Mormons and Muslims: The True Extent of My Quaking Apathy

'Mormons and Muslims'

Board games for bored lames

"Quit, you're scaring away the dames"

It's all the same ship sinking, deck chairs all astir

Spur of the moment oblivion

Cult of self reigns through steam, just hot air blowing out between lips 

Flippity-flapping, saying all the things you'd expect their owners to say

Bleating, bleating American heart beating to the march of its war drummers 

In Gobbler's Knob, Phil Connors talkin' 'bout, "Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."

Tastes Great/Less Filling arguments killing me softly from the inside

Gleaming guts glittering with the detritus of the factory machine munchies Gorged at 2AM truck-stops gliding on the factory suds 

While the crowing, cawing rooster/crow chimeras blather 

About beautiful atrocities

Screaming nothing in particular, really...

Cruster The Robot

Hollow shell games, the perfect people play outside the smoldering museums

Hallowed ground, dopes naming their possessions after working days of the week

Clock bell jargon, cuts the glass ceiling bringing stale air from human exhaust

Cluck-cluck, fowl faced frowning hurried pace headless moniker gimmick shtick

Satire slump, the sarcasm wails like catcalls beckon zombie whores from their dead

Satyr sheets, played out like a tragic deck, hands wringing whining minge mouth

Right is ripped, and torn asunder, the split divinity, the glitch in the program

Roaring light, pressed in glass, ironing out the irony, the map and the territory

Confused cockamamie, drown the heart, quench my soul, the thirst comes first

Clamoring crowd, pushes the urge to the edge, leaves psyche a creaky construct

Memory blocks, filling the void with useless information, no room left for pain

Monkeyshines, tricked into spilling secrets, down the drain, last words, dying dish

Veiled references, it touches the dawn, blinded by the reverence for empty meaning

Vast expanses, clutches the waste, a sea salt sacrament, rusts cheek bones, manic rouge

Tackled touch, time seized by guards, the hen house foxed, the wasted weasel smiles

Tough as nails, shielded from the sun, by choice or denial, it puts the words into sin

Un Poco Avergonzado de Mi Sobriedad

I'm on hiatus from God's own golden concoction. In the garden, my tools lay impotent, rusty and worn from chipping away at the weeds, which, overgrowing their picket boundaries, have sullenly, yet surely, begun creeping their way out onto the sidewalk; never-minding the futility. The rabbits, nibbling to bloody stumps, their paws, peer expectantly from their warrens as the sun slices my eyes and pierces my brain, simulating the hangovers and dredging up the cracked tooth proclamations of health to the heathens populating moldy tables in taverns; hovering over dollar store candles on all of those untold days and nights of decidedly delicious debauchery. I am done digging the jaundice creep. I am done with feeling the vagus burn. I all too done with being caught awkward with the gravy stains on my Sunday best. Finding my way back to the spastic womb, the birthright quickening, the bully boom of her powder keg streets, casting sideways war torn glances at all of the people basking in the false morning calm as I quest for full fair and gainful employment and a breath of fresh air. 

Sometimes, I miss my memories, most times not, but I am left with some scars, and the slippery unease of wondering exactly how the hell I arrived here in one piece, a dollar debt on my life, and so many souls in tow.       

Shore Leafs

Caught walking rotten like a mid-summer zombie along beaches broken by factory splurge. Winter's bitter finger tickles my nostrils, shrinks scrotum hugging nutter butter, better be strolling along into the frigid sunset of the foggy bottom aquarium. Cross-eyed pirates and pitiless piranhas shake the snow globe, hazy mirages line the horizon...just bubbles in my beer song. Mood swings temper minds muddled by modern inconvenience into achieving the anti-nirvana; the last stage of de-evolution. Just whip it out on the town singin', "What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?" The patron saint of taint warbles untruths like a junky spinning fables about their unapparent uncleanliness; just outside the doors of the methadone clinic. Subliminal messages coat my eyelids while my third eye cries out for a psychic squeegee. Cloning the thrones, changelings grip the situation, trading masks and potions for waning authenticity. I cry about these advents and for the exact nature of what confronts the seedlings that snuggle up, nestled in the beauty of their theta dreams.