April 7: Poisoned Trees, Fiery Death, Dragon Brains, etc.

We don’t know yet how many fools we’ll see

Eating the fruit from the old poisoned tree.

They say when it’s ripe it’s soft and juicy

And gives you the world in your hands for free.

 

We’ve seen troops tromp over children to eat

Fruit that trumps morals with essence too sweet

To resist once you’re with the elite,

And if you eat once, you’d rather repeat!

 

Would I be wrong to take some real delight

To see these fruit fuckers begin to fight

The effects of sweetness that isn’t right—

Dropped to their knees, poisoned, too late contrite?

 

I know I’ll be judged for wishing them dead,

But each put the poison inside his head.

 

So let it all burn so that they will learn—

They have no chance for redemption to earn.

The flames will consume every darkened room

Where they spent hours planning frozen doom,

Blind to what would come—too cold to discern.

 

Fire fails to discriminate: flames turn,

And they eliminate people who yearn

For lives free from the weavings on plotters’ loom,

So let it all burn…

 

I know for innocence some hearts will churn;

Alas, innocence is not flame’s concern.

We can’t mourn everyone inside flame’s tomb.

Flame won’t stop for mercy and then resume.

When it’s time for fire we must be stern,

So let it all burn.

 

I once drew maps for Dungeons and Dragons,

Trapped mazes with rooms for monsters galore.

Now a mind-lapse, and I fall off wagons:

Mazes and monsters are apt metaphor.

 

I’ve used some poems to map out my mind,

As if its principles I could predict—

I think a brain scan, a true one, would find

The mazes and rooms all lead to conflict.

 

The mind is a dungeon—that one is old—

But how to slay dragons, I’ve not been told.

I’ll buy magic weapons where drugs are sold

And gladly collect hard-earned dragon gold!

 

Here there be dragons, old maps used to say—

Big fucking lizards always in my way.

 

Hurl words like lightning, and heal them with shock.

Frankenstein’s Creature needs to be alive.

Make your prose sizzle, and make poems rock.

 

Big bolts from black clouds will not please the flock,

But bigger is better, and you’d best strive:

Hurl words like lightning, and heal them with shock.

 

Their wounds are deep, as they took a hard knock

When they learned love was a thing to contrive—

Make your prose sizzle, and make poems rock,

 

Because all feeling is fast losing stock,

Making all complacent, one with the hive.

Hurl words like lightning, and heal them with shock!

 

Some people are pushing the doomsday clock,

Believing end-times are their times to thrive.

Make your prose sizzle, and make poems rock,

 

Or you step in a cage and turn the lock.

If you pedal soft you just peddle jive.

Hurl words like lightning, and heal them with shock:

Make your prose sizzle, and make poems rock!

 

The river’s forever. So is the bridge.

I thought I was crossing. Now I’m stranded.

I think I see land there over the ridge.

I’ll never make it. Hope has disbanded.

 

The water beneath me whispers my name.

It knows I won’t listen. It tried before.

Water’s temptation is too trite and tame.

Its gentle voice is easy to ignore.

 

I’ll die on these stones, up here in the sun,

To mock the promise of safe connection,

Halfway away from where I had begun

But never close to landing affection.

 

I can’t imagine who built this long path—

I add my steps and expire from math.

 

As vulnerable as Marion Crane

I shower and go a little insane,

Wander with water, thinking of the past.

I wash automatically. Showers last

Until my sense of self goes down the drain.

 

However could washing cause so much pain?

There must be some causal root to explain,

Some point in childhood when the die were cast

As vulnerable.

 

It’s as if water stirs an inner stain

That I can’t reach however hard I strain.

It reaches to me and grabs me quite fast,

Forces out all else with a steamy blast,

And wreaks blister havoc upon my brain

As vulnerable.

 

Dmitri, come meet me: you’re astonished!

The horrors you’ve seen in this life are tough.

If you unseat me, I’ll be admonished,

Justly because I’ve succumbed to your stuff.

 

You can’t help your confused disposition,

Hanging around with visions of fire.

Big-eyed distress sends men on a mission—

Men like us who wear business attire.

 

You take it off, the confusion and shirt

For me and all who hear your anxious cry.

You show us all right where you feel the hurt

And make us promise to teach you to fly.

 

Desire and fear travel hand in hand:

Do you disagree or do you demand?

 

We are many, and we will never die,

A frozen army with a heatless sun.

You cannot count us. Do not even try.

 

In the headless woods no animals lie,

But the restless winds get to have their fun.

We are many, and we will never die.

 

In places for mortals we would be shy,

But in our own realm we bow to no one.

You cannot count us. Do not even try.

 

This place would be Hell if we cared to fry,

Or cared at all for what someone had done.

We are many, and we will never die,

 

And we are above what mortals decry.

We embody their fake God’s negation.

You cannot count us. Do not even try,

 

Or you might rip out your brain through your eye—

It would make no difference. No one won.

We are many, and we will never die.

You cannot count us. Do not even try.

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?