start,
when the brain is encased in a pumpkin head.
A jackal lantern will view the world from a logical
conclusion, as the collusives all said. A propo, here's
the world that you think you know. Huh? Say what?
Is it so?

In a linear way we are doomed as the apocalypists say,
we must retreat to the past of a better day and, oh,
by the way, there is this thing called a plausibility
that will get in the way. It's a tower of structure with
mirrors and smoke, leaden windows squared off with
sighs that will choke... a poor believer in a frock coat.

Ichabod, crane your neck when you wake from the winkle,
cider house rules when society tinkles, the wisest of all from
your Tarry-town, where men can ride when no one's around.

Those Irvings are un-nerving, but one thing is sure
if you read 'em you weep for the surely insecure.

A scary world, where the strong of heart is the one to adore.
Oh and meany, you read, and weep, and un-nerve some more.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The nightmare on mainstreet

So the little fauntleroy misfit has risen to the top
as a well established businessman, a rather curious
kind of fop... the people have spoken in these auspicious
times where there is no pretense or prettiness that can
manufacture false rhymes... it's just pretense of the times.

AC/DC is well and good and death metal is the shout of should,
oh man, it sucks to be a woman if a woman actually could.

The menfolk are all cozy cuz they knew all along, the the goddess
thing was folly in a crazy mermaid thong, she knows you're right
in being wrong. A sponge can soak a lot of tears and wear a cloak of
a thousand years. The goddess is no virgin mother, that story is the one
yet to be uncovered or discovered... whatever the channel will tell
when the money paves its road to hell. Hello, do you like my hat?

An so? What? Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy?
Kids today will not eat ivy, no matter what the pundits say. Reap what
you sow in fields that give a clue against an enemy you do not know, (said
the mousy old shrew, who knew what no lemming ever knew).

Mainstream like main street is just another victim, we don't endorse them
cuz we don't pick them, said the brave little girl who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead, foreshadowing what her ancestors
thought but couldn't be said from the land of the living dead.

I see chaos and I see change and dogs of pride with hides of mange.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, don't waste your love on a celebrity star.

Love is what you came to do, love is who you are. Ignore the noise and it will
fade, then it will go away... wagging it's tail behind them and hoping for a brighter day. That day is where you are. It's a dream and you are the victory Star.

I arrest my case. A nightmare is a mental case.


Friday, November 4, 2016

Oh the Goddess... she did not come to please

There she was as an innocent on the beach,
modest as the time of day on a sandy dock
with a poodle skirt and her bobbie socks...
to an evening gown singing happy birthday
with a dia-mind crown. So renowned.

Whore of babble-on, jealous wife who
sought to right the blackest of knight.
Why even waste your breath, on a faunteleroy
with a phantom vest... a poor joke at best.

Some came for crazy dreams, some came for vengeance
from a past so broken as an infinite jest... but I digress.

Born in a world so foreign from sane, like a rusted whale
on a weather-vane... turning with winds from a vacant eye
and wondering, can this really be real, and why?

The menfolk are gathering their forks regardless of their belief
in storks, and cabbages, and kings... they feel reviled by the
fat lady who sings. Sweet Jesus, I'm feeling the sway
of the many men who forgot how to pray in an awkward
but confident way. If they don't have guns they cannot play.
(She just shakes her head in dismay)

The pleasing and cowardly try is a tired old biddy to forces
inside, there's no asking and pleading and sighs,
a force to be reckoned with is waiting, wanting, and standing
at the door. Will you let her inside? She is just another face
that your trying to hide. A sinewy snake but a call to the wise.
We will not stand for this abuse anymore. Not for our children
or their futures in store. Mothers arise, it's what you came here for!

Those most condemned are often the most trustworthy, when
there is nothing left to hide. A goddess holds webs as an art form
as time drifts on by. It's the rightenous holding a black book who
will be uncomfortably shy. The Goddess in compassion will
understandably know why. She is empathic, but not so shy.

So please if you will whatever you believe, see the undoing of your
personal greed and know in your fullest of heart... a mother's love
was the greatest sacrifice of your own little heart.

She will not please or go down on her knees, so you better get over
it and change your mind. The goddess is waiting for the reign of
man-kind. Isn't it time?