skull and crossbones

At the end of the race

make em say:

to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much

this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds

what ears are these they’ve heard enough

and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!

His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough

even nail beds torn up from climbing so much

lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood

it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!

To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?

His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.

What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone

he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!

Pull another Death card

I have no business

I’ve made that quite clear

But I’m still wondering

What lies beyond here

This bottle I’ve found

Is filled to the brim

With messages signed

In blood red penmanship.

The city wakes up

I open my eyes

These walls are filled with

Unsealed goodbyes

This letter I’ve got

Return to sender

I’ve not the courage

Or will to send her.

It’s 3 o’clock in

The fucking morning

These panic headaches

Come without warning

Now I just want sleep

No sleeping beauty

So when I lie down

Please keep my casket closed.

No kiss

Is worth

A thousand words

I know

So spare me the ritual.

This blind ambition

That I know so well

It’s superstition

Like Heaven and Hell

Now where’s that locket

The one I gave her

It felt so pure then

Like the last savior.

No one is perfect

I’ve made that quite clear

Still all this nonsense

Makes sense in the mirror

And when I throw up

It’s all of my fears

God had to go up

For us to burn down here.

So take this end and

Tie it to that beam

I weigh less than him

So it should hold me

And when I wake up

This’ll all be over

Pull another Death card

Rebirth and closure.

Nobody

Gets out

Of this place

Alive

Just promise me you’ll try.

sex, love, and war

if it’s all

sex, love

and war

then where we stand

is better, for

what it’s worth

the things we carry

lies, lore

even drugs, barely

rock and roll

our sundry hearts

whose spirits lurk

dear Joan of Arc,

if it’s all

been heaven sent

then hear me now

as I repent,

tied together

at the stake

a Sid and Nancy

sealed fate,

but dare I ask

what you desire

if and when

they light my fire,

come on, come on

make it quick

like silver I’ve

two dimes that’s it,

nothing more

and nothing less

dear lizard king

feel this

music sung

inside my heart

sailing on

a Noah’s Ark,

and in a cage

twisted, tangled

two minds race

they jingle jangle,

pulling teeth

and gumming glass

spitting blood

and skipping mass

for if it’s all

sex, love

and war

then know the reasons

worth fighting for

In cold blood.

It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.

Destroying my art one piece at a time

I tell myself stories
and create word pairings

like a master work of Rembrandt
picture perfect in a frame

but no matter my intention
good will is always marred

by Van Gogh’s lack of detail
or is it his mastery of the craft?

Destroying my art
one piece at a time.

Your finest work was not in oil,
it was in your blood.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Take me with a grain of salt

then throw me over your shoulder.

It’s the only way I know,

self taught and still figuring it out.

Just a pinch is enough though.

Nobody wants high blood pressure.

Oh, but we’re all so practiced

in the art of innocence.

I hear you when you give thanks

but that doesn’t mean I believe you.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t too.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Is it?

Now, this is the part

where you throw me over your shoulder.

 

 

 

The King’s Sad Song.

The failed King sat on his throne.

His Queen had already fled.

Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought

of who would bring him his dinner tonight.

The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.

As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.

And no matter how much blood was shed,

his people showed no sign of stopping.

It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.

He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.

It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.

It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.

Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.

What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.

I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.

Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?

He then took note, that he was alone in his castle.  How puzzling he thought.

But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.

A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.

Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.

Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.

It went something like this.

My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.

 

 

Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.

We are what we make ourselves.

Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.

There is no difference.

If it sells, it sells.

And the more grotesque, the better.

Greater pain equals greater possibilities.

Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.

It has and will always be.

The grand illusion.

Story time before the big sleep.

You see,

faith can be a very clumsy thing.

A very scary thing.

But it doesn’t make a difference either way.

Prophets will stay prophets.

Martyrs will stay martyrs.

And fools remain fools.

How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?

It doesn’t.

But it sells, so it sells.

Eventually,

you get it.

We were the monsters lurking under the bed.