To Judge Your Spoken Word

It’s great viewing, your new act of relevance.
I’ve caught you right as you start your dirty dance.
Let me spy your chanting like I did our first time;
when your art never sounded like a lie from the first line.
I listened to your soft spoken eloquence,
I heard you bleat deep rhymes in maleficence.
You dubbed common sense in layers of double speak
and spoke your tongues in conviction to reproach the weak.
So thrill me, mein Lieber, thrill me.
Today thrill me till I’m warm then I’ll give you peace.
Today your words will be thy worthy benevolence,
as the monster in me wishes to hear their plea.
Do bless him with your verbal evidence,
let your nifty bars try an appeal to him.
Be the motivator who’s out to set us free.
He’ll judge you of your false witness,
then I’ll make you flee being free.



The Lost Art of Conversation

Damnit, did we have to?
Did we have to make conversation so hard?
With life so empty already,
how can these cold new rules leave us any warmth.
Our words are deep piercings shot from a staple gun.
Flat as a bad line while sticking pins on flesh.
How should I feel no pain
while your words are plain images,
playing in repetition all day and longer as a rendition of our friendship.
It’s a signature from our glorious age, without heart and not worthy of the energy.
If all your texts leave me churning,
asking questions with no mission for your bad scripting,
When your questions scream “entertain me”
and shriek “I’m Boring” for my hearing while beating about tacky honourifics,
“hey, how’s your family?” won’t change that we’re friends of convenience,
and “I miss you” will remind me you only text when you need me.
There’s no end to all the misery.
They’re the same and not hard to say
They’re empty all the same.
Mindless instrumentals without any warming sound.


Sinner’s Ranting

Life’s greatest mystery, to me,
is how we live happy with illusions as means.
Values are bloated with pomp that seem free,
carefree, our lives mask the angst of being free.
Freedom is a myth,
a Minotaur dancing through a cell of revolving doors,
knowing his path to hope
but trapped in it’s endless spin.
We see Hell on our plate, we can’t stare at its heat,
so blindfolding our minds is the fad saving us from our sins.
We pray to our faith to do something about Fate,
then flirt with Fate to test good ole faith, just like humans should do.
We’ll support the misguidance
as long as we can call her mysticism.
It’s a beautiful thing,
just purge all our choices and guide our ways in a line.
Oh God, save us.
Save us or just save me.



Overcoming at the end

As we grow older we see the low end, while scaling up to that crack where our ceiling will relent.

We’ll punch our way through and make a dent, before looking down past the heights we’ve reached.

The blisters will hurt but the wind will welcome us; with the coolest of hugs and wettest of kisses.

We’re on our way to our seventh heaven,the castle at the top will open like a dream.

For overcoming all the tests

Our welcome rugs will be in check,

After overcoming our own bests we’ll look down at the word SUCCESS

And we will pump our chests

When we reach the end.

Abstract Nonsense

i fought with Madeline in the dark
for stealing my line and leaving me black
my minds all blank and in that tract
its all just abstract and I’ve no bark

the rock songs do pound
and third graders are loud
their fists to the hound
to take a hint and nark my sound

So I stopped the toll taking
and licenced this soul stealing
poetry to look to money making
now that we’ve got stupid leading

let me be soul reaching, my harp
is lyric treading to find a warp
for your people pleasing Maddy Sharp as she’s gold digging while using my stamp


Wolf Wound

A lonely rhyme stung the dark
in a verse so solemn, the sky wept.
We heard screams to the heavens so
shrill wails were begging,
for her answer and return
The wolf still screams.

The lone wolf howled to the moon an
Anthem so loyal, his lover turned white.
His howling never brings her back, only
Makes their longing worse yet:
She’s bound to the sky like he to the night;
Two loving souls cursed for the dark

Game Of Choice

Choice is irrelevant;another supplement
In a dose for numbing reality.
A world maleficent;not a complement
To men teaching naivety.
We are considerate;spectacularly sane
Until life makes living a pain.
Then choice seeks relevance;becoming popular
In case man’s conscience becomes bipolar.
Choice is playable; a gentleman’s sport
With two Russians and a Roulette wheel.
God is the Croupier:holding the sacred fort
While he throws the ball for us to kneel.