The Stooge

He sat there at the bench,
The early sun intruding,
Shining through stone walls,
Onto his black, black eyes,
That glittered obscenely.

His face was tired,
Slack and indifferent,
But the eyes shined,
Malignantly,
While his badge glittered,
Proudly.

My heart nearly froze,
As recognition bloomed,
And hatred pollinated,
Attracting strange insects,
To my revolting self.

Fear for the future,
Froze my soul,
And righteous defiance,
Fired my rage.

But I sat there prostrate,
Helpless before the bench.

The Sounds of Life

The sounds of life,
Are varied and random.

They intrude at odd moments,
They're exposed to subtle senses.

Let your significant brain,
Filter their loaded messages.

For there is meaning behind,
Every creak.


The sounds of life,
Are constant and suspect.

They embed themselves,
Into your routine.

Such that your inner ear,
Relies on their presence.

If they were silenced,
Their silence would kill.

The Movie in My Head

There was a movie screening in my slumberous brain this morning. It told of corruption and love, of abuse and insanity, of violence and retrobution, of falsehood and nobility, of wealth and addiction.

It could be called The False Enlightenment, or The Dark Deviance, or The Wasted Generation, or The Cavernous Youth, or The Divergent Intelligence. It could be called all those things, and more, if sufficient energies were expelled toward that end.

The movie in my head is rated NS(Never Show) because no eye will ever see it. Yet its dregs cling to my emotive garb like a stubborn stain that invokes one's memory. I, as the protagonist, murked through the mind-wrenching trenches of my scorched imagination. And a more colorful or vivid movie I have yet to behold.

The movie of my dream held intermissions. I would awaken in bed with its dialogue and its aesthetic qualities before me. And when I again drifted off, it would resume where it stopped. Thus the chronology was intact.

The movie in my head was a dramatic realism--I was unknowingly placed in disturbing situations, and my natural reactions were filmed. I think I shocked my live audience because no autographs were requested.

The movie had no ending and so could still be in production. The film crew undoubtedly waits for the moon to rise-for my body to rest.

Untitled

In an utter transfusion the world began.
Can you feel the waves battering your psyche in vulgar interruption?
The musical red light album flows unceasingly in the beer induced delirium.
What a hell to live when the deletion began.
A mind like a loaded shotgun.
The therapy of release and an end to power.
Feel the compression of a loaded heart and hear its report in the green burrough hills.
The day is dead, the night is empty, and my soul thirsts for stimulation in a river of intoxicants whose swaying distractions baptize my troubles away.

Stevie Ray

He is abhorrent,
His habits haunt,
His voice gnaws,
And his brain festers.

His Halloween face,
Scares women and children.

His name is Stevie Ray.

The glint in his eye,
Is of hellacious glee.

His ignorance is legendary,
His insanity runs rampant,
He possesses the survivor's,
Desperate knowledge.

His name is Stevie Ray.

His eyes are bloodshot,
His nose drools,
His face is a flotation device.

He uses Powerade,
To cleanse his crimes.

His name is Stevie Ray.

His presence is comical,
Clownish and odious,
Corrupt and vile,
Laughable and pathetic.

He walks without balance,
In insecure lurches,
When the sun is up,
And nastily shining.

His name is Stevie Ray.

He is the abuser of urinals,
The plumber's dread,
When the day is spent,
And his body is toxic.