. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

We Were Never Safe For Work

These are the words that fall out in those moments at the office when I'm in-between projects...

There are those who feed on the
     children of mistrust
And there are those who feed
     their fevers with hot fires
Do not be deceived
For there are dragons hiding
     within every empty shadow
There are men afoot with
     horrible intentions
          who were born of horrible misdeeds
Men whose hearts are tattered wicker
     baskets holding empty dreams
Hunting over the land
Slip into the corners where mice hide
     and make not a sound
Sleep for a thousand years
Pray that in the wakening they who
     seek have fallen silent
Or have forgotten their mad course
Brief swollen rage flowing in the
     grey valleys of their hearts
Hollow threats start to part the sick
     smiles they leave hanging like
      dried leeches from the yellow skin
               on their faces
Cages within cages
Babies with empty bellies wailing
Cradled in the compressed mud of
     the beast's footprint
A sheet of falling rain
Hazy flashes of lightning
Leave us here smitten with injustice
Juries returning unanswered
There is a ding-a-ling on the loose
     where no one is fond of looking
But where all men must eventually
     turn their gaze
These caverns
These halls
These stone-lined tunnels the
     receptacle of men's screams and the
      final resting place of long, stiff
Better to die within the glistening
     stalagmites of a cave's teeth than in
      the fangs of the dragon who calls that
            cave his home
Rum and whiskey in a faded silver flask
Fear and loathing in a faded
     yellow smile
Courage does not pour freely from the
     bottle's open mouth
Nor from the aching heart in the
     uncomfortable grip of death
Ripped from a mother's breast
Milk ever sour now still present on his
     soft lips
I ain't never been fair my whole life
And life ain't never been fair to  me
If given the tit I'll use my teeth
Brush the tip with my tongue and taste
     the blood
Fresh from fighting
Fresh from the lungs
The trail goes cold in the forest
But you were too stupid to stop your
Crash through the underbrush
Trampled by the stampede of mankind on
     his way to a slow demise
Perspiration at your temple
Spots on your back
He who rides thereupon shall burn with
     an insatiable rash and be subject to
      an irresistible and all-consuming itch
His mind shall swim with uncertainties
His balls shall be as dry as the desert
And when the night refuses to give up
     the day
      he shall know terror
Such terror that roots in the lower gut
That eats away at the optic nerve
That spills a toxic mix of grey sewage
     from uncorked bowels
Man stands tall
But the sun still burns him
The Earth still covers him
Children still rip themselves from
     betwixt his loins
And the infinite distance from his
     lonely existence to the stars above
      still confounds him
Soul Spirit Black Whale singing in
     glitter and rhinestones
Bring home those that were lost
Storm tossed to the four corners of our
Granted asylum but never allowed to go
Some were captured
Some surrendered
Some were burned from flesh to cinders
They traipse through the halls of
     modern design
Where faith is but a weak leg holding
     up the table of their collapse
Perhaps a stronger push
A stronger Father
Neither love nor dust nor the things
     that float in between can save us now