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For Amusement
It has always been my contention
That life is a foolish waste of time.
There is no need for apprehension
As to the true meaning of a mime.
In my limited comprehension,
All human convention is a farce.
Effort is a futile pretension,
The resistance of a stubborn arse.
But then, I have a sense of humor,
A downright happy-go-lucky style.
I just laugh at this silly rumor,
While I amuse myself for a while.
Law Of The Jungle
Who will speak for the creatures beneath my feet,
The beetles trod into the dust,
The army ants fleeing in retreat?
I do only what I must.
Souls of lesser size
Deserve no great regard.
Small lives I discard!
Survival is my prize.
Bugs feel no care for me.
I am above blame.
With a greater egocentricity,
They would do the same.
I strut with awful glee.
I stay my reckless course.
I wield my might freely.
I tread without remorse.
The Most Stones
The monkeys divide their land in zones,
And decide which monkeys get the stones,
By making clubs of sticks and bones,
And beating other monkey drones.
For stones the monkeys live or die.
For Stones! The monkey battle cry
Rings out across the monkey sky,
When for more stones the monkeys try.
The number of stones is the ultimate test
Of which stone monkey is truly the best,
Which glorious monkey can pound on his chest.
The monkey with the most stones wins the quest!
March Of The Stone People
The stone people are marching.
The cold-bone people are marching,
Advancing everyday.
The go-along people are marching,
Chilling all warmth away.
From behind glass stalls,
And concrete walls,
And painted plastic clay,
Their pliant flesh is starching,
And freezing where they lay.
Only So Much Sand
There was only so much sand,
And no room for another ant to stand.
But the ants didn’t seem to understand.
If it must be, we will drain the sea,
Face any impossibility,
To get more land,
To expand,
For anthills very grand.
And don’t tell an ant that he can’t.
Unlimited ants was their demand.
But they didn’t seem to understand
There was only so much sand.
Virus
It is a virulent strain,
A complex organism of protein
With a limited brain -
More prolific than we’ve ever seen.
It spreads exponentially,
Destroying all other life forms,
Ravaging everything eventually,
Violating all understood norms.
There seems to be no viricide
To stop the infectious spread,
Without leaving all other life forms dead.
We’ll just have to hope for mass suicide.
Hypocrisy
You are greedy.
I am not.
You have more
Than I have got.
You are bad.
And I am good.
It makes me mad -
And well it should.
You think dark thoughts.
I cherish light.
If your deeds don’t kill you,
I think I might.
You do wrong,
While I do right.
Don’t sing that song!
Come on, let’s fight!
Lord Of The Rule
A mere bug,
A thug,
A buggering bug,
Climbed on another bug’s back,
Gave him a whack,
Said,
Look at me!
Don’t you see
How great I can be?
He longed for power,
And built a tower
Of bugs, lesser thug’s
Might – the height of limelight.
How glorious a bug he had become,
Lord of the rule, on a mongrel dog’s bum!
Power Man
Shame on all you damned old men,
Reigning totalitarians,
Who herd the sheep into a pen
To feast on vegetarians.
You spread your lies like poison spores,
Empowering all your wretched whores
To lick your boots submissively,
And champion human misery.
You gather glowing lives to drown,
Forcing all who smile to frown,
Cracking down on stalwart cheer,
Binding tongues up tight with fear.
You stomp the life from every flower,
Extending power another hour,
To taint all sweet, and make it sour.
From the very hint of bliss you cower.
Yet, this late in your evil game,
What’s the purpose of your breath?
When all below await your death,
What then is your final aim?
When young wolves steal away your fame,
When innocent children curse your name,
When common folk dare call you knave,
And earnestly piss upon your grave,
When your vile existence finds an end,
And worms and maggots call you friend,
When your flesh is gone without a trace,
How then shall you save your face?
Parasite
He is an idealist – his ideal self-idolatry,
advancement by any means.
He is a realist, an opportunist,
always on the prowl for a real opportunity.
His style is smooth as a snake,
as he slides through his lies.
His smile is a pile of polished pearls
to camouflage his fangs.
His hands are anaerobic sea serpents,
limp and fetid appendages extending
to shake the hesitation from the hesitant.
His face is a mask molded into manipulation.
His words are predigested bane for the herds,
chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed,
puked into toothless mouths.
He spews his leadership from poisonous glands,
too rapidly for simple tongues to taste the lack
of meaning between his words.
He is a pustule swelling with venom,
inconspicuous in his itch and irritation,
one pinprick away from eruption.
He is a spore-spreading sickness.
He is a disease,
a politician.
Web
The spinner’s principle code is order,
Regulation from center to border.
Intricacy is the law of his loom,
Care to give every legal precept room.
He weaves with heedful uniformity,
Achieves a spinneret’s enormity,
With rules and restraints threaded everywhere.
The spinner weaves an entangling snare,
A sticky web of injustice and doubt,
That even the spinner cannot sort out.
in your honor
i object
to your honor
self-righteous
gestapo
lawmaker
breaking
might is right
wielder
contemptuously
in those robes raping
draping over liberty
your honor
if it pleases
court
humanity
make a law
against lawyers
and liars
and little egos
blown up so big
abjection sustained
The United Snakes
The united snakes
Are wound in a ball,
Bound up in great might,
So none can recall
Lost liberty’s stakes
Like justice for all,
No concern for right,
No space for the small.
The grip is too tight.
The pact is too strong.
Now no one dares fall,
And part writhing wrong.
Ex-president
Ex-president,
Extra worn,
Extra torn,
Exanimated and spent,
Expended fame,
Exhausted name,
Exclamatory exclusion,
Excoriated delusion,
Excruciating conclusion,
You’ve exceeded your day.
No extending your stay!
Legacy
When Abraham Lincoln expired,
He possessed a confederate bill,
And a pair of reading glasses
Repaired with a bit of string,
Threaded with the same kindly touch
That brought together divergent classes,
And binds them still.
It seems a marvelous thing.
I wonder if any other president since retired
Has taken so little, and given so much?
Pigs In Gold
Pigs in gold
Appear quite bold,
Make a row
Wherever they go,
Put on a show,
So no one will know
They’re pigs in gold.
Sing With Pomp And Circumstance
Sing with pomp and circumstance,
You silly man, you silly fool.
Do a self-deluding dance.
Ego is a giddy tool.
Descension from a famous name
Is your only claim to fame.
The march you do appears quite lame.
Such a willy-nilly game!
Some Day In Bombay
Untouchable,
Weigh the toll of your apathy,
Rise and piss on Shiva,
Resist this bleak oppression,
Light a pyre high and bright,
Ascend to the day,
Push back the night,
Swathe thy feet in fine linen,
Anoint thy crown in glory,
Stand tall and unswaying.
Untouchable,
Extend thy fingertips to mine.
Twinkle Twinkle
Silly woman at a counter,
What is this
Glittering on your finger?
A Mayan god so mighty fallen
From a ditch in Sacramento,
A nail that shod an emperor’s stallion,
Or speck of Spanish bullion?
Or it might just be a remnant
Molar straight from Dachau,
With a bead of Afrikaner’s sweat
Upon it as a coronation of lust -
A glimmering star of avarice,
But no more than stone and ore!
And the truth is
It’s been in and out of sight
For five billion years.
Yet you perceive it new,
Slip inside fresh and scintillating,
Invigorating as your wedding night.
You view it uniquely
Because you possess it,
Crying angel’s tears, you think,
As you linger in admiration,
In greed and joy mixed,
So proud of yourself!
So vain!
Silly bitch!
To The Neon Gods
Bow low to the gods, in reverence.
Kowtow and partake of their benevolence.
Their commandments are all of right and wrong.
Don your vestments, and play along.
Sell your body for the highest price,
In bondage to bonds, a roll of the dice
To determine your destiny in heaven or hell.
The neon gods reward the faithful well,
Afford them every material desire,
But burn blasphemers in inert fire.
Market your life to the time clock.
Sacrifice your soul on the auction block.
Pray fervently to the neon gods for mercy,
Or suffer a pauper’s fate for heresy.
The Root Of It
I don’t know if money is in evil rooted.
But there has been more bad done than there has been good
To get it, more that shouldn’t have been done than should.
For those who seek power, it seems to be suited.
Maybe money is merely a root, and power
The main stem, ambition the leaves, greed the flower.
Too much wealth, then too little, history has shown,
Made Rome decline and fall – though not money alone.
Hitler got his pound of flesh by selling just hate.
Mao murdered millions without spending a red cent.
For the most part, rulers of gold, at any rate,
Carry more rule than any golden rule ever meant.
Revolutions come and go with the same old lure
Of gain, until all things are the same as before.
And there’s only one thing I can say for sure:
More have tried to get rich than have tried to get poor.
The Ragged Line
The long ragged line files in at the door,
And paces the distance across the floor,
Not for a handout. They came for a hand,
For a tender touch that will help them stand.
They come for a chance, and for nothing more
Than to beat poverty, and win despair.
They ask for rules to be a bit more fair –
For the rich not to sneer and stare, to share.
Monarch Of The Street
As far from heaven as hell may own,
In glory he reigns,
On a urinous blanket-throne -
King of inebriate domains,
Emperor of defeat,
Monarch of the street,
Ruling spacious thoughts of ether and air,
Royal inhabitant of everywhere,
Deeming it enough estate
To trade his face for a crown,
Esteeming it such privileged fate
That legions of narcotic stupor cannot bring him down.
Beyond the reach of any god to further banish,
Unless to make him completely vanish,
He renounces all divine claims to paradise,
Content in the ceremony of hallucinatory device.
And no inquisitor’s threat of eternal unrest,
Nor blasphemous angel’s supplication,
May presume to divest
His majesty of grace, or speed abdication.
The Aroma Of Poverty
Silly skunk to think
There is any chance
That some charm besides stink
Is the essence of acceptance!
For a majority of friends,
(The fair weather variety)
Free association depends
On the raised nose of society.
The odor of wealth galore,
The scent of possible gain,
Is what most nostrils sniff for,
Like fresh air after a rain.
But a poor reeking skunk
Has no affection to squander,
Like an itinerant drunk,
Is destined to wander.
For a stinky skunk,
(Barring notoriety) in the end,
Is cast out with the junk,
And has but pity for a friend.
Entree
I watched them drinking chilled Bordeaux,
And dining on crab as white as snow.
I saw their names in headlines glow
For putting on a pretentious show.
But not I, oh, no!
When it came to wealth and fame,
I, begrudgingly, had to feast on crow.
Superstar
Who do you, what do you, think you are,
Man, whom the crowds call a superstar?
There have lived many better by far
Than you – with your chauffeured car,
And silly sunglasses, and cigar,
And that disposable bimbo you call a wife,
And the shallow existence you deem a life.
What great deed have you ever done?
What makes you believe that you outshine the sun?
You’ll shine no more when you’re out of electricity,
When the fickle fools’ hearts turn.
Hanging upside down, crucified on the cross of complicity,
How dark you’ll be with no more light to burn!
Poor, Rich, Man
Poor, rich, man
Did not get his way.
The big plan
Did not change with pay.
A fine stone
He got on his head -
No more loan.
His credit is dead.
Niggard
Carefully, he totals up his tea
To see if every leaf is in count.
He wants there to be
No discrepancy
In the amount.
One,
Two,
Three -
None
For you.
And two
For me.
Black Bird
He lurks along the rookery edge,
A bird as black as night,
Born and bred on a tenement ledge,
Ill-fed and refused light,
A rook,
A crook,
Slinking along a shadowy groove.
This ghetto scalawag
Prowls the back streets, poised to make his move.
Rookery is his bag.
Fink
He is a nark, a snitch,
A son of a bitch.
He sells out for the highest price.
Like an infestation of lice,
He sucks his host dry.
He is a stool pigeon spy,
A squeaker, a squawker,
A friendship hawker.
He is a pile of scat,
A vile stink.
He is a rat,
A fink.
Behind A Dumpster In Baltimore
On my way to the parking lot,
I saw him,
Behind a cafe,
Behind a trash bin,
Behind a cardboard box,
Looking directly at me.
And had he looked away,
I would have looked away too.
But he stared.
And I stared,
And thought of the food in my stomach,
Said,
"Would you care for a bite to eat, my treat?"
He eyed a while more,
Not sure if I was just rubbing him wrong
For amusement,
Answered,
"Nah," resolutely.
Then softened some.
"I’ll be just fine.
I found a pizza a while back."
"You’re sure?"
A nod.
"But if you can spare the change,
I’d appreciate a couple of bucks for some wine.
My joints ain’t what they used to be.
And the rain’s been pretty bad lately."
"Sure, I think I can arrange that."
I produced the cash,
Became bold.
"Why don’t you find some place to go?
There are shelters, aren’t there?
Don’t you have family anywhere?"
He was still for a while,
Then sobbed,
Or maybe only hiccupped in anticipation of wine.
"I was married before, had a baby too,
Just couldn’t hold a job,
Got abusive to my wife,
And lost everything.
I guess I had my fill of life."
I nodded, trying to understand.
He eyed the cash in my hand,
Surprised at the denomination,
Edged close enough to share his breath.
"Bless you, friend. Bless you."
Cartoon Man
He walks the supermarket isles
With an animated gait,
At the packaged commodities smiles,
As if each were a long-lost mate.
Driving his shopping cart,
A complete basket case,
From higher primates driven apart
By an intellect so base,
This gargoyle of humanity,
Bipedal infection,
In the bliss of idiocy,
Roams the produce section.
Some Eat To Live
Some eat to live.
Some live to eat.
Some strive to make their time complete.
Some give.
Some take.
Some undertake to make a meal their greatest feat.
Some find a purpose for their breath.
Some feed their mouths until their death.
Eat, Piggy, Eat
Eat, Piggy, eat!
Stuff your face with meat!
Wolf it down like a mongrel mutt!
Who more deserves a treat?
Go, fatso, Go!
Give that cake a throw!
Open up, then let it shut!
No one will ever know.
Oh, glutton, oh!
You fill an extra row
With a bulging butt and sagging gut!
Your greed is starting to show!
Thar She Blows
There she goes.
Thar she blows,
All blown out of proportion,
No hope of an abortion,
The sake of too much cake.
She needs to partake of self-control.
Watch her pitch and roll.
She can’t hesitate, can’t wait,
To eat another treat.
She never slows.
Thar she blows.
The Empty Can
The empty can emits the most sound,
Grates one’s nerves like a broken fiddle,
Because there’s nothing in the middle
To keep the thoughts from rattling around.
Naught to say the moment you begin,
And so many words to say it in,
The words you speak are tinny and droll.
Empty can, close your useless noise hole!
Bimbo
There she is,
A hormonal quiz,
Filled to the brim with pleasure,
Molded clay,
In a sumptuous way,
A genetically aesthetic treasure.
She’s too dumb to know
That her season will go.
But she knows that her fruit is in season.
So she teases the boys,
For the pride of her toys.
And for them it’s a good enough reason.
For, a cherry to pluck,
The sweet juices to suck,
Is an undertaking truly delicious.
Boys, never stop,
Till you harvest a crop!
Boys, always be ambitious!
A Busy Bird
A dizzy nosy busy bird
Could not stay in her nest.
She had to spread her busy word
That busy birds know best.
She sang her tune all day and night
Of what is right and wrong,
Chastised the other birds in flight.
She wanted all to hear her song.
Against all forms of heresy
She proudly took a stand.
She sang her tirade endlessly,
And thought her tune was grand.
Gossip
If you don’t have anything nice to say,
Be sure to bring your words my way.
I possess a very eager ear,
And find all rumors a pleasure to hear.
Speech Therapy
A worrywart once rode a windjammer.
The crew bore five days of her yammer.
She filled up their ears
With a torrent of fears,
So they filled up her mouth with a hammer.
Mama’s Boy
"He’ll be a fine man.
A mother can tell.
It’s clear that he can
Do everything well.
I’m sure he will be
A dentist someday.
My boy tries to see
All things mama’s way.
He’s my pride and joy!"
He’s a mama’s boy.
The Man/Woman
She puts her skirt on sideways,
Pretending that she has pants,
Living in a gender daze,
At the mention of men rants,
Spits out hollow quips she learns
From other man/woman types.
But clandestinely, she yearns
To have different water pipes.
She spurns any female trait,
Her natural place recants.
Of a man, she has but hate.
Yet, she longs to fill his pants.
Mummy
Her delight is painted to perfection
On her mummified hide.
Her robes are a queen’s confection.
But she is shriveled inside,
Embalmed slowly
In the temple of vanity,
Stuffed with the souls of the lowly,
Puffed by a despot’s insanity,
Wizen heart, withered liver,
Eviscerated and discarded,
A weltered quiver,
Hollow and disregarded
But for a core of self promotion,
A balm of blame,
A black flame.
Her sincerity is moldy powdered rust,
Humanity turned to dust,
And pasted into place,
To form a papier-mâché face.
Like a dry Egyptian wind she cackles.
And her papyrus design crackles,
As the inner bane shows clear
Her Gorgon reflection in a mirror.
A Mean Old Witch
She was a mean old witch with the heart of a saint.
She kept it on her desk, in a jar of red paint.
She ate a daily meal of half-roasted rat,
And hid the bones from her death-skinny cat.
She went to bed for one hour each night,
Waking every minute to curse the first light.
She bathed once a year to wash her clothes,
And clean the crust from the end of her nose.
She wheezed when she talked, and laid her teeth bare,
Trying to get her fair share of air.
Her house was built on the backs of the poor.
They made a good foundation but a really lumpy floor.
And she was never one to lend a hand,
Though she had a fine collection on her bedside stand.
"Give me your ear," she’d always say.
And if given one, she’d take it away.
She was a mean old witch with the heart of a saint.
She kept it on her desk in a jar of red paint.
Fruit Of His Loins
There was a man in our town
With an exceedingly productive wife
Who bore him seventeen children,
Though not for lack of trying
For more, for twenty-four,
For two for each month.
And whether this was for want of fame,
Or a need to multiply his self -interests,
To pass on his genes sufficiently,
Who’s to say but he?
Perhaps a profound philosophy
Motivated him to procreate,
A benevolent philanthropy inspired
Him to take it upon himself
To populate the world single-handedly,
To fill an entire prison ward
With his numerous sons.
(His wife’s tired – she won’t deny)
I can say for sure,
His youngest daughter spent much time
Crying at her hand-me-downs.
I heard she moved away,
Married an electrician,
And changed her name.
Dead Dinosaurs
From antiquity’s tombs,
Rise malevolent fumes,
Ooze reincarnated fiends
From a black primordial ocean,
In terrible locomotion,
To stay
For a million years or a day,
When comets veer
To cloud the atmosphere,
And make them go away.
Survival
I am a liar and a thief,
A fearless warrior chief.
I take what I need
To satiate my greed.
I pillage and plunder.
I roll forth like thunder,
Scorching the Earth,
Avenging my birth.
The timid and weak
Quake when I speak.
In terror they cower.
All yield to my power.
I trample the dead.
On fury I bed.
I am a living nightmare,
A killer to beware.
I crush all resistance.
Expect no assistance.
Ruthlessness is my tool,
Survival my only rule.
Ship of Fools
The ship of fools is sinking,
sinking,
sinking.
The ship of fools is sinking,
sinking
down – sunk.
I watched from my deck,
would have helped
for a percentage,
the clowns weeping,
equally reeking,
time seeping through
the bow.
Drowning faces stared,
seeking meaning in
the glaring sun that
capitalized sea and sky,
wondering why
they must die.
And from the distant reef,
hymns of revolution played
in the surf,
ringing in deaf ears.
And desolate tears were
washed away by salt spray
from the wake of the passing freighters.
Round the wreck sharks circled,
grinning like Lenin, and barracudas
flashing Stalin-toothed smiles,
for a while hesitating, waiting
for a sweet meal of mutton.
How now, drowned Mao?
Sucked down, down, down,
in a spiraling vortex,
descending to diver’s ideologies,
no apologies to the skeletons
passed on the way below
to stagnated weeds, tangled floor,
bone-strewn, airless, and void of light,
where Ho Chi Min awaits with devil’s horns
to ram a red-hot poker up your past.
The ship of fools is sinking,
sinking, sinking.
The ship of fools is sinking.
(I watched it on TV)
The Mud People
The mud people feed on filth.
They sniff out waste as they go.
They’re useless for all but tilth.
They find dung, and make a show.
When they find soil in their pants,
They mold it into a wall,
And wait for a nasty chance
To see others take a fall.
The mud people feed on dirt.
They live to throw pies of mud,
No mind if anyone gets hurt.
It’s clear they are all quite wud.
The Factory
News Flash!
Bring out your cash!
The factory has a story!
Give glory
To a monopoly
On words!
Oh, no, so
The paper can fold
And be sold!
Hold!
The market needs a new load
Of words
Full of nothing,
Sold at your local
Bookstore.
The Movement
"Follow the movement," said the lemming to the sheep.
"Follow the movement," said the worker to the drone.
"Society has conventions to keep.
Go with the wind where you are blown.
Just abandon all thoughts of your own.
Don’t you know
That we go with the flow?
The uniform is prescribed here.
We have made it perfectly clear
That your hat is too pointed.
You haven’t been anointed,
And certainly can’t play our game.
We don’t even think the same.
And where is your license to write?
Are you looking for some kind of fight?
Well, you won’t get it this way!
We don’t fight. We obey.
And we ostracize.
We despise
All who do not do what we do.
Left face! Hup two!
We have a movement to keep!"
Said the lemming to the sheep.
correct me if i’m wrong
nigger nigger
spick chink honky honky
tonk white boy
fag wog wop wop
and a nasty word
oh my cry
fly so high
like an injun powwow
scalp my tongue
burning books
under hitler’s thumb
beating war drums
jap jap jap
and attack
those bad word
saying
communist pig hate mongers
scouring
clean as a
jew mormon
wrapped up in
generic
plastic wrap
and sell it in
a package
for 9.99
White Man Overburdened
Take my place.
I’m tired of taking up space.
My history, my culture,
My language, my literature,
My civility, my government,
My scientific enlightenment,
My inheritance I bequeath to you.
Take it, and tread it beneath your shoe,
Along with the facts you’ve been misconstruing.
I’m through with doing
All that you think I must.
Instead, give me your homeland.
Let me fill my own mouth with my diligent hand,
Or like you, search for bugs as I sit naked in the dust.
Ego Man
He wears it like a latex balloon,
Floating his feelings in inert gas,
An insulated sort of buffoon,
Inflated by delusional sass.
He is oblivious to trouble,
Till sharp wit or biting suggestion
Punctures his prodigious bubble,
And bursts his cognitive congestion.
Fair-weather Friends
Oh, the kindest things they say,
When the wind is blowing my way.
When fair weather shines on me,
They are the best that friends can be.
On friends like these I can depend.
They are loyal to the end,
Unless storm clouds come along,
Then they flee to a sunny throng.
A Shallow Sanctuary
I have to hand it to you,
The originality of your superficiality is grand;
Swift to change your stand,
To rearrange what is true,
Your style, your crocodile smile,
The way you hesitate a while before you reply,
And condescend in the end,
Friendly, but not a friend,
The way you pass the world by,
A shallow sanctuary,
A fast-drying estuary.
Chameleon
He slips from friend to friend,
Showing a talent to bend
His colors of loyalty,
One moment royalty,
Then right in the insurrection,
Displaying his affection
For constant deceit,
Avoiding all-out defeat
By the way he hides,
By never taking sides,
Never showing what’s within
The distortion of his skin.
Philanderer
Philanthropic in his affairs,
A fleece of lambs he wears.
This wolf, this masher,
This courtesan thrasher,
In amorous pursuit of flirts,
Lunges into the lunch cart
For a lush and luscious tart,
To luxuriate in luxuriant skirts.
His lust is a work of art.
Golliwog Logic
A golliwog tripped on a log,
And fell headfirst in a bog.
With glowing, gleed, eyes he glared.
With a sullen frown he dared
Anyone he might promptly flog.
He spied a goggle-eyed hob
Sitting on a gnarled cypress knob.
His lip protruded in a pout.
And teeth-gnashing mad, he set out,
A lone frog its peace to rob.
With a growl he leapt headlong.
But the frog was gone in a song.
He gnawed on a Lilly instead,
Took a cypress root to his head,
Dashed by a slippery frog’s wrong.
Pessimist
Calamity disperse!
Always in reverse,
You are a curse,
An adverse,
Perverse,
Hearse!
Mystical Magical Men
Self-delusion, dogmatic conclusion,
Transpersonal paradigm,
Stick ‘em together, and fill ‘em with vim -
Mystical Magical Men!
The Gnostics of healing, the nature of feeling,
The gospel according to Jim,
For a credulous mind they are yours to enjoy -
Mystical Magical Men!
For a minute of fame, they will teach you their game,
The incarnation within,
The interpretation of imagination -
Mystical Magical Men!
Take all belief of the higher self, and put it out on the floor.
Put air in your head, and your brain on a shelf.
Now one more time, we’ve been here before -
Mystical Magical Men!
The Chosen One
"I am the chosen one,
Blessed son of the son
Of the one who begat
The one true gnat!"
"Indeed! The very one
Who fathered the chosen nation?"
"As glorious as the sun!
The object of solemn consecration,
Here by way of proxy
To teach you orthodoxy
In things of matter,
Before our numbers scatter!"
"Master, let me be not forsaken!
Teach me what I must do.
May I sit here with you?
Pardon, but is this stool taken?"
Missionary
A man of remarkable Zen,
Sought to feed less fortunate men.
He took his book, bade farewell to his nook,
And sailed straight for the darkest den.
His new brothers did not readily obey,
Still received him with no great delay,
Indeed found him a refreshing entree,
Even loved him in a culinary way.
They consumed him without any waste.
And though none had digested his text,
Each disciple remarked to the next,
He was truly a man of good taste.
One On Every Mountain
The holy ones built a temple ten years ago, no more,
And erected a sign, made in fourteen ninety one,
And put in a sacred shrine with a statue of gold,
And lit incense to revere the ghosts,
And bade the tourists come.
And come the tourists.
And the tourists take their photographs,
And get a moment of antiquity, (for a price)
And eat lunch during prayers,
And purchase picture postcards.
And the monks pose for shots,
And offer sage advice,
And for laughs sell souvenirs in a shop downstairs.
And a television antenna waves on the dormitory roof -
And enough karma at the Buddha’s place for satellite link.
And the tourists come,
And get tickets at the gate,
And take their photographs.
And the monks meditate,
And find enlightenment.
Order According To Thomas More
Mustn’t be disruptive!
Harmony at a price
Is our prime directive
Here in God’s paradise!
We keep the fires hot
For Smithfield zeal. Forsooth!
Utopia is not
For heresy or truth!
A Fool In A Mire
A fool in a mire,
Cried daily, liar, liar,
I’ve got truth right here.
The mud makes it clear.
When I stand upside down,
I may look like a clown -
My face turns red,
And my crown falls off my head.
But I can really see.
So, bend your mind to me.
I’ll feed you bread and wine.
Come on in. The water’s fine.
Blanket of Ignorance
Whimpering at the searing lights shining round their heads,
Wondering at the heated truths that roll them from their beds,
They hold tight to their blankets, quite torn in tiny shreds,
And curse the souls that dare to speak their deepest darkest dreads.
It says here in my book!
Take a look!
How can you deny?
You dare ask why!
Oh, no!
Long ago, it was so!
Never doubt!
If I weave my story well enough, you’ll never sort it out.
Peering through the blanket holes at all their dreaded fears,
The whites of their wide eyes glistening,
Their fingers in their ears,
They pray, I’m not listening. I’m not listening.
Saint Machiavelli
Saint Machiavelli sits on a throne,
Somewhere in the air,
Singing a soothing tone
To popes and dopes
And those with hopes for hell,
No need to yell, dear friends,
No fire here.
We’re all on an equal plane.
Now, cease
Your weeping and wailing
And flailing about in pain.
Sit up straight.
That’s the spirit!
Take your truth like good boys and girls.
A Note On Linguistics
The Asians all beat a loud drum,
Claim their speech is a glorious sum -
I can say with no doubt,
Without getting it out,
I can make better noise with my bum.
April Fool’s Day
Fools are what fools say.
Fools are as fools do.
Need there be a fool’s day,
When wisdom is in disarray?
Unless to limit stupidity this way,
So that, once again, thought can ensue,
We give imbeciles twenty-four hours to play,
Exhaust mental deficiency before May.
But it all seems…foolish anyway.
Pride Of John Duns Scotus
Through history we find few wits
So phenomenally sharp
That the greatness never quits
Ringing brilliant as a harp.
Of mankind, there are few
Who achieve complete fame,
With an insight so true
That memory never forgets the name.
Mister Scotus should be both proud
And humiliated all at once,
That of all the idiots in the crowd,
He should be the one true dunce.
Idiot School
In idiot school
They learn to be cool.
They make it a rule
To champion the fool,
Make idiot speech
An adjective tool.
Just one thing they teach -
To say, cool, cool, cool.
Academic Aspirations
Georgie Rogers went to school,
In pursuit of higher learning,
So he wouldn’t be a fool,
Marched where he went like a military band,
Had a painter’s cap that he thought was grand,
Wore a whistle on his belt,
And a bunny canteen,
And a nut from the axle of a big machine,
Had some socks made of felt,
And some keys on a string,
Wore a rocket badge
And an elephant ring,
Filled his pocket with flowers,
Filled his shoes with sand,
Had a laser gun that he taped to his hand,
Spent his classroom hours
Wiping boogers on his books,
Drawing space cartoons,
Giving girls silly looks,
At the recess bell,
Gave an Indian yell,
Threw his books at his feet,
Marched promptly to the street.
Georgie Rogers went to school,
In pursuit of higher learning, so he wouldn’t be a fool.
Paper For Sale
University schools
All the brightest mules,
Sets them on stools
To learn jewels -
The rules.
Fools!
Education
Come, one! Come, all!
Jump to our beck and call,
Our monopoly on education!
We’re here to train
Your empty brain
To heed our accreditation.
In our upper-ring tent,
We bring you an event
That legitimizes our social position,
By making status quo
The only thing to grow,
And to teach you the value of tuition.
Come, one! Come, all!
Heed certification’s call!
Don’t waste another minute!
Come give us your mind,
So our masters can find
Something worthy for you to put in it.
Come see our clowns,
With their pseudo-serious frowns,
Who can’t wait to set you straight,
Who paint your face the proper shade,
Make sure your dues have all been paid,
And herd you out the turnstile gate.
In our splendid ivory tower,
We administer our power
To separate the cream from the chaff,
By maintaining at large,
To administer our charge,
A marvelously self-aggrandizing staff.
Our knowledge, you see, is all that there can be.
And knowledge sets you free.
We who know all, know this truly.
You can know too, unless you break our rules
And find yourself thrown out with the rest of the fools.
Because, our freedom cannot abide the unruly.
Come, one! Come, all!
Come to this hallowed hall,
Where it has always been tradition
To fill up our mold,
And gather more gold,
So we can build a new addition.
Come, one! Come, all!
We’ll make you feel quite small.
Our glorious banners are unfurled.
Come on and see our show!
We know best what you should know.
We are the greatest show in all the world.
The Death Of The Book
They put it in a deep dark nook,
Where ne’er the light of sun partook,
Nor eyes in wandering curiosity.
They were above books, above literacy.
They all agreed to vanquish words.
They wandered in mindless herds
To their shopping centers and malls,
Closed the trees beyond the walls.
The call of verse, none did heed.
They had all agreed that none should read.
They had television to see,
No more use for characters on a tree.
Of Asininity
A drunkard is an ass with eyes of glass.
A teacher is an ass with a class.
A preacher is an ass at mass.
An actor is an ass with sass.
A salesman is a lying ass, able to pass off shinola as brass.
A banker is a massive ass trying to amass more ass.
A hooker is not necessarily an ass.
A lawyer is classed lower than an ass.
A reporter is an ass sniffing around for signs of other’s gas.
A critic is an ass unable to think,
Sniffing other asses, unaware of his own stink.
A politician is an ass of asses
Passing gas and smiling as sweet as sassafras.
A president is an ass surpassing all asses and classes.
Last to class as an ass is the incompetent poet,
Who writes asinine verse, and doesn’t even know it.
Ah, how the ass stank!
An ass by any other name would smell as rank!
Hear This Harmony
Hear out this age-long harmony:
Eliminate the ones we hate.
Cast out the diseased and the weak.
Let there be no debate.
Let those with lots of muscle speak.
Declare lies in open season.
Make sure that we settle the score.
Prepare to make war on reason.
Rise up on the backs of the poor.
Let philosophies sour.
Let there be a pursuit of might.
Trample opponents with power,
Until there’s no one left to fight.
Do this, and today is where we would be.
The Song We Sing
If every tongue that ever spoke could
speak a common phrase,
If every voice that ever sang could sing in harmony,
If every heart that ever beat could join as one in praise,
If every soul were joined as one, we’d still all disagree.
Oriental Medicine
A learned physician of Korea,
Sought to cure his fair king’s diarrhea.
He thrust forth his thumb,
In his majesty’s bum,
And fingered a remarkable idea!
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