The Orange Book

by Monty Milne

I prefer to think of myself as a philosophical poet; an artistic historian.
These pages are my notes.

Fade to Death

Lemme check this picture
and see if I look fine.
Lemme listen to this tape
and see if I keep time.
Just wanna make sure
that my legend’s intact,
before I fade to death
and they bury me.

The music never died.
With her by my side.
My muse and heavenly guide.

She’d Say

The rape queen pussed green
between leprous legs.
‘I’m a suicide machine’
(She’d say).
Tainted needles spoke to her;
she worked for them.
The ghetto boys;
pants pissing faggot derelicts;
alcoholic transients wearing muddied,
shit smeared stench coats;
treated her well.
‘I’ll fuck you for drugs’
(She’d say).
The 3-piece suit business man,
in his expensive car,
- for twenty dollars –
slit her throat.

A web is spun
catching the sun
The Distant Traveler
He is the One
A cosmic spider weaving
the stars into a universe

Place red, blue, and gold together.
Her image becomes clearer to see.
Graffiti spray-painted on the wall.
Tall buxom female; silver navel and face.
Erase blue teardrops from her eyes.
Ties of broken love; she still cries.

A lifebrain fucked
My eyes see crooked shapes
of a reality gone mad
Enjoy a trip in my mind
Chaos is an aborted birth

Metallic silver mirror
reflecting a volatile personality.
Do I know the eyes
that stare at me?
Enigmatic face changing
every dusk to dawn.
Searching to realize
the trip I’m on.

Thank God (used in the
expressive sense not the
religious sense)
I’m not like (What would fit?)
in their worship-world
and demanding-rule.

…for the Gods

Dead horse warriors in overturned chariots.
Blood covered masks that were
faces in another life.
Now they’re dancing with the dead men;
praising and bowing to the
sun god’s feet.


Interior imagery corralled
in flesh and skull.
Elaborately magnificent whether
horror or beauty.
Infant voyager as it slithers out;
through hands, eyes, voice, reaction.
Transforming through spectacular stages.
Radiating to a diverse completion.

Rumors and falsehoods
swarming like hornets.
No one reaches the
center of omnipotence.

(No. 9231)

Throat-down on the chopping block.
To make the greatest sacrifice.
Protecting the nucleus.
Another spare part
of the great machine.

For the Love of Sound

Music; an auditory life-form.
Stimulating; it captivates all that is pure.
An entity unto itself;
existing before man or time.
Penetrating the salty ocean depths.
Rushing upward to make love with the stars.


Occam’s razor cut better than
Gravity’s saw.
The problem was a small one.
A tiny pink karma
was engulfed by a
mammoth purple specter.
Gravity tried to slice the specter
into little itty, bitty pieces.
Occam simply pushed straight in,
and carved the little karma out.

Day ‘til me nonman
Demon lit, an many

Soft Light and the Tiger

The Soft Light flooded my dreams
frequently when I slumbered
as a child.
Sound was omnipotent; It tingled
on my skin
and shone Color to my eyes.
A question circled endlessly;
I could think
but was incapable of reasoning.
I was embryonic, pure; floating
on waves of vibration.
These erratic night - time
visitations ended before I turned five;
Around the time the Tiger pounced,
once, never to return.
As I lay in bed; coated in heavy
darkness, it prowled in and snarled.
It was then that a presence
an unexplained, disturbing sensation.
Unconsciously; still mystifying,
my senses, mind, and heart
first tasted Bad.

Diamonds are rust.
If this one pebble is you.

We embezzle our minds
by ignoring opportunity.

Her eyes of a cat
fall upon me.
Stare me hollow blank.

You are a word.
But you are alive.
Because you kill.
You fucker.

Beer Brain

I remember
sleeping on my driveway
after a night of beer guzzling.
I was lucky to have
a pillow and blanket.

Genius: One who dares to be different.

“Kill the Hippie”
Was tossed the establishment
As they come to hunt me down.

The sounddrops of
Voodoo Rock
Inbreeding priceless spiritual harmony

I never challenge Authority
Unless it harasses me

Fuck. Shit. Asshole. Cocksucker.
These are “taboo words”.
That are used everyday, everywhere,
in all walks of life.
How … hypocritical.

Sometimes I think my writings
will end up brittle paper-dolls
In the hands of my grandchildren

There is a painful tearing at my heart
When I have stirring music composed
Yet no words to lay with it

I want to build a perfect world
Not like the billions I’ve visited
Trillions of times before.

Does it really matter what
we do with our lives?
The only thing we gain,
is death.

The outcast is wordlessly
Loath his wardrobe, his creed;
he is the foe.

Lava Bath

Never caring,
the crimson daring;
Volcanic plague;
defying ambush;
Slammed a culture;
Extinction vulture;

It was great having sex
with a personality
Like that

The book and the pen feels
good in my lap.
Especially confined in a cell
with my thoughts.
To correspond with my feelings
is a wonderful thing.

He’s a fucked-up nut,
Tho’ he will die famous.
Even if he ends up
lying face-down in his own vomit;
protruding shards of glass in his back.

I am made of the souls of the dead.
Therefore, I am ever - growing.

Sex on the Beach

New kiss; Hello Miss
Strange delight; Very bright
Hard stone; Never alone
Stain pretty; Open titty
Course in; Screw sin
High max; Come Relax

I am going to find Love.
Not a girl, so to say;
but the existence.
The true being.
I’m gonna find it ‘n’ fuck it.

Personal Illness

Is insecurity a personality trait;
or a plague sent down by Hate.
Cleansed in a sparkling bath;
Again dirtied by its repeated wrath.
Encircled by this putrid moat;
confidence stranded without a boat.

In the days of old
a person seeing visions and
hearing voices was called
a prophet.
Today they are called psychotic.

The Man of None

“And let us breathe,” said the man of all.
“And let us think,” said the man of most.
“And let us reason,” said the man of many.
“And let us create,” said the man of some.
“And let us conquer,” said the man of little.
“And let us rule,” said the man of several.
“And let us destroy,” said the man of few.
“And let me die,” said the man of none.

I am a probe.
From alien orbit.
From you I will feed.

Part man, part demon.
In short,
one hell of a guy

Level 1

Backwards time talk I, babbling
“Hope for time no waits man”
Expression dismal, this ponder I
This follow who morals be pity
Self-true, you’re in belief, always

To write crap is as
bad as stepping in it.

The Girl in the Chair

With glassy eyes I booze in this crowded saloon.
My head feels as light as a helium balloon.
Swilling down beer helps hide my despair;
quells my yearning for the girl in the chair.
Sitting near her with my fermented mask,
I stare sheepishly into my emptying flask.
In the corner of my eye I see her move;
slinking toward me in a sexy groove.
She comes closer and jangles her keys.
I tense and feel my whole body freeze.
Gliding past me, she is gay in her flight;
through the door, disappearing into the night.

Yummy in the Tummy

After trapping their game with keen wit;
they tied their kill to the wooden spit.
‘Round and ‘round it turned to bake.
Mouths watered at the fleshy cake.
The men were eager to take a bite.
Women and children dressed in white;
cooled the roast with a thatched fan,
then carved out pieces of the well-done man.

One and Two

The one was a short, thin
presence of gigantic power.
The Two, tall and lean, a
disciple of the One.
They met in their game of Brutal.
One wounded Two once.
Two struck One twice.
They evaporated into the second
cycle, once removed.
Two fought twice as hard,
elevated his size.
One’s counter-attack ripped
hard, doubled the cycle’s weight.
So up and up they battled.
Blind to the fact that their
present cycle, was quickly cindering.
Soon their whole pointless project, discombobulated.

The Bomb

Fission embryo in iron shell.
A mute assassin
as a phantom in the air.
Psychotic vampire on impact.
Reeking fire spittle in eruption.
Scorching invasion on all life.
  1. Iragi attacky,
    Sad man gone wacky.
  2. Twinkled twistering,
    Sad man lispering.
    Wave these dirty flags.
    Indian tomahawk split your side.
    American tomahawk turn the ride.

He will live in family, friends, and
neighborhood folklore.
Until they die out with him.
Describing a dead man.

A milestone of hard work
at the end of each passing day
Paves a smooth highway
to the rest of your life.

Wild stallions don’t settle down.
They ride to another pasture.

Powder Hound

Tim was a great friend.
I often think of him
in lonely moments.
I couldn’t believe it then,
and have trouble accepting it now,
that he is gone.
When my mother told me he had died,
the news hit me like an avalanche.
Much like the one that took him.

Apollyon waits in his bottomless pit.
He is the pit.
We fall into him.
He is in us.

Chicken Noodle Soup

An all-night food fight.
When we were about fifteen.
In the rolling fields and woods
at my friend’s house.
There were about twenty of us.
Tomatoes, eggs, soup, and catsup
filled the air.
Our body armor of trash bags
did little good
as we attempted to steal
the enemy’s flag.

White Lies

A cocaine overdose.
He feels his soul scream.
It shoots forward out of his body.
Rocketing through darkness;
as streaks of white race by.
He is quickly going over The Edge;
from where there is no return.
He feels the heat of shame
from the fact of meaningless death,
and pulls himself back.

I’ll probably die a martyr,
for I am in life.

Are my creations one and the same?
I write a poem.
If I sing it,
it is a song;
or a picture,
if I color the words.
I’m trying to bring a thousand
points of light
into one line of perspective.

Jim (R.I.P)

Year after year Jim drank alcohol.
Until his brain was permanently soaked.
Drinking finally proved to be the death of him.
When he went to a rehabilitation center,
he was brainwashed out of himself.

I tell the stranger;
“You are incredible.”
He beams with pride.
I insist to the stranger;
“I am richer than you.”
He teems with jealousy.
I inform the stranger;
“Many people are suffering.”
He cries great tears.
I say to the stranger;
“I want your woman.”
He tries to punch my teeth out.
I prove to myself
how powerful words are.

The bass is walking.
The guitar is fretting.
The piano is all keyed-up.
The drums are bombing.
The trumpet is wailing.

After a while alcohol completely
depletes any sensible current
running through the outlets
in my mind.
Imagination is reality in disguise.

Medical Operation
- A polite injury.

Wild Flower

Wild Flower
I will share you
I will protect you
But I will never pick you
And take you from your roots
Because then you would be a possession
Not a beautiful life
Stay wild and free

Sickness on the Wing

Cut down, conveniently swept
under the carpet.
Fished out like a slut in church.
Balls to the ones who weep alone.
So here we stir and boil; bored in fashion.
Unoriginal imagination settles in.
“Weird things,” the leaser laughs
in disgrace.
Dead man’s curve, Pompey,
hail the Apocalypse.
Forgotten love?
Maybe one rises in remembrance
Acceptance is down,
the morals flag is shattered.
Cut-throat vandals hang
neckties made of blood.
Dilly, dally long enough,
your head is on a stick.
The music stopped when the crickets
chirped to madness.
Snap out of this disease,
sleepness is forever.
Hope for early morning sun
before the dead depart.
Will civilization decipher
this message at all?
So easy, to get it all when
you shake your thing.
Break down the dimensions
in this crooked horizon.
Pale shades turn to dark
with sickness on the wing.
Greedy humor at questions on the two.
Painless pain buzzing in the cracking skull.
Weeding out the evils with
determined firm grip.
Shaking the conscious
back to focus in vomit.
Gross medium that spews forth
in vile contest.

Fire and Pain

Crouched in the belly of the blistering inferno;
the bandits are punished for their errors.
Like a tumor their lives spread terminal values;
sickening the world they tried to devour.
Only now, cast down to infinite torment,
do they hunger for the beauty.

Lost in Thought

It is late at night and I am alone;
staring at the scribble on the page
that lays before me.
It is a canvas that must be
carefully crafted.
I am anxiously trying
to paint it with language;
waiting to see the
shapes and colors it will represent.
But my train of thought
is stuck at the station;
held hostage behind a
blank wall in my skull.
Freedom of expression is
gripping tightly in my hand;
as if I am trying to squeeze
my thoughts through its dormant tip.
My pen needs new life;
not in ink but words.
What drop of nowhere
curses this mind to be void.

The Right Life

In a far-off land there lived a
colony or round, red spots.
There were thousands of them,
each identical to each other’s identity.
Mr. and Mrs. Spot #12 and #23
blandly existed;
as did the rest of the colony
who shared the Ten Rites of Life.
They worshipped the god of Equality,
blindly praising his alter of Propaganda.
The community was stunned when
#12 and #23 gave birth to an offspring;
an equally intelligent, caring, and
ambitious Spot whose color was green.
A council was quickly called and
they gladly accepted their newest son.
He was baptized Smear and
given the Five Rites of Life.

The Wrong Shade

Shade was an ominous
streak of violent purple.
He moved his lifeless self
in contempt of Life, itself.
Outside her sturdy walls
he drifted in Nothing.
Shade was banished from Life;
for destroying the other from Life.
The other was granted re-acceptance.
Shade was eternal non-existent.


Who and why?
Dreadful, happy bliss.
Always dying in the shadows.
Always wishing to cross the meadows.

Wrong place.
Rotten wrong.
It’s here, there …, where?
I can’t find it.
Running out of fucking time.
As the clocks unwind.
Flying a rainbow that pushes hollow gold.
What on earth rests here?
That makes one stay.
Me stay.
Should go away.
Till I think okay.
‘Cause my soul withers fast;
then it’s hell to pay.

Linda Sue’s Diary

Where real is here and far away.
The nights come dawn and light the day.
For woe it’s true,
time is here and gone, too.

The T.V. says “Madman”
but it’s “Madme: in guise;
‘cause everything’s true through Linda Sue’s eyes.
a tiny crystal palace of sweet surprise.
Open her pages to dreams;
trumpet angel flies.

Unlock indeed,
answers to questions.
Puzzles confounded,
without directions.

Simple is sample,
nightmares that ramble.
Riding through circles,
of rainbow whirlpools.

Look who’s been reading
Linda Sue’s Diary again.
Wanna stay a hooded stranger
peering in from the rain.
Can’t learn or burn;
there’s no such thing as pain.

Who cares if the pages read right or wrong.
Look back or forward, we’re back at dawn.
De ja vu, are you back too;
We’ve been to skies of painted blue.

Our tongues become knots;
this mind is in rage.
You can buy the farm or
turn the page.

The bite of frost won’t let you in.
Valhalla moans for all your sin.
Something’s scratching but where is in.
Look out, it’s hungry, it ate your sin.

Tireless actions, troubles, and fables.
Endless shuffling around the tables.
Hear her laughing at never’s and ables.

Peel the skin and peek within.
I was caught in the trance again.

Sweet dreams Linda.

- they keep a person humble while making him wise.

Questions in a Statement

I know people who keep their life
bottled up inside their body.
I know people who brag about
their life that never happened.
I know people who wish their life
had never happened.

I’m not one who falls into
that form of living.
I’m just one who wants to
keep it straight and in focus.
I’m just unsure of which direction
I should focus.

I’ve never tried to hide
who I am or why.
I’ve never prayed for any bit
of forgiveness or pity.
I’ve always said; ’I am me,
I cannot share your pity.’

Twisted Tactic

Dr. Cyanide and Dr. Stomach
were both aspiring scientists.
They were both after the same goal:
creation of divine Idea.
The Convention of Pride
awaited them in the future.
So each, in his own way,
worked frantically toward completion.
Dr. Cyanide turned his back to the north
and hunched in thought;
deeply contemplating and structuring
his Idea.
Dr. Stomach turned his front to the
south and crept up behind Dr. Cyanide,
Knowingly, he picked and injected
piece after piece of Dr. Cyanide’s Idea.
The moment of the convention
was finally upon them.
Dr. Cyanide’s Idea was incomplete,
but he was content with his attempt.
Dr. Stomach, cramped and stagnant,
lay dead on the floor.

Politics in America

With open arms to Iraq,
Bush shot his blinding flak.
A region spoiled and oiled
in the stormy attack.
Demos and Reps battle
among themselves with shticks.
For a political fix,
They dirty each other with tricks.
Contra affairs erupted;
“I don’t recall being corrupted.”
The State was in deep
but Reagan was asleep.
It was cover - ups and scandals,
away walked the vandals.
Like the time Nixon ran
From the gateman.
Controlling Viet Nam Vietnam;
the C.I.A. watched Kennedy play.
Didn’t like his head
so they filled it with lead.

A Passing Thought

The Fabled dream of peace;
is in need of a release.
Brush aside this hate and rage.
Let love fly from its captive cage.
Life is such a precious thing;
Passive as a dove on wing.
Let all humble creatures reside;
where anger fell and dies.

Embryonic sac
Death in the blue-green ocean
An aquatic circle

Stone mountains – buildings;
Metal tree – lamps; asphalt meadows
The urban forest

Memories of Visions

Noble sea waves good-bye,
its dynastic salty winds have ceased
Trees falling, impacting in meadows
with silent protest
The landscape, whistling in
natural harmony for uncaring ears
Passionate wildlife, innocently betrayed
with destructive ideas
Dying lives howl,
huddling on broken shards of neglect
Ornate atmosphere, forced to spin
with uncalled for desolation
The crisp colors have faded to
an infinite shade of black
Tormented and bare, Earth feels
the intense heat of ruin

Reborn Thoughts

Every thought conjured up is in
a web-like contraption.
A splitting atom can yank terror out,
from inside an abstraction.
The cuts we bare upon our shoulders
are the wounds of weeping many;
for should we bow before our neighbors,
and give the needs of plenty.
A New Year that grants a
steady-rising new beginning.
If space is a new frontier,
this satellite is still spinning.
The bomblasted mind splatter
is the conscious we battle.
Just give me an outpost where
I can shake, rock, and rattle.

The thoughtmarket is where
I take my visions;
to be bought; bartered with, and sold

Alien Space Jive

Glip zoink feep zeep kloit
Coozz aff luh huh yip foit
Neerp oot piz ziz haob coink
Lairp luosh woot poot bab toink
Chiss nud flit omp lomp plersh
Tont spitch plink nink za versh

The Wisest Man in the World

My skin is rubbed raw from the
coarse scrapping of the rocks.
I feverishly ascend the marble–grey
mountainside; seeking the all–knowing
Wiseman who sits on its peak.
Clawing my way over the last edge,
my heart drops like a stone.
I stand-up, bewildered at the
dome’s vast emptiness.
For a moment the pain and toil
seems to have been for naught.
Until it dawns on me that
each man is wisest unto himself.

Blue Angel Sunrise

A blue angel rose from the lucid
green sunrise.
A spectacle of shimmering hues
and streaking rays.
To chance and romance this
divine spirit of fate;
I will struggle through thorns
and unreal.
The gnarling and slashing landscape
tortures my skin,
but my heart levitates with her
azure glow.
In faith, I move on to reach
the lavish stairway.
To her true way I will step on
any devils

Gilgamesh flies with ancient angels
Tin–coated the space egg
Did I come from a golden ship
Victims of the Great Flood
Griots, Shamen, Missionaries
Relish the ceremony
Will I trample on the silent plains of Armageddon
Forever marching with Soldiers of all men
Progressing through the ages
To dance in fire, symbol, psyche
Make the heavens roar
Seeds of evolution grow wings
Fly the dream
To claim victory in the gardens of Eldorado

Alive temples battle
Intelligent mind warfare
Wordwars and Thoughtbombs

Duet of Man

Artists make us think
Establishments make us reason

She shot an insult at him
It hit him, splattering
his emotions on the wall

Let’s get down to where it
all came from
Forget drunken barroom brawls
Animalistic warfare
In the forest’s
deep dark corridors
will be our battleground

Cosmos of the Gods

Ancient leaders
Holding sheltered clans and
Instinctive fears

Oral history; lessons, teachings
Mouth to mouth
Elder to younger
Later praised by poets
In song, dance, ceremony

Symbolic metamorphosis
To one the moon
To one the rain
Lineage descendants

Reliving feats and deeds
To keep alive
Their ancestors

Nomadic wandering
Blessed Fertile Crescent
Sumerian culture
Ur; cruniform
Home for folklore
Then fables

You can’t deal with someone
who has a
multiple–personality disorder
You’re outnumbered.

A Call To Arms

Worldly mind oppression
Us and Them (all over again)
Artist vs. Government
They fight with reason and logic
I fight with dreams
What they call insane
I call creative
Now I call for
A new reality
To elevate our
Human Spirit

I’d be a good god wouldn’t I

Footprints of my Soul

I’ve got to start again
the hunt for my soul
Left somewhere
in the singing colors,
forests of my mind
It is springtime again
grey sparrows, red robins
carry thoughts, dream clouds
decorate the powdery blue sky
The slurping brook, green moss banks
where Doom once lay
Glorious springtime, track
footprints of my soul
through golden wisps of
meadowed hills to that
same damning fork in the path
See footprints of my soul
trekking down cold winter nights
A frozen Life, bleak icicles
on dark, barren oak trees
The beating heart of the yellow
sun of my mind shines warmth
A season to grow
Leading the feet of my soul
freshly down unexperienced silver trails
With conception and ascension
I orchestrate the reformation,
reborn embryo of my soul

You are the lovebird
that sings in my soul.
The one true masterpiece
I sought to paint.
A living poem I could not
capture with words.

Did Jim Morrison
(The Killer who awoke
before dawn)
Die with
(and put his)
boots on?

T.V. – a mind drug


This room
Is a tomb
Or a womb
New breath
Free Death
On some sick
My mind is full
Stop stuffing it!

Like Viet Nam
Teaching the rebels
As a punishment or

I was one of the happy men
It’s not about proving someone else wrong
But proving yourself right
I’m just another page in a book
On a shelf
In the Library of Life
I scared him off with my mind
I don’t give a damn what other men
Do to this Earth
As long as they don’t screw-up my world

Nothing tastes better than sobriety
Sometimes, however, intoxication
hits the spot.


The fan (spins … dizzily)
The fan is Blur
Blur is fan
Blur (is a blur to the blinded fan)
Fan (is blurred by Blur’s Status–man)

I have this sick love/lust for this girl
work/employment/labor/(?) …? (bonk) …? (bonk)
I wait for her
(It’s only ten o’clock)
No cigarettes today …;
The hallucination continuous …

Mellow dreamdrops; fluttering, floating
cascading against walls of everlastingly
(- fantastic)
(- humongous)
(- inspirational)
(- conceptual)
The black and the white.
Opposite ends (of the candle),
blaze toward the happy medium;
where death is embraced.

Each leaf falls
In its sweet time
Taste the seasons
Cherish the wine

Ladies Man

  1. Spread it girl, let me inject you
    with my poison.
    I’m a wasted wreck of a man.

    Drink my blood, eat my bread.
    Would you die for me?
    Would you die for me?
    Let me fuck you dead.
  2. I am your god, you are my release;
    knee before me.
    Kiss me high, than low, than in between.
    I am my devil.
    Purge me of these kinky demons.
    Suck it out of me,
    or I’ll break your fucking neck.
  3. My sword splits through your alter;
    you scream.
    Is that your mating call?
    I know you wanted it this way.
    The shepherd with his staff
    Keeps the stray sheep in line.

Imaginary death is for
Old men and cry babies
Real death is for
Dreamers and heroes
Those who face it
Confront it,
Live it, and
Mock it everyday

Chaos and the Cosmos

Good and Bad
The two great opposites on either side
Of every soul as it treads the
Narrow line of Limbo
It is instilled in human beings in
Psychological terms as Hope and Fear
That excited, successful, heated feeling
That drives one to reach Salvation or
The depressed, failing, cooling pressure
That drives on into Desolation

The Great Animals of the Earth instinctively
Follow the abstract Live or Die
To eat, settle and survive or
Starve, wander, and perish

The Politics of Life
Patterns of Us and Them handed to
Citizens and Politicians
On grounds of Boredom and Revolution
The Committee pacifies the minds of peasants
With beer and cigarettes and television sets
To keep Boredom at bay
Preventing the breakdown of Order and
The outbreak of Disorder and Revolution

The Holy Men whine of Pain or Pleasure
This time the line treaded is Infinity
The universal Great Beyond
Filled with stars, comets, and Expanding and
Emptied with voids, black holes, and Collapsing
Praising the Angels and cursing the Demons
The blinking twilight of Cosmos
The burning darkness of Chaos

What you love, hate, fucked, felt;
abhorred, ignored, detested, ingested
… and threw away
is what makes you what
you are today

A black hole is the
the womb for a universe
A pencil–point sized star
Waiting to be fertilized
by a streaking comet

… And the Gods Were Born

Long before recorded history
an experiment took place.
Scores of infant children
were left alone in a plentiful land
by the parents of an ancient civilization.
They were studied;
how their behavior patterns and life developed.
The adults stayed hidden; observing.
They only showed themselves
when a terrible, destructive situation
arose among the growing young ones,
like brutal violence towards each other.
The adults would then put a stop to it.
As time passed the children learned
to judge their behavior from
these unexplained visitations.
The adult community was overrun
by invading barbarians and
completely wiped out.
The children went undetected.
As time went on they began
telling stories of the magical appearances
from the “Mysterious Ones”.
And the gods were born.

The Seer

Silvery shadows scurry back from my dream
The dark angels and light demons
“Come dehumanize with us”
Humans are the missing link
between Apes and Spacemen
I believe in angels (to her)
Do you believe in gods? (thinking of me)
(Liz) a walk-in girlfriend
Camouflage my dick for sex (Condom)
Used to be good-looking
The AIDS epidemic
coincided with my budding sexuality
Don’t want to seem a man
devoid of emotion
These ears so human
Don’t yell at others
(The echo will kill you)
I have the mentality of a serial killer
but not the mind
(i.e. I’m harmless)
I have foreseen my lifeplan(span)
(Sounds stupid until you see what I thought)
I’m a Wizard (Daring invincibility)
Dancing and riding the Way
One key element of Universe
puts misery in humanity’s heart
Like having your mind oppressed
I do not subscribe to this brand of reality
Are you at ease with
the reality you have been given?
Let’s rewrite reality
The artist is a thinker and reasoner
A teacher, historian, healer, and prophet

We bark and growl at
each other on gravel streets
“Fuck you”
Defending our territory, mates,
prey, egos
Eye to eye contact
Simply as animalistically civilized
as animals themselves

The Artist fought with painted canvases,
guitars, and words
The Governments and Religions killed me
with campaigns, crusades, guns, and bombs
“I am not a Poet”
(I resign)

Last time I found love?
As a cow reborn into
The land of Hindus

– a sound shadow

The Shrinking of the Cock

The cock crows again; continuously
Shrinks to bless the end of the day
Loosen the cock of my desires
Will we still build upon the old fairy tales
You can do no more damage
Your cock has been forgiven

Christian Rape
I tell you of the Virgin Mary
Who was told
Not asked
Or did choose
To be forcible impregnated
Art as Life
da Vinci
Art as Propaganda
Art as Power

Hello, hello Death my old friend
I hear you come knocking again
You pound on the door
Come on knock a little more
I write a suicide note with a smile
I’m ready to walk the extra mile
Come on Death my old friend
Meet me around the bend
A story of a life betrayed
Where is the point from where I strayed
Hug me Death, with your embrace
Let me escape this human race
Death, Death my sole partner
This is the exchange that I prefer
Death, death rattling the door
I’d like to hang on a little longer
Death you are a vandal
But it is I who turns the handle

The cops surround my car at Pep Boys
Are they waiting for me to
make some rebellious noise?
The cops stalk me on the street
Because they have a deadline to meet
Ready to give me a ticket
Or take my ass and kick it
Vigilantes at best
Moreso outlaws of the Wild West
I just want to chill out and have fun
They just want to push me around
with the barrel of their gun
They got their badge and brutality
Turn innocence into a guilty plea
Your filthy laws are made of money
From this perversion you get your honey
All, right, all right you’ve made another arrest
Putting the people to the test
Prowl the highways, the alleys, the beat
But don’t touch the social elite
You don’t work for us so it
must be for them
We are the sodomized citizens
that you condemn
You are the piss boys of the
established party
Every world culture has
a form of thee

Words, swords, bombs, czars
Paint, dance, poetry, guitars

The partially erased poem

… so easy to find an excuse
to take the bottle off the shelf

The social butterfly ladies
don’t dig me anymore.
I don’t want a one–night stand
with another whore.
Nicotine, nicotine
Make me feel pretty sick and mean
There’s one girl but I haven’t
located her
They all seem so right with
my drunken slur
Anger my friend
Loneliness my foe
I need a partner that will
help me grow
I write a song about the
Her that I desire
Hey Jim, where’s the
one that will light my fire
My cock has been wet
countless times
But there’s been no poem
to stop these stupid rhymes

I target the world

A leader but not a ruler
Nobody has to follow if
they don’t want to
The perfect Shaman

Court systems, kind of like
Modern–day witch trials

Sometimes it is easy to appreciate
the mind of a madman

One who knows no fears
knows no boundaries

There is no shame in
Death, it is for everyone
You can’t escape it

Female, female may I suck
your fake cock

That’s the way she likes it
She’s a power bitch

Roar like thunder and leave
a big stink when the shit
hits the fan

A strange case, this hyperactive nomad.
Drifting from blacken asphalt alleys
to drunken bar scenes.
Wandering the wilderness
of repetitive small–town life.
Everyone knows this gifted, enigmatic figure;
As a name and a face who is cool with a smile.
What true thoughts lurk behind his placid blue eyes
Will anyone remember his laugh when it flies away?
Following the invisible line of destiny
that curves and staggers
through the patterns, inconsistencies,
and turmoils of life.
Retrieve moments of cartoon bliss
locked in sub–conscious memory.
Fan away the smoke and blur; I am forever.

Great White

Dark, unblinking eyes with a subtle
hint of mania guide the Great White killer
He swims alone, undetected, without
remorse or regret in his gaping smile
The ocean metropolis crawls with
noisy street vendors, pedestrians, and
large, powerful automobiles
A school of young float by
The elementary students follow their
teacher’s signal and shy away from his path
His only natural enemy bobs in
a vacant alley, waiting for a nibble
The rumpled black coat and soiled
blue dungarees hide the badge and gun
He is careful not to take the bait
and get hooked and gaffed into handcuffs
The smell of prey fills his nostrils as
he drifts further downstream
The country scented mermaid is
exposed like a wound
A confused tourist caught in a
bustling undertow of people
For the third time in a week he
circles his victim
Patiently waiting for the feeding frenzy to begin

Suicide Note From An artist

The Artists are killing themselves,
instead of each other.
(Suicide: Kurt Cobain),
(Drug overdose: Janis Joplin),
(Creative Expressionism: James Dean).
It is very admirable
(However I do not condone it);
certainly compared to the atrocities
committed by Governments and Religions
(Oppression, torture, war, censorship, etc…).
I think it is time for
The Artist to rise
and lead the world;
give us a chance.
We lose ourselves because we
are hurting for a peaceful world
and cannot bear the pain
of earthy savagery;
so instead of harming others
we choose to leave and hope
the heaven we sang about is there.
If Jesus, Mohammed, and Brahman met,
would they try to kill each other?
It seems likely because their disciples
are all trying to kill each other.
Nostradamus predicted the world will
begin to end in July 1999.
Most prophets don’t have predictions
after the year 2000;
they foresaw a cataclysmic
ending to the world.
If we know our future,
we can change it.
I have seen the future
and it will be glorious.
A bountiful metamorphosis;
like a butterfly exiting
the silky cocoon.
Humanity will reach
a higher graduation
of kindness, awareness, and focus.

The Pursuit of Freedom

I wander the landscape a
wild–eyed, humble bard
looking for the spirit of life
and indulging in my relentless
pursuit of freedom.
If I live unknown,
die unknown,
and am forever unknown,
I will always know what I am:
an Artist.
I am an immortal virus;
a good virus.
I will only exit when my
mission is up.
I am spreading and reaching
epidemic proportions.
Certain individuals must step
outside the boundaries set by their
society to explore all the possibilities;
I am one of those individuals.
Real, true, unbounded freedom
is what I hope to embrace at
the end of my odyssey.
Not the fake freedom political units
try to sell on soapboxes and television sets.
Democracy has a broad range
and is a powerful tool of propaganda.
Liberalism, socialism, communism, and nationalism
all have democratic touches.
It is dished out like rice;
served differently according to
what is on the menu.
The individual is supposed to have
an equal opportunity to create
the lifestyle desired or the state
is supposed to provide it for them.
Government will dehumanize citizens
to override their will and make them
conform to the established ideals.
I am what I am;
a long–haired dreamer blessed
with creative outbursts.
The short–haired, conservative party
views me suspiciously.
My own government tries to
make me fear them;
it is strange and disturbing.
There is definitely something wrong here.
Governments participate in many
constructive services, as do their
servants like the police,
but there is too much abuse of power.
So many decent people are victimized
by the political meatgrinder, just
because their views are slightly different.
Creative expressionism becomes
labeled suspicious;
could you please define suspicious?
Institutions use fear to control,
manipulate, and crush;
this is because most people do not
understand fear or its purpose.
I know that aggression and violence
is part of human nature;
humans are really just smart animals.
People freak out too much,
too easily;
like a keg of gunpowder;
volatile, explosive, unpredictable, eruptive…
After five thousand years of
supposed civilization look at the
carnage that still transpires;
warfare, oppression, genocide,
human rights abuses, torture, censorship …
Law and order is somewhat questionable;
you are always on trial;
your actions are usually questioned.
It is screwing up too many things.
Things have gotten out of control.
Society is afraid of itself;
the land of the robot people.
Phallic symbols in pagan rituals
signify rebirth;
the changing of the seasons and
the sowing of the seeds;
the celebration of life
Picture spring and the emergence
of flowers, bees, leaves …
The snake in Eden was not
a reptilian creature,
it was Adam’s penis;
the fear of reproduction;
the fear of life.
The fatalism in religious
theology is unbelievable.
I cannot in good conscious
follow an entity or idea that
speaks about the coming of the
end of the world;
in a flash of fire and disease
it is over.
It is time to reappraise the gods.
Humanity is trying to live values
that have been over for thousands
of years.
The universe expands and opens
possibilities for people.
Look at a star one hundred
thousand light years away;
that is something that happened
one hundred thousand years ago.
Trying to live the mentality of
something that happened thousands
of years ago really doesn’t work.
Try to keep the mind fresh;
use the past and the future
as a compliment.
I am a scientist exploring the
lights and darks of society and culture.
I understand vision and magic.
It is not hocus pocus and images
appearing in boiling cauldrons.
It is having an idea and pursuing it;
it is a ration and logical attempt
to create destiny.
I choose to express my magic through
the Arts.
Art as power.
Art as an ideology.
A creed to live by;
something to finally believe in.

Somewhere Other than Here, Long Ago

The bright sun shoots hot shards
of golden light into
the besieged, battered town.
A sniper’s blackened bullet
penetrates the innocent flesh
of a nine–year–old casualty
as she fetches a tattered,
red haired doll from the oily
crevice left by
an exploding mortar rocket.

The shrieking mob storms
the rickety, tan church
in a crazed hail of
gunfire and projectiles.
Different creeds violently erupt
into a bloody tidal wave
of cultural cleansing;
the worshippers splat and fall
in the house of their lord.

The elderly Jew sits quietly on the
green park bench surrounded by purple flowers;
the lunch whistle from a nearby
factory blows.
He reads the day’s news and
remembers the pledge to never let
another holocaust unfold;
wondering how many family gatherings
will not take place tomorrow.


Hot digestive juices peak and rumble
inside my empty stomach.
The bubbling smell inside the
spacious, blue kitchen
fill my nostrils with the sweet aromas.
My mouth salivates over the warm, white stove;
anticipating the thick, rich soup
it will soon taste.

A disheveled derelict rummages through
a rusty, green trash can in
a littered alley reeking of
stale urine and decaying rodents.
His blistered hands tremble;
he sways dizzily
in a faint, malnourished condition.
The search yields a mildewed portion
of wheat bread;
it is quickly consumed
between crooked, yellow teeth.

The impoverished nation suffering
from drought and lacking
agricultural technology rapidly deteriorates.
Famine denies men and women
essential nutrition and steals a
mother’s milk from her crying child.
Desperate eyes stare blankly
from gaunt faces containing
the dry mouths of
a million starving souls.

How To Make A Vegetable

Drink the cans of beer as
quickly as possible.
Carefully blend in the shots of whiskey.
Allow time for the beer and
whiskey to mix and increase intoxication.
When the senses are sufficiently
distorted stumble into the automobile.
Drive fast and recklessly down
the winding road.
Ignore all legal and safety regulations.
Lose control at a sharp bend
and skid off the road.
Complete the recipe by splattering
yourself headfirst into the tree.

Art is a semi-acceptable
release of insanity.
(Don’t we all suffer insanity?)

Everything is on the line
So completely go for broke
… Always

The Sounds of Street Violence

– The last sound an
individual hears before the bullet
from a drive – by shooting
enters his brain.
- The noise a 7 – inch
hunting knife makes when a
drug–crazed mugger rams it into
the victim’s abdomen.
– grock” – What is heard when
a gang of young thugs pushes an
elderly woman under the wheels
of an oncoming train.
– This auditory emission
is produced when an ex–con tears off
a young girl’s dress before anally
raping and strangling her in a dark alley.
Blump – flop – poolf – veeeee …
- What a
would–be carjacker hears as
I drive into him, run him over,
back over him, and then do a
burn–out on his face.

I forgot to pay my rent
My lease on life is up
I feel sick and tired
… lonely
… miserable
Cure me of this disease
Give me a shotgun
With a sharp bullet to inject
into my confused brain
Medicine is supposed to be bitter
Death never tasted so good
This is what the doctor ordered

I was once told that all angels have wings;
yet only the purest know how to fly …
I will always feel you in flight;
circling around my heart.
I hope the God you believed in
was there for you when you needed him most;
I wish I could have been.
I will always remember your glow;
your soft, hesitant touch;
or a whisper of “I love when you do that”
in my sensitive ear.
First as friends,
then as lovers,
and ultimately as both;
I always felt a very special attraction;
I only wish I had understood
how good it really was.
I watched it slip away;
… forever.
To die alone is so very, very sad;
but to die so deliberately
by your own hand
is so overwhelmingly tragic
that even the hot tears I cried
didn’t seem to be enough.
I will never condemn you;
But I will always wonder why.
I sense you have found peace
an am comforted knowing
you will always soar free;
because you are an angel,
and only the purest know how to fly.

Conversations With The anti – Self (Who Made Who)

I’d never commit suicide with a shotgun
in my living room;
I wouldn’t want my landlord to be pissed
at the mess I left.
I don’t believe I’d do it when I’m depressed;
depression is too much fun.
Pain, unhappiness, isolation, screams, stomps,
and voices from other worlds
give me incredible creative energy;
volumes to write about.
I’m such a tripwire.
(A what?)
A tripwire …
It means if you trip me I’m gonna
bash your fucking head in
with any available object
until your brains squirt out your ears.
(you murderous pig)
Aren’t we all?
Hey, better to rape you
before you rape me.
(You don’t trust me, do you?)
(You don’t trust me … do you?)
Trust imbalance … no;
but living between the crushing vice
of joy and sorrow must be nice.
(So having a mind like a
swinging pendulum is kinda like
making love after reading the obituaries…)
No, it’s actually like having to put up
with an asshole like you.
(Fuck you, you created me)
No, fuck you, you created me.
(So which are you?)
I’m you …
(No, I’m you …)
You’re an It; a Thing …
Fuck you! …
Yeah, I need some excitement;
I need … that … fix.
(You need … the fix?; then stare
in the mirror at the ugly, unwanted
misfit you truly are;
I’m sure that’ll give you something
to bitch about)
No can do, the view of someone
who at least has the guts to
stand up and say something
is too sweet to pass up;
you sick, jealous, introverted, angry, rotten shit.
Oh well, scum was never so happy.

The Bible is sexist
It says man shall rue over women
I don’t think like that
I’m better than God
Hell, Jesus ain’t got nothing on me

Happy, lappy, puppy;
enter my home.
So curious by day
and faithful at night;
I have earned the right
to walk by your side.

I have the dream
John Lennon had the dream
Mahatma Gandhi had the dream
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
spoke the dream
Adolph Hitler had the nightmare

Float in the Day-Star;
Apollo is there.
The music is golden-orange.
Words of prophecy;
Ignite the flaming gaseous kingdom.

What if I am God return?
What if I’m the one who’ll make you burn?

Thin Lizzy

  1. Dark almond eyes
    Set against her smooth skin
    Play off curly locks
    Of luscious brown hair
  2. The sway of crystal hips
    A kiss from rainbow lips
    Heals me inside

Your warm bay
Wet and open
A fine port
For me to dock my cock
Letting the sea men
Come ashore

I am made of the souls of the dead.
Therefore, I am ever-growing.

Nature’s Haiku Lullaby

Tan deer lap water.
Blue pond reflects images;
Wildlife poetry.

Earfuls of bright sound.
Songbirds cry the wind ballad;
Feathered melody.

Painted rainbow sky.
Breathing forestry landscape;
Outdoor gallery.

Green moss on gray rock.
Moonlit Milky Way backdrop;
Dew covered sculpture.

Red airborne leafs dance.
Glide with grace through warm sunlight;
Swift autumn ballet.

Brown spider weaving.
Thin web spun in grand design;
Sticky tapestry.

Furry cubs tumble.
Green meadow scented with snow;
Arena of sport.

Aesthetic beauty.
Caress the senses with magic;
Art blooms in nature.

The Cycle of Love

  1. Mistyrose

    Above; mistyrose kisses drop
    from soft, natural lips

    Fingertips trace patterns
    where light-peach skin shows

    Rows of strawberry-blonde hair;
    wide, sky-blue eyes blink and shift

    Arching stomach and hips - gasp!
    sweet breathe; warm and close

    Show a toned, limber grace
    muscles relax and then constrict

    Mixed movement; sure emotions
    mistyrose love blooms; below

  2. Hearts Must Move On

    Bare branches jut in the cold of winter
    Yellow-green buds bloom during spring
    Fresh, moist leaves wave in summer
    The cycle ends with the chill of fall

    Hearts must move on

    An embryo forms from two heartbeats
    A healthy baby grows into a happy boy
    Living an honest life defines a man
    An old man breathes his last in sleep

    Hearts must move on

    My eyes meet hers, and we both smile
    A stranger becomes my best friend
    Our hearts pump together from intimacy
    Emotions change slowly, and she is gone

    Hearts must move on

Peter Brown

Did Peter Brown really escape the White Room?
I wonder, carefully peering from behind the Black Curtains shielding my Cage.
I stumble to the yellow chair stained in beer and secrets and shame.
My blond hair obscures the view of my blue eyes staring at the Dark Eye -
the blank screen entombed in the White Box.

The silent Looking-Machine punctured blind by my frustrated disappointment.
Cracked brick pavement winds through this town of Black Roofs.
An isolated tour through the White City constructed of many White Rooms.
The lone traffic light blinks red for no one.
The White Rooms have No Vacancies tonight.
White Death waits in quiet.

The black-and-white lamp highlights the black phone with the ringer turned-off.
The white answering machine flashes a pink signal of intrusion.
The yellow flashlight to the left is upside-down and dark.

My Black Roof repels the cold falling rain.
The silence remains.
No Dark Visitors will enter my White Room
and discover the secret
of my White Death.


I had to get to this point
(you know where I am);
to assemble words.
Here goes something:
It tears at me
I still like it
It scares me
I still like it
I know you care
I really like it
Winter is visiting
I anticipate your arrival
(I keep the lines open);
Your departure leaves me torn.
Something like:
I can’t fake me
I am the bare-chested drunk
I can’t take me
I think for myself
I am me
I am the only me I can be
Snow is pretty
The Star of Spring shines
this first day of Rebirth
She shines brighter than the rest
reflecting in my steel-blue eyes
She nurtures
She inspires
shine your Bright Magic into me
You make me a better man

The Sparrow and the Butterfly

“Yes” said the sparrow to the butterfly “I am single.”
“That’s nice” replied the butterfly, wishing the sparrow was dating him.
“See you around” said the sparrow to the butterfly, hoping the butterfly would ask her to go out.
“OK” said the butterfly as he watched her fly away, wishing he was flying by her side in harmony…

The morale to this story is:
Go for it! You might not get a second chance…

round ladybug
crawls across
sunburned freckles

Reality 1 - The New Rising

People type away; random thoughts, services for hire, surveys… what do you have? Did you get much out of it?
Are we hyping ourselves? Pimping ourselves? Selling ourselves? …was it good for you?
Is life now explored through a monitor? Does this lead to more? Or is life now explored through a monitor? (repetition, repetition, repetition…)…
Or is it bigger? Do you rush frantically to get your cell phone every time it ringtones?
Do you check your email, and then check it again ten seconds later thinking/hoping something has changed?
Machine People be ready…
The New Rising is coming…

Cranium Meltdown 2000: The Final Degeneration

Heart of a lion; soul of a snake
A knight, a liar; noble and fake
In the gritty city
<!-- shitty and pretty -->
I wonder what direction my Life will take
//* Where am I gonna run?
		 Cause my Life is done *//
Ephedrine and orange juice
to go! go! go!
Alcohol and cigarettes
to slow, slow, slow…
<!-- This buzz hurts -->
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
go my bones
when coils of Shame constrict
Munch! Munch! Munch!
snap the teeth
of Determination that will not quit
document.write("Dangerous Games: The Ghostland of Reality")
function  Life() {
	if(Love = = 1)
	print ""
	Beautiful color;<BR>
	speak to me.<BR>
	My heart feels safe with you.<P>

	else(Lust = = 0)
	print ""
	Female, female,<BR>
	may I suck your fake cock?<BR>
document.write("Dangerous Games vs. Brains 2 Machines")
return Life()
Love.exe > Lust.exe
    1             0
    0             1
110             001
001             110
    1             0
    0             1
alert("Virus Detected!")
print "Swoosh! Swash!"
print "The Chemicals are calling!"
<!-- I M 4 U="#FFEEEE" -->
//* …Echo (a soundshadow) whistles by… 
Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!
#include <stdio.h>
printf("I M LAN! \n");
printf("I M C! \n");
printf("I M Y2K! \n"); 
return 0;

The Wind of Love

I lick the hot, pink rose;
you chant a fast pant.
The wind of love
blows away
the cool, bare
skin of winter;
my summer gift to you.

The stream reflects life.
Emotions frame the image.
Clear water-mirror;
speak beautiful truth to me.
I see the fairest of all.

The gray wolf marks
cold, white snow
with one leg raised.

The brook babbles on.
Whirlpools swirl the reflection.
I am confused.

Home in the forest.
Pan plays reeds for pretty nymphs;
still they dance away.
Music finds the nightingale;
she sees past the hoofs and horns.

Take my horny mind.
Your tongue speaks my fantasies.
Swallow my hot thoughts.

Starlight beams on
dark, warm waves
twirling starfish.

Spring blooms in flowers.
We grow like vines on a tree;
slow and together.

She has straight, blonde hair.
Slender curves and skyblue eyes.
Her laugh makes smiles.
I love her and she loves me.
I hate feeling the dream fade.

My secret lady.
Your voice showers in my heart;
stills my only fear.
I hear the sound of two lives
climaxing as one color.

Opening cocoon;
brush the coarse fibers away.
Solitude unveiled.

Needed secret sin.
I dance alone in my shame.
The naked curtain.

Move all-natural;
we wait with loving patience;
then a baby cries.

Machine Language

#include <stdio.h>
printf("I’m a zero, baby; \n");
printf("you’re my number one! \n");
printf("Your software \n");
printf("makes my hard drive run! \n");
printf("You go download into my database! \n");
printf("I upload to your beautiful interface! \n");
printf("Nip me with a megabyte! \n");
printf("My mouse will click you right! \n");
return 0;

Kind, gentle blonde witch;
bless the ring you sell to me.
Grant me ancient luck.

I will be your wish.
I wish you would be my star;
the shine of my life.

I wash into you.
Salty tides pull us away.
Driftwood in the sea.

Hidden mountain stream.
Cool, fresh, clear water splashes
rocks and mossy roots.
Pine trees echo quick rapids
softly cleansing naked skin.

Heat from the fire
warms my skin like morning sun.
Stars dot the cool night.

Going down in flames;
like Icarus and the sun.
The moth got too close.

Email alphabet.
Your thoughts tap through the keyboard;
entering my heart.

Dancing orange flames
waken the shadows of night;
nocturnal rhythm.

Cut the new water;
find coves touched only by oars;
canoe in sunlight.

Breathing for the wind.
Mother Nature; she tends us;
keeps the oceans wet.
Black dots on red wings.
Ladybug, fly with my wish.
Take my love to her.
Black bears catch trout.
Soldiers shoot their enemies.
Nature verse nurture.

Big male mosquito
flies and finds his female mate;
then eats her alive.

A wet drizzle falls.
Hot coals hiss in the fire.
Elements collide.

shrilling wind
a lithe tan dog

violet-gray candle
cool overcast sky

humid attic
computer re-boots
at 1:00 a.m.

I cried as waves fell
her sprinkled ashes dissolved
in the salty sea

two females embrace
juxtaposing nude bodies
sculptors bend moist clay

stagnant muddy
deer sprint by

seagulls glide above
crashing waves
the roar of jet engines

yellow butterfly
flapping erratically

Artist seeking Muse
Philadelphia summer
Winter in Boston?

poets like the moon
howling thoughts on white paper
like Allen Ginsberg

I am he
the sexless beast
tame and proud
singing solo
crafting thoughts
smearing colors
I wait
my blood untainted
sobriety intact
couples converge
groups re-unite
I am welcomed
humble and safe
open conversation
laughs and tears
I listen
thinking alone
waiting for her
the sexless beast

dry wood burning fast
flames flicker while bright sparks rise
tan moth flies too close

contained campfire
forest fires blaze hundreds
of miles away

thin silver minnows
dart through strong undercurrents
catfish; belly-up

A Poem For Lori

Here I am…
In all my complexity and simplicity.
Take me…
Or leave me…
(I hope you don’t… really)
Do you recall
the long haired blond
with the thin, unkempt beard.
penetrating blue eyes,
and defiant slouch..?
You, the black leather cladded jumpy brunette,
planted backwards in the creaky, faded barstool;
eyeing me through the thick, hovering cigarette smoke
for longer than you thought I didn’t notice.
I’m glad you had the guts
to slide over the red tile
and speak through the band’s
redundant version of Sympathy for the Devil.
Did I appear disinterested?
Apathy can move in strange and wondrous ways.
You are more than I bargained for;
…it makes me feel
I finally met a pretty, witty modern muse
who stimulates my neurons to creative action.
(But can she deal with the real me?)
Will she help me beat the god complex
but still
hold down my possessed body
when the demons come out to play…
(…because I am a Man!)
Understand my quest;
Follow the I’m-clawing-my-nails-across-
the chalkboard frustrated screams;
they sound good with a twelve-string acoustic guitar.
Do you know why I write?
(Do I know why I write!)
It is a reasonable excuse to puke
all my hatred and pain, love and happiness,
senses, perceptions, hallucinations, delusions,
paranoia’s, insanities…
(Breathe and clam down!)
…into an icon
I can capture and study.
I am so tired of testing Life’s patience;
(Crush my temple with a bottle of Beck’s
in a savage, drunken brawl)
((Fight, kill;… the cops… really hurt my wrist))
“I’m crazy; I’m crazy!!!”
‘You think you are but…’
“C’mon, I’ve driven myself to the borders and
pissholes of insanity with drugs and alcohol…”
I was fucked so hard my genitals were
celibate for a year…
(…my mind was silent for two…)
I want to experience EVERYTHING firsthand…
…My IMAGINATION takes me on voyages…
I’ve killed a thousand men in war…
(…crawled over burned, severed limbs and
bloodied intestines until a hot mortar rocket
fell and exploded and tore off most of my head…)
I mathematically (I’m innumerate)
figured out a chemical cure for AIDS.
I’m a serial killer/lover…
(I hunt presidents and kings,
not just pretty girls like you)
I am more than human…
(I will achieve supernatural powers)
So Art is my poison…
I think I have OD’d too young;
I refuse to die a martyred poet.
…And I see another pretty, flashy (probably diseased)
sexbox strutting around at work/the bar/on TV/the movies/
the library…
…I’m too old for this…
…I was castrated the moment I lost my virginity…
…I want to get back to…;
away from the manic-depression/passive-aggression,
neurosis/psychosis; loneliness and the uphill fight…
I want to know what the love you told me of
is all about…
Your mind drives me crazy;
…when you laugh, groan, and silently stare…
…are caught up in your thoughts and private prayers…
(I am moved to feelings of compassion
I can’t quite explain)
Am I feeling the first pangs/twinges of love..?
A feeling like this could only be born
once in a lifetime…
Can we grow together?
Share outlives with each other?
Be one with each other?
To this day you say I am a dreamer…
I think you might be right…
You are what I dream of.

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Visual Art by Monty Milne