Spun

Maybe all this spinning has made the world go mad.
Spinning and circling and racing through space
to God-knows-where and where-knows-when.
In galactic galleries, stars are laughing
at us who think we’re on the ground.

Rolling around this anchor star;
a simple dance of stones and gasses
rung in the ring of wavelength song.
Here in the well, creatures crawl.
Uncountable ages of evolution
flash in the pan and are gone.

Bending toward the arms of Andromeda,
a billion years’ anticipation waits for that embrace.
You can no more safeguard galaxies
than you can the human race.
The universe may seem forever,
but sure as it banged, it will fail.
Through distances of apparent nothing,
magnificent catastrophe innocently waits
to swallow worlds alive.
Is it violence without volition,

or simply a last call for rhyme?
Maybe all this madness
has caused the world to spin,
and blindly race through space and time,
not caring where we’re going,
or knowing where we’ve been.

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Nom de Guerre

 

Don’t call yourself America; at best you’re Rome at best.
Capitalism with a hard-on—
“In Cash we Trust—if you’re poor, there’s the door!”
The guilt of your wealth makes you cruel,
a superpower ghoul.  It’s not your name.

How dare you call yourself America?
Government by bankers, too big to jail.
Justice may claim poor eyesight,
but surely she feels that hand up her robes.
America, where are you now?
Is this Monster what you’ve become?
Or are you hiding somewhere, trying to remember?
Weren’t you a revolutionary?  Wasn’t liberty a word?

Don’t call me an American—
like calling me Christian while you’re driving those nails.
America is over.
The bankers showed up early, and it died of being born.
If those patriots return, they’ll bring the tar & feathers
(with all these Tories it could be gory).

So take your name and shove it,
you’re just a billboard now.
A pride and liquor bumper sticker
to keep your kids in uniform.
America, America, God shed a tear for you.
You’re nothing more than an idea
whose time won’t seem to come.

 

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Her mother is Star, World’s only aneke’lemental.  Her biological father is the Finished Apprentice Thirest, inhabited now by the light of Spearl the Historian.  And though she looks like a human teenager, within her sleeps a power far stronger than that of both her mighty parents combined.

Meet Kimikin; a fun-loving kid who is running away from home.  But something is stalking her—something ancient and greedy to tap her power.  Follow along as Kimi falls out of World and into BorderRealm; land of perpetual night.  Join her as she becomes a Rover of the Clan Fiereste, and meets the lover she literally can’t live without.

Claireth

In the satin valley of her shoulder blades,
she is weaved to wings of gossamer design—
folded to her like wet silk, clung to curve and contour,
their pattern pressed to candy floss flesh like delicate ink.
Hollow boned beauty, lithe and lovely,
unfolds and flutters into featherless night,
ascends with her lover in tandem flight,
and softly calls her Cutie-Pie name,
“Kimikin.”

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The Final Book in the Apprentice Journals Trilogy is coming SOON.

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American Bikini

Nine-tenths of an ass and twenty megatons.
Pop off your own, or pinch that ass,
and watch hypocrisy fall a hard rain.
Oath birds are singing, Guilty, guilty
(pigeons disguised as doves).

The go-around is coming, coming.
The republic has gone banana bananas.
Two bit shits in fascist poses
ring their rosy around the hill—
pigs and weasels always sniffing,
rooting around in Slavic whores.
Enamored of power & bombast & power,
waiting for a crystal night,
and the sound of breaking glass.

Billiard ball black with a swastika number—
an eight ball cabal cued in the rack.
Looking like Goebbels and Goering and Hess,
cyanide creatures more hatched than born,
more are than were, more coming than gone.

Missymerica, wear your Bikini.
The world may stare, but what do you care?
Giggle and pout with your tits almost out,
and your missiles erect in their bays.

 

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Home for Dead Writers

Reality fades to flat-screen thin—
dims pale as moonlight coaxing the color from things.
Beaten with megabyte whips,
kilobyte attention spans whimper in the pixels.
Cracker Oscars and a token dwarf become the new PC.

Comic book blockbusters gobble up nerds—
CGI goo for the easily amused.
It’s no use writing Gatsby, only the dead sell lit.
(Is it still fame if you never know?)
What you leave, you’ve left.  What you take won’t go.
So pour yourself an atmosphere.
If it’s sweet give it cherries, olives if it’s dry.
When you’ve stirred things up
the way you want them, enter in!
It’s good to create!
It’s good to be king.

 

 

 

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Pulling Thorns

Driving squares into rounds
dropped out punks dropped in fell
weasels & dogs snarling & sniffing
evil little bastards humping the easy
are humped and stealing all of it all
they want is more like needle junkies
spiking water they steal from themselves
for thievery’s sake.
Hiding in nightmare & delirium
patient as comets they abscond with souls
an atom at a time.

Bared mind like teeth behind a silent roar
dialogue is counterproductive thought without thinking
keeps the velvet bitches buying God’s pokerface
stepping aside to lead the astray astray.

Harmony of a constant dance
movement induced/inspired
by the universe’ entirety part & whole
as every last existence moves
to the moves to the move.
Such grace is indestructible.

 

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