Tuesday, September 23, 2014

A little rant. For the special, a holy chant.

Sweet as a honey bee's stinger.
A composite of conventional and eccentric.
My allure can hardly be contained or linger.
Observing the fast and the reckless.
Affected by none-too many faithless.

Persistent in anguish.
Love wouldn't tarnish.
Sweet as a diabetic's last wish.

If being born in this relentless world wasn't cruel enough, this beady eyed creature had internal conflicts to be resolved. There were no demons, just the echo of their demonic screech.
They say that there is no such thing as an original idea. And in fact every thought, idea, concept or notion has been adapted, improved or redesigned from someone else's. There is no originality in consciousness. There is no originality in despair. All sadness has already been frowned upon. But not everything has been ridiculed yet....
Existence is merely the excrete of an astronomically gigantic Bos taurus ( as we are all aware of).

The protagonist strides on-wards with a burden to bare. A burden to share. But everybody has their own bundle of cry to carry. Like an ant lost among the dung beetle farm, the madcap of dance and freedom was out of place, and without taste. Of passion to stir up the motivation of self potential.
 The needful was in a dead man. A secret in his torn pocket. Along came the dead man fighting for his life. The fox heard his cry and leaped for his heart. The fox had saved him by cardiopulmonary resuscitation. And that's a plot twist that nobody is ever ready for.

In the torn pocket was a shard of mirror. Gazing upon it's own reflection, the fox found itself. The reflection of it's strength, the image of it's survival temperament. Out came the claws, the dead man was shreds...

But the story is short.
Like an Alzheimer's thought. 
All pain is illusion.
All joy is delusion. 
And your strive is the only real truth.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Thug Poetry - II

they winnin',they chillin'
they whole life stealin'
they dont give a fuck bout how we must be feelin'

drop arms boys,this aint no revolution
take turns boys,for that peaceful resolution

we thug,we tuff,we make em bleed
we slice and dice,got mouths to feed

we 99,they outta time
they grab and scream
sayin "this be mine!"

we been watchin',we be waitin
we know your time,it be comin'!

in the shadows we be lurkin'
like in Crasters Keep,we be waitin'

take your time,eat your cake
when tomorrow comes,its yours i take.

Thug Poetry

rat race,set place,im ready to go
cool face,gun cocked and ready to blow
boom vroom charge past your party line,
im never gonna get her back home in time
she says shes scared and she wants to go
take a look around girl this aint Kansas no mo'
this is infamy,my death to be,this is where i live
take a turn with me,drop burn with me and watch me spin
lock phasers,fire tracers,get em off my back
stunned faces,burnt bridges now theyre pulling me back
into the black
where they can tell me what to do
i fight back
i take back
i lose ground
i stand down
i stand up
they beat me down
im zoned out
im cloned in
im lining up
and they win.

They win.