[photos pending. maybe]
The curtain’s up. They await performance.
They demand action, with hints of romance.
I have worked too long on this silent dance;
I have lost all faith in the arts of chance.
The curtain’s up. I guess I’ll be moving.
For some it’s easy to grind while grooving,
While I find songs of despair more soothing,
Curtain-down feelings that need no proving,
But curtain’s up, boys: it’s time for a smile!
I guess we can fake it a little while.
Audiences mistake depression for guile
And think you’re malingering, artist-style.
Ra-ta-ta-tap goes rhythm of despair—
If you can move you can act like you care.
Observing the world while not quite a part,
My body pumping blood without a heart,
I see everything better than you do—
I see the grooves and the point of the screw—
My vision links nowhere to being smart.
It’s disconnected from all at the start,
Pushing reality off in a cart,
Eying the shelves for what’s next in the stew,
Observing the world.
No, it’s not smart, but it’s a shopping art
To spot which screws hold you up at the mart.
What I’ve been cooking serves more than a few.
It’s based on seeing the mart looks like you.
I’ll take my druthers and tear you apart,
Observing the world.
Violence and words are out of control,
Uppity in their pushy pretension.
They do some damage that they can’t console,
Although they have a healing dimension.
Everyone knows that cleansing brings rebirth,
And birth is violent—mothers can tell.
Violence burns with the turns of the Earth,
And moves its cycles to keep them all well.
I could praise words in similar fashion—
Keys to discover, and to share passion.
The problem is, both forces can cash in
And multiply as parasites dash in.
When they multiply they over-consume.
Each person you meet acts like a legume.
Songs for the weird would placate the hurt soul
For the true weird are seeking to be whole.
Forget all this nonsense, being badass,
It’s just a stratagem to help us pass—
Revealing the weird serves nerves on a roll.
Is I am our not? Questions take a toll.
Sing it aloud to make answers a goal!
Don’t sing it soggy; sing it with sass—
Songs for the weird.
When will this babbling donkey go foal?
He’s so fucking normal, I’d pelt with coal
Each of his soft parts except for his ass
Because if he popped out a real jackass,
Then he’d be weird, a part of the fol—
d. Songs for the weird.
I come by it honestly, this contempt—
When bigots in red states offend exempt
From penalty, as their cronies run law,
And they offended where everyone saw,
I’d say I’ve a right to roil unkempt.
What if I get lost in the mad attempt
To lash out with forces I shouldn’t tempt?
I look at the prospect with a guffaw.
I come by it honestly.
I still play on fields where evil has romped,
With demon fist-fights where devil-hooves clomped,
And having been so close to Satan’s maw,
I’ve come out feeling rather far too raw
Not to want to see my enemies stomped:
I come by it honestly.
Inevitable logic of parting
Will articulate algorithmically
Given the temporal parameters
Appropriate to suddenly starting
A newer way to live, and to be
Among the many predicted quitters,
Which is not to say all will be quitters,
Which is not implied by common parting,
Which turns out, here and there, often to be
Engaged in the act of up and starting
Conflicts with similar parameters
For those with similar parameters
In relations, never before quitters,
Now cataloguing problems, starting
The protocols of practical parting,
Proceeding, in step, algorithmically,
To determine en masse what will soon be
The new state of what’s no longer to be
Which will have, certainly, parameters
For them to observe algorithmically,
Ceremonious in being quitters,
As is ordained by logic of parting,
And that is only how it is starting,
For they know parting involves a starting,
And stopping, and starting, looping to be
Synced with logic that feels like brains parting,
But this halting follows parameters,
Like everything—they’re not being quitters
Now, as they approach, algorithmically,
Problems that you solve algorithmically:
They move to doing, transcending starting,
Discarding notions of being quitters,
Preferring, at last, what was meant to be,
What answers all of their parameters,
The only logical thing left, parting.
Trouble in algorithmically parting
Is re-starting lies in parameters—
Parting won’t end; quitters never can be.
I can be abstruse where no one will look.
I don’t need all my poems in a book.
I can write whatever the hell I want:
Down with the dick and glory to the cunt!
It’s my website; only I’m on the hook.
You might read on your Fire or on your Nook
A site such as this, such as gods forsook.
You won’t lose a dime on your surfing hunt.
I can be abstruse.
Bask in my weirdness—it’s like drugs you took!
If you don’t eat it all, at least we cook.
On lots of my words you might choose to bunt,
But most of them are common as currant,
And rhythm and rhyme are meanings that shook!
I can be abstruse!
Interplanetary destruction is
Sometimes required by vengeful feelings
Spurred on by series of bad businesses
And underhanded, cheap, dirty dealings.
“Send out the death rays!” The good people cry.
They all want carnage, they want big fire:
They want to see their space enemy die,
To crash and burn in some acid mire.
Ships have technology to serve up death;
As you know, space is where no one hears screams,
As there aren’t soundwaves, and no source of breath.
Serving are quiet and won’t disturb dreams.
In all, destruction in space is truly fine.
Get your revenge while the bright lasers shine!