Doing me in

I think that is enough of poetry…for now

A hole has been drilled out of my head

Bzzzzzz

   Bzzzzzzzzzz

There is bone and blood flying on the wall

On my books and paintings

       On my shoes and underwear

               On my weed and grinder

There is a mess of humanity

    done in

By poetry

    That relentless clammering

       ‘Bang’  ‘Bang’  ‘Bang’

All day and night

     This poetry must stop

Except that which thrusted

           This mess on my light and my dead

I love it

   I love it

I love it in my bed

    In my head

       To defeat the snores of ugly men

I was mad

I was mad

These girls like tyranny too much

I could feel it beneath my skin

These girls like being commander

It is going to their heads

From which they perceive as perfect

They strive to be without flaws

You cannot do what you say

Pious Proud Plentiful

These women are driving me mad

I wear a mask of idiocy

A grand deception I do adorn

The long con keeps playing

With a big loud horn

Schemes of their treachery

All planned

Ring out

Yet I was mad

I was mad

They look down on me

I am sad

For the suffering they must bury

Each night before bed

Grand Father Clock

Lawn mowers purring

As the radio keeps playing

Each engine and song

I have heard many times before always different

A circle with no plateau’s and low’s

The surface plotted

Peered through

Read by

Told of

All words

All knowing

All doing

Separate receptacles of perspective consciousness

The looking glass displays

What is to be done

To be said

To have been received

Implemented or achieved

Repeatedly by the record spinning around and around

Origination to destination

That which is where your feet lay

Buttocks sit

Back may rest and has rested

 A droplet in the pond rippled and never ceases to stop on the Grand Father Clock

Brittle cheese

A gavel slams onto the oak

Rippling sound

Decibels for your auditory tracks that echo in your head like a pinball bouncing off each

Bang

Hit

Boom

Thwat

Ting and jing-a-ling

Lights sparkle and songs play

It has been decided from which all that matters…matters and all that does not… does not

A panel was carefully meticulously selected in a room with no windows and a door

Days they met to come to the consensus that they have arrived at

A man who goes without too long

Loses that bit

Brittle like old cheese

Left out on the hillsides in France

Dry and rough

As the wind blow to crumble what was once strong

Reality

There is a revolver cold pressed to my temporal lobe

In magnesium burn

Bullets travel a path through my brain and out the other side for a hole in my head

Done my head right in then out with terrible hallucinations before death that have driven me mad

Fallacies of grandeur and arrogance blinding me to the truth that nothing has been broken

Yet the perspective of family

Helping me in ill times

This ravaging ailment in which I have lived in since I cannot remember

A habit of joints and whiskey may have hindered from which I can remember

But the statement remains still with delirium serums of perspective

Inducing thoughts of self contamination in this reality that I am hovering in the ozone

I can see the stars from here but sunlight has eluded my very sight

Drifting to the bottom where I see brothers gone this path of the mind

Utilizing the very things that make me see green on my skin and an alien that I am

I do not comprehend social convention of the serial conformist in front of me here and now

In every which way do they fit in

They dress alike

They seek normality

They seek career, marriage, children, and then death

From which I revel in the abnormalities that haunt their nightmares

I have wondrous dreams of the brush

Wild and free among the trees and I don’t have to worry if I fit in or succeed

Just exist in the tangential mist between my eyes and my brain

Present in the wakefulness of this plane

Sunday mornings

These are the Tuesday mornings that I love

The ones that feel like Sundays with long walks to the park with joints and jolly people laughing and smiling all around me

It is sunny as Sunday mornings are with a brisk air that holds you as you breathe it out so eyes can see

I know everything will be alright and I am doing what I should

These are the days when I smell that sticky smoke on my fingertips and my lower lips

That is wet and filled with flavors I adore

When I have no cares or worries

People who “only want the best for me” are not telling me so

I am free and I know I will be okay

These are the sunny days where pretty girls smile at me in lone for gasoline and I smile back and do nothing

By tomorrow I will wake and everything will be as it should and should be what it is

Bouncing off the ocean

It takes time for a community to rebuild after the storm

Buildings to pick up from the rubble

Bodies to bury laid down beneath as the cost

Nature was paid

The roads broken

No pass to, within, out, nor through

Repair is necessary to attempt from the loss that has come in its wake

People gone from their families in the abyss of aftermath

Far and wide

Near and right under our noses

Even though they knew of what was to come they set barriers and sandbags at the doors

Barring down the hatches for the bracing of the storm would do no good

It hit much to their expectations 

Ripped and torn

Flesh and blood for the wager struck in years past

During the storm brush and greens were projected, thrown, and destroyed

As the sun drew over the horizon

A great view was seen bouncing off the ocean from the heavens

I could see all the angels smiling down us

Who yesterday were next to us and now they shower us with their affections

For tomorrow’s dawn will be so great they cannot wait to see it