A Mourning Cough & A Shortness Of Death

(Part Two)

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CONTENTS



Sweet Smiles, Distorted Endings

 

 

Sitting on the sofa I hear a knock 

or ring, 

I forget which, 

but for sure something is alerting me 

to the presence of someone at the door. 

I get up and look through the finder. 

It’s her

Prettier than ever, 

she 

is wearing a cute denim skirt, 

shorter 

than any I have ever seen in her 

collection, 

and a rather sexy black blouse 

showing a little stomach, 

shoulders 

and clavicles - All my favorite parts. 

 

She has worked hard on her make-up, 

lips like water, 

eye shadow and blush just right. 

 

...

 

I smile, 

she smiles 

back, it’s a good start, 

she looks at me, 

I look at her, 

we exchange greetings 

“hi there’ you look beautiful today.” 

“Thanks” 

and with the sweetest smile she says

 

“I’ve been sleeping with someone else, 

I have been with him for some months

now, in fact

it’s hard to believe you never noticed it.” 

 

Everything slows down, 

I feel my heart rate speed up;

the accelerator pressed right in 

while pressing on the breaks at the same time, 

a contrast for no control, 

I lose vision as I know it, 

my view becomes dark,

tunneled, 

and I slowly lose contact with myself. 

 

I am the murdered and the 

murderer

I am hate

I am hurt. 

 

The outcome is unclear, 

but I’m sure it was a shameful one 

at best.

 

The Twelfth and Worst

 

 

Burnt and shredded,

tyre region; 

injured people,

eye witnesses say.

 

animals are already eating

the deceased.

The smell is very strong.

Southern villages,

borders and international sources;

Israeli bombings,

Israeli bombing.

 

Before Condoleezza Rice,

before Lebanon;

she landed,

insulted everyone,

told the people,

"do as I say, or we will keep sending you death from above"

 

‘bombings’

 

"daddy, why did Israel do this to us?"

 

...

 

yesterday, children heard the jets in the sky.

Yesterday; they will all die.

Hundreds of thousands displaced.

Hundreds of civilians killed, and more.

Thousands injured.

It’s Monday 24th 

the 24th of July

the 12th, and worst day.

Civilian factories,

mosques,

health and social centers;

erased.

 

"daddy, why?"

"daddy, why daddy, why daddy, why daddy, why?”

 

Whelm

 

 

“Hello world, anything fancy to offer today;

any new mega-conglomerates to show?

No!?

Strangely spelt fashions to walk?

No!?

Fancy talk to talk?

No?

No one? 

Not one?”

 

‘Hello, < I thought >

anyone in here know what I’m thinking about?’

 

“Something about multi-conglomerates!”, < a highly-strung woman > replied.

“No, not multi, it’s moldy.”, < an excited little man

by her right side.

 

“Moldy!? Are you sure?”

 

“I heard multi.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

 

“Ok, multi-conglomerates, thanks.”

 

...

 

< a man > Whispers, “He’s part of the death squad.”

< another man > “A real hero of his time.” but louder than that.

< his ex-lover > “He sits alone in the room mumbling non-sense all day!”

 

< man in the chair > “Baseball bat,

I’m mad!”

 

< the man who whispers > “Calm him down.”

< the other one > “Come at her again!”

< the ex-lover > “Say something. Try it!”

 

Midnight rescue;

gorilla style,

“What the fuck, what the fuck are you doing!?”

But no one is helping.

Granny you are out of luck.

“my child, my child; what-the-fuck...

 

*cries*

 

...you filthy man,

you shameful worm!”

“What have we done to our women, what have we done?”

500 people, five hundred people in this room.

 

We’re gonna need an aircraft carrier for this sort of thing.

 

....

 

*whelm*

 

I was dying down in here,

no air and no food, the place smelled like bad lettuce.

lucky I had my six-gun by-my-side.

“I let the darkness overwhelm me,”

< he says > very dryly,

“I give in to this place and I allow it to overtake me.”

“Where is this place?” 

I asked

“You know nothing!”

He replied, 

a smirk on his smile.

 

The damp spot beneath me suggested the bottom of a ditch,

or a puddle of my own piss;

but I know this place is nowhere near as earthly as that.

If it could even exist…

 

“It’s dark, always dark.” I hear < from within >

‘It’s dark always dark’ 

< from without > I think.

“I want to go back.” 

I hear myself say,

God loves the foolish, oh yes he does; oh yes he does!

I hear < him chant >.

 

“put your phone to my head

and put your pink to your lips

or I’ll rip your lips off

until blood red…”

 

And that was the last thing, I heard said.

 

Like It Is But Disguise It Some More

 

 

For _______; the three legged girl,

you’ll see what chemicals do to our world.

 

And they’ll cry on TV, until

we feel bad and donate to charity

because no one wants to see;

what man is doing to a little girl.

 

So, they tell you the whole story;

like it is...

and, still, they’ll use ways to disguise it.

 

But it’s OK.

It’s OKAY.

 

Everyone suffers in the mind

because

deep-down-inside,

they know; what they’ve done,

to _______; the three legged 

little girl.

 

The Divine Just-Us System

 

 

And of course God didn’t expect the world to be like this

but since when could anyone, ever really, really actually, 

actually really, ever; expect anything at all?

You can’t let a ball roll, down a hill 

and expect it to roll in a straight line.

You can only expect it to; hopefully, 

get to the bottom, when it’s done

bumping and bouncing and rolling

on.

 

And so what; if a bunch of people don’t care 

about continuing their bloodline?

Why can’t some people just live and die?

You can’t offer diversity and expect it; 

to do as it’s told.

 

Because freedom should just mean: being free.

Freedom should mean: the right to do as you please.

 

A few better examples;

people just doing things, 

with no one to help them sway;

no jealousy to get in the path, of what should, 

could, and can go the right way.

 

And if you believe; that the divine justice system isn’t just as flawed,

then you’d believe that justice; is fair for all,

and that people hung deserve it; 

even if just to say,

 

“Look at them sway.”

...

 

because, if you seriously believe; that an innocent man has never hung

then you probably believed that Lennon deserved the gun

and Martin Luther King and so on;

and so on. Knowing only

what you know.

 

Because knowing what we know; 

doesn’t really mean we know anything at all

because “FREEDOM” should just mean: being free.

Not taking because we were taken from.

Not shooting because we were shot by gun.

Not pointing out why others are lesser than we are.

Not being elevated; no matter who we are, or what we do,

or what was done.

 

Or, what 

has or 

will 

be 

today, tomorrow, next year

the year after that, and; 

then some...

 

You Can’t Expect The Young To Last

 

 

You can’t expect it,

they are easy with it all,

they are easy to get to; easy to tell.

You can’t expect the young to last,

they are easy to get to; easy to tell.

They are easy with it all,

but you can’t expect it 

to 

last.

Blo-

om;

wi-

ther.

Add 

an

-o-

ther,

sour 

smile.

You can’t expect the young to last,

they are easy to buy; easy to sell.

Easy to induct, easy to conclude,

easy to condition, easy to elude,

easy to punish & easy to expel.

You just can’t expect it to last,

you just can’t, that is all.

 

Denial

 

 

If you’re not a hypocrite,

then, you must be a liar.

If you’re not a false-profit,

then, you must be in self-denial.

 

And if you are not being used,

you honestly could not exist.

And if a thought does not create a reality

then, you have no mind; simply a brain:

a grey, dead, detached lump; all matter aside.

 

And if your feelings didn’t do damage,

you could use them, or perhaps would,

yet, most correctly should.

 

Poor human, poor humans’ being.

 

And, 

somewhere; 

a leaf falls,

floats gently to the ground,

...rots... 

and back it goes.

 

Some nutrition,

some of it oil;

carbon.

 

Nature, 

was built to spoil.

 

A Cleaver King

 

 

A story gets told,

to

children, by adults;

about a cleaver king;

who swore, 

to cut a mere baby in-half...

 

Finally some real drama, all the kids think.

 

And as it goes:

one of the women,

she sobs and throws

herself to the ground, and cries;

Give her the child, give her the child.

The other woman, of course; screamed

Kut that baby in half!” not half-a-moment before.

 

The King hands the baby to the weeping woman at his feat;

she blinks,

takes the child,

and runs 

off.

 

And all the humans,

they listen to this story;

and think:

We’re smarter these days,

 

...

 

I’d have lain down, cried

and screamed louder than

any living being alive, 

because, now days,

they put you in jail, 

for having done that sort of thing...

I’d have lied through my teeth!

they think.

 

And then, they all, 

get a glazed look in their eyes,

and disappear, with a clue, a message;

another way to the top.

 

because, now days,

they put you in jail, 

for having done

that.

 

Sorrowmon;

Poor 

Sorrowmon, 

Why?

 

Aswell

 

 

If you turned the wolf 

down at the door

would you 

let him

bring 

his 

children 

over; to play,

 

let him fix your cable,

 

let him maintain your countryside telephone line?

 

Let him play with your kids,

from the TV, instead?

 

Like one of those strange comedies 

that you know are truth

but for the life of you, 

you just can’t stop

laughing.

 

Your sides ache

but if it feels so good-

to laugh at yourself.

 

Your belly aches,

your cheeks a-swell.

 

...

 

You have to relax,

you know if you don’t;

you’ll explode.

 

But you can’t.

 

All you can do

is ask yourself,

Did I really turn the wolf

down, at the door

last night?

 

Nuance

 

 

By shutting my mouth for a

moment,

and trying to look at things

objectively,

I have come to

understand

why animals find it best 

to say 

nothing intelligible

anymore;
ever again.

 

Nuance

 

Leave them to their high thrones;

leave them to their mess.

 

I try talking 

to God sometimes, 

but unfortunately for me; 

like the animals, 

God doesn't seem able

or willing 

to speak.

 

Symbolism Pre-medicated

 

 

When the servicemen

entered the building, there he sat.

 

Reading; to a child.

 

A beautiful scene

just like you’d imagine it

on

Hollywood’s Big Screen:

beams of light catching dust, celestially in the clean air,

wind lightly blows his hair,

and the child turns and looks at the servicemen:

blonde hair spirals, strand for strand, perfectly as he turns around,

water glimmering off of baby-blue-wide-eyes,

wavering slightly due to the breeze.

Mother Teresa herself was said to have wept christalline tears.

 

(clears throat)

Excuse me sir,

 

Yes yes

(then whispers into ear)

 

< A moment of silence, sylense, slyness >

 

Now where were we kid,

back to this here book

here look,

look,

take a

good fook, I mean... look.

 

The Scripts Are The Trees

 

 

    Now, the editor, he’s the farmer, 

sometimes he actually does some work; 

mostly he throws a few seeds here and there and complains a lot about punctuation. 

    The story writer, he’s like the farm. 

 

“Oh, I see, the scripts are the trees and the director?” 

    The director you ask? Well, the director is the dope-head.

“Oh I see, what are the leaves?” 

    The leaves are the trees. 

“What are these, what are these?” 

    These, are flees.

“…and what’s that stuff on his back?”

    That’s wool.

 

“Wool?”

 

    Yes, wool. 

    Wool, is the stuff you learn in school,

here we learn about look and see and a little bit of memory. 

    We take all we can.

ALL, WE CAN!

    We see all we can see.

ALL, WE CAN SEE!

    We fly up high and look and we never have any use for

machines, we learn. 

    We learn, and then we return to the world and wait 

and wait.

 

“Wait for what?”

 

...

 

    Wait for what? Wait for someone who calls him, 

or herself a teacher to simply point something out 

that we knew all along.

“But what should we call it in our heads if we knew it all along?”

    Our heads? 

    Oh these, my boy, are not our heads as you so humbly put it, 

these are all joined, so put it under whatever you like 

and file it any which way you please.

“What about the others? They will never understand.”

    That young one is something we’ve planned; 

you see nothing makes you madder than seeing some poor

self-sustained fellow. 

    It drives them mad, and gets them all madder and madder;

there will come beatings before you are half-way home.

 

“But this was my problem, my problem sir, that’s why I came up here,

put myself in danger, 

buggery and or death by hammer, 

you could push me down a hill or leave me in a well…”

    Wait boy! What did you say? 

“About murder?”

    No, about coming here

“Oh yes, I came from afar.”

 

    But, why?

 

“I keep getting beaten; half-way home.”

    Well, there is nothing we can do about that son, 

you deserve it for simply having 

one.

 

    Now, let’s carry on.

 

Sentences

 

 

Because all of your 

sentences

(even though, grammatically correct)

end up,

with some poor man’s toes,

up

3 feet, 

3 inches,

swinging left to right,

straddle to the front,

struggle, left; facial jerk,

so taunt,

so tight.

 

And because they always grab

at the tie, they always go

straight for the throat.

 

Because of all your

sentences, 

long.

 

(yawn)

 

...

 

Because

when those words, and

floods; are at the gate,

your sentences with blood,

your sentences for controlling, 

silencing, shutting up.

 

All those sentences we speak,

so meaningless, so soap,

so show-esk, will soon 

be

gone.

 

The advertiser, the consortium

the men at the top,

be warned,

there is a sentence 

finally,

eventually,

and willingly,

coming your way.

 

(correct)

 

A Poem For The Children of 2054

 

 

Hide sweet Starkovski,

the first storyteller:

the stars, pinholes;

the dope a burning tree.

Hide sweet Starkovski,

they’ll come for you soon,

go,

go, sweet Starkovski;

god’s speed,

god’s speed.

 

Stories to tell:

of a father and his son

and the day it all, but went wrong;

got bent, 

a natural lament.

 

So,

go.

 

So,

sweet children can play in the sun,

so that

burning, is only something you do by the shore

for fun

and, 

so;

you’ll never ask for any more than a candy 

bar,

because you know that there is such a thing.

 

...

 

We need the hope once again,

that the lullaby

will be sung in truth once again.

That yes, will mean it,

and we will

run once again; outdoors,

because we have doors to run from.

 

But what was that place?

In that story,

about the father and his son,

and

the

day it all went wrong.

 

Re

joice.

 

Rejoice

once again; we have

done no wrong,

to our fellow animals,

our fellow sand,

our fellow plants and shores; that fellow did land.

Gang up on us, i bet,

as they always did

before.

 

And 

so;

run sweet Starkovski,

hide in the hills

run,

run, run,

before blood spills.

 

Podium

 

 

baby, god gave you big eyes

you see;

it wants you to feel,

wants you to see;

everything they have done;

everyone.

 

baby, god gave you legs and that

lovely behind,

but never mind;

never mind, 

obviously.

 

baby, fingers were made to touch;

if you see,

it’s obvious enough;

and its touch, cause you always knew this much

but thought it was wrong.

 

damn them for what they teach; what they dictate.

 

Upon the

PODIUM

of fate.

 

...

 

baby, god gave you son

and god gave you sun

and lips to kiss

and to want to say:

I love you

but,

you just can’t.

 

let’s thank them,

for every little ache,

every little attack,

every little pain;

because they teach us to feel

and as a result, they feel nothing at all.

we will rise, we will rise above them; soon.

 

scream and shout

fist against tank; fist against tank

the small; against them all

a harvest, is nigh.

kneel is down,

the heel; ready to kick,

when we hear; the gnashing of teeth.

 

baby, god gave you eyes to see right into 

my soul, right to my inner part

together, I could never fail, never fall apart

while fist rushing at a tank

always wanting your lips;

your mouth;

your eyes

seeing 

into 

my soul.

 

and waiting; 

waiting, to love you, love you, love you...

in the next life.

 

A Moonlit Sunset From The Stars

 

 

Brad Pitt mini commercials,

homosexual suicide.

It’s like an old movie on steroids

and, his father is the son of Chaplin;

his mother, the Queen of Hearts;

wading, round and round;

in a toilet from the stars.

 

...

 

And,

you know that guy, Tom

did such a great job

playing that man,

who;

preached and still

glowed.

 

Who;

turned over men's hearts

like twigs,

like leaves,

and;

who cut down buildings

like trees.

 

And,

who would  have guessed

that  he truly wasn’t really

blessed; or divine?

Just a perfect acting machine.

 

...

 

He’s faced death,

disease,

stress.

The Titans, the Beast

and

cruse missile attacks.

 

...

 

And still, even though

his father is the son of Chaplin;

even though, his mother’s; the Queen of Hearts

and even though, it’s like an old movie on steroids;

he still wades, round and round

in a toilet from the stars.

 

And one day when he dies,

they will sell his toilet,

they will auction it out.

 

Because, his father was the son of Chaplin;

and his mother was the Queen of Hearts;

because, his movies were all on steroids;

and because, this toilet; was from the stars.

 

Hysterically Speaking

 

 

I wonder if prehistoric

man,

if Neanderthal;

would sulk

and pout,

get all depressed;

all enraged

because, he hadn’t 

yet learnt 

how to 

talk. 

 

Man, 

man,

MAN;

was hooked

on shaking head,

hysterically

speaking;

long before cigarette; 

addiction, 

came along.

 

...

 

It was only a matter of time,

before someone;

took one

and once-

upon-a-time

to get us on the hook

...0800080123... 

toll free

now that we’ve all,

learnt 

how

to 

talk.

 

Cepcis

 

 

Hour.

Hur-sun.

Sin.

Missleaers.

Yahweh:

thunder called voices;

the children of Israel.

 

Kids are goats,

we have lamb

N017:

Earth Base 

One.

 

Even if you could 

change the world, even if

the governments agreed

B3~95

the mafia, would have

you down on your knees;

machete and baseball bat

golden bullet for Kennedy

tire iron for Rodney King;

dragon kick, for Bruce Lee!

 

...

 

Cause one way or another: you’ll be broke

like everything they make

every word they speak,

washed in cepcis

grown in cepcis

lived in cepcis;

 

as though it were a summer wonderland

of nothing much,

a ceptic tank;

just like mafia;

just like us.

 

What We Care For

 

 

The human does not care about the state of the world,

only that this heat is upsetting his mood.

 

The human does not care about his body at all,

Only that it’s obvious; he’s aging,

Getting old.

 

For if what we have done, it had no physical obvious form;

we’d go on, regardless,

as is;

We do nothing at all.

 

Aircraft Carrier

 

 

Aircraft carrier,

NASA vibrator.

Fly over the sea

stars, fly over 

Mars. Arks and spirals

and lands, safely.

 

The skies cloud over;

cloud over 

ahead.

 

E8: 

a planet 

of hope.

Hope for the the rich man,

he’d better work you while

you’ve no clue,

when you have not a dime,

no sense; 

no boat.

 

So they can float, float, float

out of here,

to a better world,

cleaner water,

cleaner air;

cleaner love and hope.

 

Paying to see; what happens,

when you take evil and sail it away.

To float on and do exactly the same.

 

Leaving while they still can.

 

Ceased On Arrival

 

 

Let’s grow room together

let’s grow factories

worth

millions.

 

Ceased on arrival. 

Ceased in the year,

of our fullest day.

Ceased on the

4th; of Gods first

hour.

 

It’s now all, 

up to July.

 

Up to the mountain tops,

rivers, damns; tidal waves.

 

We never ever sailed away,

only waited for the horizon

to swallow the ship

and then; 

the sun 

to set.

 

The Commander Destroyer

 

 

Commander destroyer, where are you going?

Where are you off to now?

Why do you have to be off again?

Stay with me as cliché as we could be.

 

Stay with me.

 

Vernon Stew, what’s that all about?

All that stuff about you 

and me?

Why not come to ask, 

if you care.

 

Ask if you care.

 

October, October you big white bear,

what are you doing sitting over there?

Come here, to where we be sit.

Come over here and chew the shit.

And so, if you might care, it’s nice to see you.

 

It’s nice to see you are still there.

 

...

 

I remember a time,

I remember a time when;

we could do this more often than we can in present tense.

When we could be together for days

and hours on end.

I miss that, 

no matter what,

no matter at all

And not just matter of fact.

I miss those times.

 

I miss those times; 

all matters aside.

 

 

A MOURNING COUGH AND A SHORTNESS OF DEATH. Copyright © 2010 by Kent Dylan. All rights reserved.  

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and/or reviews.

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