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.



Pre-florescent streetlights

Coat the dark asphalt a dull orange

Once a soft white, the bulbs

Now worn and weathered

Like the flesh that wraps

Round these battle-weary bones and

The noise pollution and human stink

Has yet to contaminate my day

That dry time, where

The wind’s whisper is free to speak

And I can listen

And not think


21st Century Love


Love is a searing hot piss
after a night in the city

Love is a whore
at the end of the bar

Love is a 3rd abortion
Love is extortion

Love is a temp agency
receiving applications

Love is bleeding out
from the wound of an arrow

Love is a one-act play
penned by a Hallmark employee

Love is an ugly lie
from a pretty face

Love is the Devil's cut
not the angel's share

Love is a product
manufactured and sold
Love is cold

Love is a drowning polar bear
when the glaciers melt
Love is preached, rarely felt

Love is a download
in a programmed life

Love is a rabid animal
with a vicious bite

Love's not at the Gym
Love doesn't work out

Love is bizarre
Love is doubt

To the Working Class Slaves of Tomorrow

I'll begin by saying ...congratulations
and welcome to unreality
or Hell as I call it.

If your only aspirations are
to accumulate wealth and fit-in
simply acquire a trade or degree,
groom yourself to televised standards,
attain an occupation
based purely on monetary gain,
step on a few heads along the way
and gently plant your lips
upon a corporate ass
and you'll do just fine.

But if you aspire to actually live
within the real world
drop everything you know
or think you know, unlearn,
fulfill your end of the bargain
but have integrity and bow
to no man or woman,
read anything you can grasp,
have no limits in life or love,
lift those that lie below,
tear the insolence from those above.

Confessions of a Caged Animal

Many people say they like it here
for the changing of the seasons.

I prefer the changing of the guard dogs
post to post, they know all too well
my patterns and scents.

It's harder to cover your tracks
than the track marks left behind
in the wake of self-gratification
and liquid dreams.

Even more difficult to stay afloat
in a sea of greed.
Though a heavy heart's a useful life raft
even flooded with emotional baggage.

The seasons will change everywhere anyhow.
So I adapt, roll with the punches,
defend the shakedown,
deny the takedown
and make visible God's breath.

Till the final bell cracks,

liberty or death.