Thursday, September 30, 2010

Struggling in the Butter

Struggling in the butter
With sticky wings aflutter
In a greasy kitchen grave
Lies this tiny thrashing knave;
Insignificant bluebottle
Yearning for a throttle
Or returning to stale air
Any place that is more fair.
But drawn in by a smell
It began its trip to hell,
Now futilely it struggles
Because a snack it tried to smuggle.
It lies alive interred
While looking just absurd;
One moment it flew with care
But now it’s unaware
That death is nigh in sight
And it may give up its fight,
But still it battles on
Greenly dreaming of the lawn.
Then death I remember
Lurks in nights before December
And any rainy day
I might take my parting way
With not a bit of choice
In vain I’ll raise my voice
And ask to stay a while
And walk one further mile.
I do however know
That one day I must go
And all my silly battle
Will be as a baby’s rattle
Or resounding gongs;
Life it won’t prolong.
So like the poor bluebottle
I await my final throttle:
Struggling in the butter
With sticky wings aflutter.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Welcome to Zombieland

This is not your typical matinee horror in a dark and moldy theatre
You’re not running from red-eyed, blood-vomiting corpses
You’re not carrying a double-barreled shotgun
Blasting the disfigured heads off of the people you once knew
You are not the lone survivor
Standing helpless but triumphant on a highway
Blemished with the husks of cars and the stains of what once were people

Welcome to Zombieland
Row number 6 seat 6
Rotting like one of the gangrenous boil-covered zombies
Oh, but you don’t look like them
Your caked-on makeup or your bath of cologne
Your skanky Guess clothes or preppy Hollister
Covers the fecal mass of festering tissue within

Welcome to Zombieland
Forced to do the bare minimum in your 9 to 5
Zoning out in the class you didn’t pay for
Returning like a drone the job you hate
And talking robotically to the people you loathe
Coming home dragging feet to the door
To the family and friends you take for granted
Pull up a chair 
And stare until your eyes are gritty from forgetting to blink

Welcome to Zombieland
And watch like a drooling catatonic 
The dim aura of blue from screens fills the lightless rooms
Computers and TVs
Theatres and cell phones
ATM’s and iPods
Screens, Screens, Screens, Screens
They seem to shelter but their flimsy protection is bound to break
Allowing the moths and rust and thieves to break in and steal

Look deep into the gilded mirror!
Bloodshot eyes and sallow heliophobic skin
Lurching legs aimlessly carried by appetites
Babbling and moaning in an unintelligible dialect
Blatantly unaware of the crumbling world around
Lounging oblivious in apathetically strewn filth
And sometimes in reasonless fits of passion
We gather in groups and perform unspeakable acts of violence on each other
Welcome to Zombieland

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

From under the crumbling bridge

The night sluggishly pulls a slimy moon into the pitch
Bleeding out its pallid light on the dim city
And splashing its aura on the
Corners of buildings, the frail windows and the mirror-pools
In the street, dancing back into the icy breathless-air

A fog of exhale glimmers in the moon-blood
From under the crumbling bridge
Blackness heaped on blackness held back
By the weak arms of Luna

A cough echoes in the throat of the bridge
From the deep stomach of its distended belly
It groans with its digestion
While a one-eared cat walks by
- looking for smaller rats to tackle

Then, as if it opened a tiny shimmering eye,
An orange speck of light shines out from underneath
While the bridge’s uncooperative dinner
Wakes to a damp cigarette

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Are they so pretty?

The gleam upon the resplendent faรงades
Strikes the surface of the waters
And then is cast back
Upon their gargantuan sides
Like a childish game of keep-away

Those solemn obelisks look down condescendingly
On two bedroom homes
And squat industries at their feet
They shine in the sun like Kings frozen in their splendor
Children saunter among their roots
Like ants among the redwoods

The city noise is dull and subdued
As it sighs under the summer sun
The homeless seek the shelter of pillared shade
While the affluent seek air-conditioned cabs
Two classes
One climbing up the monstrous spires
By stepping on the faces of the others

Then the silence is cut
A gong smashed at the feet of the steel and glass idols
The children run
And the buildings begin to fall like dominos
While the perfidious illusion is broken

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

P is for Pithy

Ah, this prevalent preposterous pretention once again:
People presuming to play the part of the Pardoner!
Please! Such pitiable perceptions perched on personal pride are pointless
They seemingly preach to prevent the pernicious poison prevailing;
While pervading the popular paltry position
Perhaps we Plebeians should pay no heed to the proverbial verbal pugilists
But the paralyzed patrons lack the prudence and puissance to perceive perjury
In the perverted parlance from pugnacious puss
Presently, the public that peruses this paradoxical poetic-prose grows perplexed
Yet they do not pursue the many paged publication that can penetrate the portents on this paper
This poor paradigm pronounces the pandemic of pessimism and passivity in this place
There is a privation of passion and proficient pondering pooled
The pedestrian pack proliferates only the pathetically plain perseverance of the pompous parasitic persona

Permissiveness! Parsimony! Promiscuity! Power!
The four pillars of our pallid plagued Parthenon
The putrefied potency of vacillating piggish peons

Per contra, there are some penitent and some pure
Some puerile and some the prey of the perfidious
For this parcel of pilgrims on the paths of perdition I will prescribe progress guided by Providence
And persuade toward pursuits more profitable than powder purposes that plummet under pressure.

Pick your party promptly because the periphery will not provide protection.