Technological Traps

I too used to believe 
in advancements and progression
now a Luddite leaning
toward simplicity
For rebellion's no longer in style
all fashionably clone
in appearance, opinion, even art
as many artists no longer express
but recreate fads
for monetary gain

Certain aspects of this are cyclical
as historical records show
but the digital dark age 
promotes gluttony and 
overfeeding the self, the ego

...and the once helping hands 
open to ideas
are but closed fists gripping shit
unwilling to share even that

Live and Don’t Try

Assimilation impossible
gave up many years ago
Never managed to acquire
that skill in all these years
Now accustomed
I cherish my role as an outcast
It's not a reprisal
I've held this position
from the day I was born
into this incarnation
There was no blending
though I do enjoy blended whiskies
on occasion and
I've no chameleon or
shape shifting abilities
I find it better to stand out
like a sore thumb
than always pointing
in the wrong direction

So I wave goodbye to trying

Word. Spirit. Power

Some assume I write
from a dark place or
find my words bear the sting
of negativity, a tinge
of the dark side.
But only in regards
to the affairs of men
does my positive outlook
come into question.
For when I bask
in the rays of the Sun
countless hours will disintegrate
like those unnerving wasted thoughts
upon the follies of man
that fade into nothingness
as if they'd never existed

The Funeral

Kensal Green. Oblivion - Copy

Attended a funeral 
for brain cells again
Seems an extended family
I bury them every weekend
Sometimes during the week
I am their killer, their priest
and undertaker
Sometimes on Mondays
I have to guide those that remain
as they appear to be wandering
within a dense fog
Seems the drink I consume
to forget
is like a pandemic to them
and I can vanquish
countless hordes of them
like some angry cerebral deity
I know that day will come
when they all will succumb
to oblivion, that grand day
I leave this phony world behind
and bury the last one
in a great fermented flood

Casualties in the Night

Someone fired off ten rounds

On a street behind my apartment

Echoing up into the open window

As I lay there Friday night

A brief moment of silence ensues

Before the faint muffled cry

Of a woman mourning

On the blood-stained asphalt

Combat shock of untold urban war

Pitting poor versus poor

While the affluent criminals

Work behind a closed door


Prison of Flesh

Driven to madness long ago
Unsure as to cry or kill
But vigilante is a dead occupation
in a world in balance, tipping
so far in the wrong direction

Too many fell into the program
Too many hands got greased
Too many fell to their knees

and for what?

But to fill their lives and gullets
with shit, then discard
what they can't finish 
and complain about their health
as thousands of children die weekly
of starvation in Somalia
too far from their gluttony
for them to show empathy
or even a thought

I am no saint
I too shall pay full price
for time spent on sin
I've heard of no settlements
being offered for Karmic debt

As I have served my self
I'll serve my time

in this prison of flesh

Postpartum Part-time Penitentiary Blues

Currently serving time
in a medical research complex,
plotting escape as I labor, ever vigilant
of cameras and exit signs,
less secure than Alcatraz,
the sharks less menacing,
Far less distinguishable
and humanity has given way
to intellect, the worst thing
to happen to western culture
since the white man evicted
the natives from their homeland.

I've witnessed more love

in jailhouse showers,

in boarded up crack houses,

on whore occupied street corners,

among vagabonds beneath overpasses

and yet the smug pseudointellectuals

seem to be the only ones making bail.