Monday, March 30, 2015

The Buck Keeps a Quacking Duck & Other Squeals

The Buk Keeps a Quacking Duck:

A hood covers his head as the man thinks about his robbed-childhood days
Scholastic kidnaps you might add
Where the head remains in bondage and the soul is taken hostage
Loose limbs hang and dangle
The man’s body is a crumble
Bitter, bile and gutted like a fish he turns vegan
Eating meat in distress
They never paid the ransom for the mind and now he can’t stomach anything kind
That’s what they teach
Calling it educational read
Study hard they said
Fear in their voices
Tremble in their bodies
Insisting there were no other choices

I don’t look back
It hurts my neck and stiffens my shoulders
It’s the reason why I never joined the uniformed personnel
(Now don’t get brave and patriotic- it’s another read the masters at school used to preach)
Besides I’m too lazy to even turn my head let alone stand-up, bang boots and cut a hand to my forehead
I admire people who can follow order without asking broader questions that are harder
But under the sun that rises, shines and sets is also a moon that waxes, wanes and beams
And darkness in-between
Different waves for different braves
A swimmer is also trying to avoid being drowned in a way like a desert-man keeping a dry-throat at bay knowing where to draw a spot and dig up a watering hole
You don’t need tragedy to recognize compassion
Murder to cherish life
Gold to see the poor
We are such beings as moments are made up of
And they are made of all the things one could not begin to comprehend
When you think you do it mocks
Sending you back whence you came

A bit bent in the back

Gray in the hair
Hardness in the eyes
Wrinkles on your face
And nights that are short and sweet
Sleeping still
Dreaming blank
You wake up older in the body
Wiser in the mind
With nothing left to wrestle
Becoming an ordinary man
In an extraordinary world

Hypnotic Blade:

Stare at a blade of grass long enough and you’ll nod-off
Wake up from that nap and you’ve missed a gap
Slept through the crack
Missing time
And it seems like the grass grew
A little more taller
A little more greener
A little more moist
A little more lively
A little more comely
A little more abuzz
A little more ripe
So I stayed up to see these changes taking shape
Agog in-dreams


I was born with the world
It’s aged with me
And I’m still getting old
As I live we perish
When I finally die we’ll both vanish
Footprints in the wind
Faces in the pond
No-one has ever been around here
Yet now they are all gone
Reflections that never were
Throwing your ideas of just projection back at you
With perfect precision

Bad Poem:

bitter poet
bad metaphor
aloof as a mannequin strutting on a ramp
no behavior


temper your flatter- a loose-tongue is as bad as a tightened-one


it gets exasperating
so retiring
zone-out in-between
till the next thing comes and does something familiarly surprising
in the great circle of life they never mention nausea and square-one


it rains and it mushrooms

Making Hay:

In the midst of sadness and pain
I see people
Grabbing morsels of happiness and gain
When I look back I see blurs of sharp regrets
Pointing at misdirections
It adds yet another weight
To a man skinned with guilt
Fed on mistakes
Still eating
What he thinks is his final meal


its measure for measure
and a man needs leisure like a woman needs pleasure
its measure for measure


the dead man in me won't die
and the one alive won't live
its becoming crowded in here
so we've all decided to go our own ways
be free and fair


correcting miscalls and misreadings
mispronouncing misnomers
ungrammatically obfuscating
spelling mistakes seems like the only honest beginning


in search of rocks and boulders
one walks over stepping stones
flinging little pebbles

A Left-Right Conversation:

(Mr Right)
here comes self-righteousness
he’s blind to his left and his right-eye is furiously wrong
(he wears rose-tinted glasses and he’d like us all to wear and see through one)
he’d sit in the shade and put us all in the blistering sun
watching us burn
son of a gun
his fair trade is full of self-imposed tirade
(i’d like to gift him a thong for his head and a gong for his balls)
trying to prove he’s permanently right and giving everyone a good temporary fright
he’s mister righteous and now he’s married to miss make-up
it’s a dull marriage that’s all made-up
he’ll kill you with his pity and tell you its generosity
they sit in this house of crass fiber-glass (he'll claim its crystal)
watching voyeur-ishly from their hunted ivory-towers and through that square-ish-lofty porch
in another lifetime i'd kill these fuckers
(i can be very much like those suckers)
but i'm getting lame and all i can do right now is type in these words
(and return with favor some of that bark with a bite)
burn their paper-cease-fires
sometimes a man's gotta roar back in the high-tone, pitch and voice
re-echo that bullshit
reign-in the dung and pour some gasoline
(send reminders that silence is a preferred choice brother- not some cowering guise)
to the better man i'll palm my hands
misreading that would be a mistake
to take that gesture of peace and twist it otherwise would be grave
for you and me and our collective limbs at stake
facial contortions and all
the hands that fold and palm
are also the hands that fist and harm
lets keep calm
as the stickers say
and carry on
(if we can’t get along)
then go our own respective ways

(Mr Left)
what's this rush?
hangovers from a midnight crush?
late last night i scribbled something about self-righteousness
a sanctimonious line
all about i, me and mine
i shone that light-outward from the shadows
dissing at a so called-goon
hissing at his silver-tongued spoon
(middle-fingering the half-moon)
calling him names
beginning with a racoon
crumbling lofty-porches (and the like)
the informational-portal in the ether somehow ate up those notes
sometimes these computers are a bloody rote
but when it disappears its gone
you see
i write a lot about thoughts
almost instinctually
almost spontaneously (almost)
mind you (almost)
so i slept on that
that and a cat named daf
i don't know the name of her branded-designer make-up
she's got a loud snore but we haven’t broken-up
this cat and her callings (but we've made-up)
i woke up with a start, a startle and a scare
(including paranoid awakenings)
with the morning chill massaging my disjointed bones
and a slight regret in my aging flesh
i brewed greek-coffee in an ancient-rite
(seeing as i’m in athens)
rolling tobacco to balm and calm a wounded pride
(a most modern fetish)
that's how i get into my morning stride
recalling things i cannot exactly remember
and while i smoke my breathing lungs and sip my caffeinated-hemlock
the dream is still spilling over
in dregs and residues
over notes bemoaning self-righteous attitudes
in writings about pathetic platitudes
and the loss of gratitude

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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