A MOURNING COUGH A SHORTNESS OF DEATH

(PART THREE)

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CONTENTS



Lines In Space

 

 

It all seems 

so strong, so stable;

until, you start to think of it 

as a small ball, with a gassy 

exterior and a muddy interior;

following, an imaginary line

wobbling to stay in balance, 

and moving a degree;

back and forth,

 

back 

and forth:

against a pushing 

& pulling sun;

against 

 

time.

 

SO 

Stable, 

& Strong.

 

And its 

been going on 

now, just like this, 

for how damn 

long?

 

But 

I’m sure - 

it’s only when, you 

think about it 

like this,

 

that 

the possibility 

of it teetering off 

into the abyss, 

even-ever-

 

really

 

actually 

 

e

x

i

s

t

 

s.

 

Build A Tube To The Moon, A Circular Sphere

 

 

“It’s like a future age spaceship,

the uniforms too cute to refuse,

and girls and girls and girls and girls!”

(SLAP)

“Oooh, 

the attitude!”

“I don’t even like your cloths girlie,

you’re whack!”

 

On a future aged spaceship.

 

...

 

“So, it’s a Fifth Generation Storm Trooper you say,

how do I know he’s a compatible slave?”

“Try him out Sir, first weeks free.”

“Wow, such great service; 

one galaxy at a time boys;

one galaxy at a time!”

 

Every spaceship sings its song.

Every win is upright.

Every wrong is wrong.

It’s something beautiful,

an implosion in the sky,

just stand and watch;

just stand, and smile.

 

Who invented politeness and manner?

Who invented hatred and bigotry?

Who invented highs and lows?

Who invented what climes 

and what

.

.

 

.

 

falls?

 

Build a tube to the moon.

A circular sphere.

No matter, no matter what it maims!

 

“Build it now, lets start today!

We’ll need; a railway, and a train

and 500 thousand odd slaves.

It’s gonna be magnificent Sir!

think what the press will say,

A True Feat Of Human Progress!

A niche in the belt,

and in 500 years or so;

they’ll forgive us for everything that we’ve 

killed.”

 

Build a tube to the moon!

Build a circular sphere!

No matter, no matter, 

that no

one is there!

 

“A Faction 5 Stellar Pod:

a bed; a cockpit;

some space for a fight

and a million light-year long 

flight.”

 

“A spot for my good suit?”

(Scene 5: ballroom dance.)

“All for your pleasure Sir.”

 

 

all for your pleasure

all.

 

“Enjoy to watch me suffer,

to “save the day” 

smile with glee when at the last minute

I “save the day”

watch as I pay, I pay,

with a shot to the ribs

a poke @ the eye.”

love those night scenes; sensitive cries,

weeping willow moonlight,

dripping fingers wet.

 

“While,

 

sunlight dances on atoms born today.”

 

“And,

 

I see; for the first time.”

“I smell for the first time!”

“I touch, but first; I break.”

I feel, but at last; I manipulate.

 

“I taste, but nothing like you, can taste.”

 

“I’ve got a capsule full of music,

I’ve got a capsule full of news.”

 

Emergency Getaways:

nothing; lasts forever,

nothing, ever stays;

for good.

 

“Look at these jet fighters,

you’ll never get for them tomorrow;

for what you got them for today...”

“Where do you get the money from?”

“Come on, someone funds this charade,

and someone puts trees here, 

for fun.”

I like this idea of “funding”,

I can not tell a lie.

A modern day cop-out, 

from the land of milk and honey in the sky.

 

More like land of iron fist and fry.

More like hell with furnace high.

More like explosion in the face,

like, fry bitch fry!

Sounds like “just …”

Sounds like “I’m lovin’…”

 

Build a tube to the moon!

Assemble a circular sphere!

No matter, no matter, no matter

what it kills!

 

“Top drawer Sir, top drawer indeed!”

“Keep up this excellent work 

O, and Schmeed, remember that,

I’ll be rich and you’ll be treated well!

Together I will conquer and 

together, we will continue 

to sell.”

 

Tubular Getaways to the Moon.

 

Cage 22

 

 

We lock

and chain our gates.

We bar 

and bolt our front doors 

— and then we wonder why;

our children 

find it best 

to lock themselves, in their rooms.

 

We lock our churches. 

We padlock our schools & halls.

We latch & chain our homes

— and then we wonder why;

our kids 

find it best, to 

lock themselves away form us, 

while under the same roof.

 

We incarcerate our dangers.

We hasp & secure our shame.

We latch-up our secrets; 

interlocking our truths away,

and all the while — we wonder 

why our offspring; 

find it best, 

to lock themselves away from us

inside their rooms.

 

Job No. 1

 

 

WE SHOULD HAVE OFFERED

PEACE-OF-MIND-INSTEAD,

YET — INSTEAD,

WE STARTED ON THE GRAND PRIZE.

BEFORE WE WERE CONFIDENT, 

THAT IT, WAS THE TRUTH.

THAT IT; WAS NOT A FAKE.

THAT-IT-WAS-RIGHT.

DETERMINING THAT, THERE

WAS IN-FACT,

LIFE-AFTER-DEATH; 

SHOULD HAVE BEEN 

OUR FIRST ESCAPE

IN LIFE.

 

OUR FIRST REAL VICTORY,

MAIN-PRIORITY NO. ONE.

 

SO WE DID,

BUT DIDN'T

& AT THE SAME TIME

WE FORMED A LIE —

THAT “COULD” BE TRUE.

WHO WILL TELL?

ONLY TIME.

BECAUSE, IF WE WANT IT BAD ENOUGH

WE’LL GET IT ALRIGHT,

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

WE’LL CREATE IT.

THE THINGS

MOST POWERFUL

ARE

ALWAYS IN THE MIND.

 

Typewriter No-More

 

 

We used to need the sound of machine-gun fire to ease the soul,

we used to need the sound of rat-a-tat-tat-tat! 

 

We used to need the sound of German typewriters — well made, 

rat-a-tat-tat-tat-boom!

 

But now, with war all but gone 

from our view (though not truly gone

simply, we; ourselves have been removed)

now — we never hear the rat-a-tat-tat!, anymore

— and, with the sounds of war, so far off from us now;

we need the sounds of them, less-and-less; till, no-more.

 

Now, we settle for the pitter-patter-pitter-patter, of Chinese made 

keyboards; and the sizzling sounds of chips all but frying, ‘neath the keys

and the new words — like the new keys — too; 

have very little meaning these days.

 

We used to need the truth of the uneducated fool,

the wisdom of the unwilling to be changed, by the masses of this world;

but with the education and the conditioning so well refined these-days,

we need these words of pure wisdom; less-and-less; till, all-gone.

 

We find them oft’

offensive, 

disgraceful, 

condescending, 

disrespectful & crass.

 

Yes, we too; have been changed, like the keyboards.

 

We now like the sounds of pitters and patters best;

as we like the sound and erudition of good music & of good books 

less-&-less; until, no-more.

 

Yes;

We used to need an explosion next to our beds;

rat-a-tat-tat-tat-boom!, 

to curdle our wills,

we used to need the sound of machine-guns firing

rat-a-tat-tat!

to free our souls;

but these days, we’ll settle for a sound sleep

or a night of

good 

rest,

instead.

 

Waitlessmess

 

 

I’m lying in bed,

about to nap

— there is a typhoon arriving,

and, no work tomorrow.

Water is spraying against the windows,

as though, it were being flung; at high pressures and speeds

out of a sprinkler system

attached to the

eves.

 

As I begin to drift off,

I am suddenly (at first)

stricken with the sensation of something oblong

— forming — between, my arms and my chest.

I awake, startled, to find that it’s still there

and that its form, has become more definite:

for although I can not see it, and it is invisible to me;

I can sense that it is, about the size, of a small child.

With a head, two arms — a body and legs, and

yet, this is no child to be sure

and it is: incredibly strong. 

 

I have to fight it with all my might 

just to keep it, between my chest and arms, 

— as I fear for what it will do if set free. 

I roll around holding it against me. 

Pressing it as close to my chest as I can,

I begin to roll over it — towards the edge of the bed;

its form pressing hard against me

light as air

and just as

transparent.

 

By the edge of the bed, 

I have rolled completely over it; 

and we both plummet to the floor

or, at least, I had hoped so. 

For, I had thought, that by falling on top of it

I might crush it between me and the ground 

or at least, knock its wind out.

 

But alas!, instead;

we float toward the ground

as though, together, in the air we are 

weightless

or very close to it.

It seems to take hours to float down,

and when we finally hit, there is no impact 

what-so-ever.

The sensation, is that — 

of falling into a billion feathers 

— minus, the feathers.

 

I lay there breathless;

and finally, alone.

Next to me the curtain, 

and outside; 

a dog.

I bang on the window,

but the dog doesn’t look up or move.

The rain has stopped,

but just a moment ago,

the window — full, of droplets on the pane 

flung there, from oceans away.

 

I crawl to the refrigerator 

remembering that I have my father’s gun

and imagine how I would defend myself with it;

by punching, and then, on contact, letting a bullet go.

 

Where It All Goes

 

 

With my foot in a sock

and a pink plastic bag over it,

— inside my shoe —

out I go

into the rain.

 

I have to be thankful for the pink

plastic bag though; 

it’s keeping my dry-sock dry

from the rain; let through 

the hole, under my toe.

 

And I’d buy another pair of shoes,

if not for this — and other — poems.

 

So, if you’re reading this — in a self-published book —

it might help-to-explain; where all the money went

for a never purchased pair of shoes.

 

People often muse, about the artist in his

raggedy cloths;

but rarely do they realize

that it’s into the art, that his money goes —

while we download, and think it’s great,

we think it’s a trend.

 

We think that

artists are trying to be aloof,

and I suppose, there are those, that are;

and those that do — appear so.

 

But not me with my foot in a pink plastic bag

inside of my shoe.

 

And so I went into a shop wanting just, 

to try on a new pair of shoes

but couldn’t —

too ashamed to show the clerks

my pink bag, over sock; shoved into my shoe.

 

But I wrote this poem:

 

My umbrella tries to cut off my fingers — when I attempt to open it.

Bites my thumb — while I try bending the arms back, into shape, 1 by 1.

And it tried, thrice — to poke-my-eyes-out

But luckily — thrice; before it could

I noticed, and was able

to avoid it.

 

And yet, I can’t complain.

 

And who knows; 

if perhaps, you are reading this — someday — in a mass produced book

(but not today) and I

if I am still alive (because sometimes we are not),

then maybe today

— this day —

thanks, in part; to you

I’ll have no pink bag on my foot

and perhaps — even

a new pair of shoes.

 

The Mechanized Harp

 

 

When any man tells you that she, has 

found; the woman of his dreams,

just believe. 

 

Only he; knows the nature of her dreams,

and what their nightmares look like, 

and how long the nights;

have been.

 

Or, how long, she will sleep

with him.

 

..............................................................

 

We are always singing songs, that sound;

as though, they are about a woman.

We are always writing books, that read

as though, they are about some girl

who broke our hearts

but we are not.

 

We are singing about a man

who plays

a mechanical

harp

and it is he —

who is breaking our hearts,

and tainting our dreams;

sending us all to hell —

who is shaking our world,

to the ground &

under the seas.

 

For his pleasure, 

and 

his alone.

 

..........................................................

 

When any woman tells you that he, has 

found; the man of her dreams,

just believe.

 

Only she; knows the nature of his dreams,

and what their nightmares look like, 

and how long the nights;

have been.

 

And, how long, she, will continue, to sleep

with him.

 

Lessons In Life & Sex

 

 

You learn very little,

through having sex;

yet, you learn a-hell-of-a-lot

when someone — you love;

has sex, with someone else.

 

And, you learn very little,

by simply smiling;

but once-again, you

learn a lot when people 

stop smiling for you —

and start smiling, for

someone 

else.

 

And you — almost — learnt 

nothing while studying

day-after-day night-

after-night; in schools,

and college.

 

And though, you may think, you 

learn a lot from books,

religion and politics,

you only truly 

understand what you learn; 

when it happens 

to you.

 

And you may call people: 

“teachers”, “doctors”, “philosophers”; 

“leaders” or “Christ”

but they, they learnt most of what 

they know, or knew —

from you.

 

And you, you know

you learn very little in school

— you learnt very little at school —

and you learn very little.

But yet, you knew much more 

when you were born — and yet, 

were, on the doorstep of death;

even if all you learnt about —

was your first breath

lungs filling with air

and there —

tears.

 

And then you later

believed that all you needed

to know

had something to do with sex

— or love —

but what you really needed 

to know, was breath —

lungs filled with air, 

tears and:

 

that you learnt very little when you learnt about sex.

 

Our Distractions, Dangerously High.

 

 

We are always more interested in the moments, 

between the events, than the ones; at

the beginning.

 

We are always more interested in the wars,

than in the magic of our ways,

& of our many trueisms. 

More interested in;

and of, our woes 

and of our destruction's

than our building’s

and re-moved

obstructions.

 

More interested in the secrets

and dirty deeds;

than the whole picture as it shines

— in an exact moment in time —

in its exact form.

 

More interested in the tabloid scenario scams 

(envisioned by the FIB’s),

than that which is

really going 

on.

 

Our security dangerously low.

Our scrutiny, dangerously high.

 

We are more interested

in the moments,

between the events;

than, the one at the exact moment — of death.

 

 

More interested in what we thought we saw,

what we thought we heard;

what we; thought

than that which

it really 

is.

 

Screened Against The Dust

 

 

All things in the galaxy 

are indeed a spectrum,

caught in a reflection,

of a sound wave; and in a light

— each thing in its own entirety; 

a reflection unto itself.

 

Transposed from 

millions of lights away.

Projected & reflected;

formed & refracted

— in a different 

dimension

of time.

 

All things in the galaxy 

a spectrum

caught 

in a reflection

— in a sound wave,

a refraction unto itself.

Each color falling upon a different

filtered mirror-ball of the round;

cascading down a waterfall,

floating in the wake

of its own time.

 

Colliding, crashing & leaving its impressions; of itself, on itself,

on us, who are filtered though an atmosphere

screened against the dust —

projecting 

our own light

— from millions of light years unbound.

 

The Pink Of Bubblegun

 

 

Love is a bear trap covered in bunny fur, 

soft and fluffy; in the breeze.

Love is mouse crap 

covered in cheese.

Love is a steel cage

camouflaged, perfectly,

appearing — as an open skyline;

willing, wishing; to take you, to another life.

 

Love is a machine-gum the pink 

of bubblegun.

 

Love is a tank.

Glazed; in coconut.

Moving, serenely on a tea-tray — 

littered, with knives and little, paper-plates.

 

Love is a sunset briefed in the grief of your limelight. 

Drenched in your sweat,

chasing leprechauns 

whose rainbows 

blacklisted — 

are neither yours, 

nor theirs to give, or receive.

 

Love is a story that you can’t quite fathom; 

but still, feel compelled to read.

 

But perhaps,

most—of—all

— love is that bear trap

covered in the pink of bunny fur; 

seemingly soft, and fluffy in the breeze.

 

Morefully & Lessdistracted

 

 

I went — to the places we went together,

when, we were together;

and I must admit,

they were better — when you;

were at my side.

 

I saw — the things that we saw,

that I saw; that I missed,

and what you, probably saw;

and I must admit —

they didn’t do much —

for me — this time.

 

I ate — Things we ate,

I drank — Things we drank,

I saw people.

They looked and smiled,

but it didn’t mean a damn

thing — now that you weren't

around.

 

I went back — to the old

shops, where you and I;

found the things we liked. 

To the temples, to the shrines, 

& up the stairs we walked

— that time,

but as I’ve said

— I was alone,

and I didn’t like them or it, 

as much — this time.

I went — and I went — and I, got tired

— of thinking about it, all the time.

 

So, I went — 

where we’d gone,

to watch the sunset; that time.

I remembered it being beautiful...

 

before, but I must

admit, that the time be-

fore I only glimpsed at the

sun——set. The rest of the

time, I was admiring you; who were the real sun, setting in my eyes.

 

And, even thought the sunset

didn’t do much for me

— this time —

now that you were gone;

and I was once again alone,

I sat and watched it

lessdistracted

appreciating;

morefully

what I’d had

at the time.

 

You Can’t Catch A Snowflake

 

 

People are not all different,

People are all the same.

People are not like snowflakes, or diamonds.

Not like fingerprints.

People are all the same.

 

And snowflakes are not all different,

Snowflakes are all the same.

They just appear different under closer observà

And diamonds are not at all different,

They just come in different classificà

And fingerprints, are just fingerprints; that make us wish 

That, we, weren’t all the same.

 

Deep down, there is nothing meek.

Deep down, there is only the small waiting; to engulf us all.

Deep down inside, there is nothing; deep.

 

Only you, 

And I, pretending to be differentè

 

No, people just appear different under closer observation

And they scrutinize one another  to prove that they, 

Are not all the same

And they point out every fault

Yet, they realize naught;

For you can’t recognize a problem

You, yourself have not.

 

Because people are not half as beautiful as a snowflakes,

Each one different;

Or the same.

 

The World Of Lost Arms & Legs

 

 

There is a place, where all the people;

have lost a limb——

 

with some

it’s an arm

left or right

with others, it’s a leg

— one of them

at least, but

sometimes 

— both —

 

yet, they go about,

(as we normally do)

quite unaffected;

and seemingly 

oblivious,

to their 

lack; of

appendages.

 

One swims, naked, without a leg

(cut clean off, surgically — it seems)

you can see the bone encircled 

by fresh-meat and flesh—

there’s an obvious lack of blood;

for this water is blue, tranquil

and not bloody-ink-red.

 

And this seems neither strange,

nor is it

“out-of-place” 

within this world, 

of lost arms and legs.

 

Everyone, 

sits ‘round the pool; chatting,

smiling, and sipping on sodas— 

pulling white-meat from drumstick

and shading their eyes with sunglasses;

yet, there seems little concern, or need 

for a single bandage or tourniquet.

 

Perhaps, when one has lost one of his

or her

limbs,  

there is little need to be concerned... 

 

[unlike the concern needed in such a case: 

where one is forced,

to chew ones own arms off,

or removing ones own leg; 

with a pocket knife

while stuck

‘neath a tree half-dead, or, shot

to shit, in some ungodly war — 

yes, very much unlike said examples.]

 

perhaps, it’s more, that when we are all, lacking something,

at the very-same-time, and for the very-same-reason

— that we lose sight of the oddness; 

the bizarreness, of it all.

 

Waking up, one might feel some concern, 

but once placing a few calls,

reading the papers,

and watching a spot of the news — 

only to find out, that you; are not, “one of only a few”,

perhaps then — you just accept it; as it is, and settle back down

and then perhaps; go out for a swim, to relax...

in the land, where all;

have only but lost,

 a few arms

& legs.

 

That Thing Inside Of You

 

 

That void,

that dark unidentified vast-

ness, that mass.

 

That thing that stretches out and transforms you,

that grabs at your heart, 

puts emptiness in your belly,

doubt in your mind;

good and bad, in your soul;

that thing, that

teaches you,

that makes you question God;

makes you question the meaning of Life;

and all, that encompasses It.

 

That dark ball,

that glowing light;

making you hope,

making you hide;

and that, at times

makes you wish, you had never been born,

wish, you were never alive,

wish, you were someone else;

doing something else;

being another way,

seeing in a different light.

 

That thing, inside each one of your cells

is not what you might imagine it to be.

 

That thing, 

that drives man to murder

drive us to progress

to understand, 

and ultimately leads us to

misunderstandings.

That thing that destroys chance, 

and creates new possibilities,

that thing: is inside of you.

 

In your bones,

your mind,

every cell;

that thing, that you; 

deep down — inside,

already know

is: you.

 

Momma’s Cotton

 

 

Wrap that shit up.

 

Weak at the edges,

but pretty well

woven.

All caricatures;

flawed.

But pretty well

scripted;

rolled.

 

All twisted and

broken, on old

eucalyptus,

paper trails;

& Old,

lifted; rolls.

 

wrap that shit up;

wrap it up good

in momma’s cotton.

 

Torn

and browned,

moldy; 

dogeared; moth-eaten;

hidden in cracks and crevices;

hidden in holes.

 

Wrap that shit up,

and hide it well.

 

At The End Of The Start

 

 

I’ve been to this place before.

In fact, I’ve been here so many times

that all, becomes lost.

 

I enter 

the shopping center,

and begin — to run.

Passageways lead to the right

— ONLY TO THE RIGHT —

the floor is so well shined, it gleams. 

I begin to skate, as-though on ice;

the sensation is fabulous — 

I feel like a child, sliding on my socks; 

down a forbidden passageway 

in a school — deserted, but for me.

YET I AM NOT ALONE.

This place is full of pedestrians 

off shopping, or about to eat.

Baby carriages,

full shopping carts.

Singles and couples and families and,

some; just milling about.

 

I keep on

 — STRAIGHT —

I know where my path leads.

 

I come to a picturesque stop.

Sliding to a long—drawn-out halt;

at the destination 

I was heading to, from the start

— THE END OF THE PATH —

to a warm greeting, from the guy responsible; 

for this perfectly sparkling floor, that I rode.

And in a red bucket he’s dipping a mop; in and out,

and although, I was looking for the restroom

— AND SEE IT — 

(a far less well kept area no doubt)

I can’t help but notice the last shop

— TO THE RIGHT.

 

Big glass windows; to a sunken white world —

of manicures, hair dressers, 

revolving chairs, blow-dryers and, an extremely-friendly-looking staff.

I’m familiar with this, and them;

so much so in fact, that I recognize the majority of the people inside.

And they see me, and are even happier than the previous guy.

Immediately beckoning me, to come inside,

and I do.

 

To be sure, I don’t need the restroom at all

in fact, in all the times I have visited this place,

I have always come for the bathroom, and now it is clear to me;

that never once, have I ever gotten inside.

I go in and am immediately catching up 

with people who know me by name.

Who tell me the general goings on, 

who’s come; and who’s gone, 

AND SO ON; AND SO ON.

 

After a few moments they get back to their work,

and a woman — huge in her height, and hefty in part

comes-up-to-me and looks at me hard.

Dressed like a Voodoo Lady, from the American South.

Her hair braided with trinkets; 

and an outfit so voodoo-like, I’m not sure where to start.

And she tells me she’d like to read me, my fate.

 

On her forehead, she has a small hole, that leads in from my left;

and then out again; from my right.

Into it, she sticks a long item I cannot describe;

cylindrical, pointed — made of wood... or something wood-like, but not.

And as she inserts it, her eyes loll back 

and she licks her lips — like someone possessed

or someone who’s mind has been lost.

 

And she takes my fingers, 

and sticks them in her mouth,

after which; she removes my fingers, 

< and the object from out, the other side >

She then says, “The first letter of your mystery is T,”

“T, for TASTY alright!”,

she then reinserts the object, (which seems to almost crawl inside),

repeats her routine, with my fingers, once again in her mouth...

“And then I, I for…” and then she stops

still holding my hand at the palm, my fingers salivated upon. 

 

I turn my head in bewilderment, look to my right; 

to the person at my side, and ask

“I for...?”

and when, I look back,

the Voodoo Lady 

is all but gone. 

And I repeat,

slowly, and more deliberately — this time,

 

“I, for what?”

 

The Fishbowl Theory

 

 

Isn’t it funny stuff, 

air, I mean. 

It’s this invisible thing 

that you can’t see; 

 

And yet, it’s all over you. 

 

We wade 

through it. 

It makes us more like fish 

in a way, closer to the beginning 

but further from the truth. 

 

Earth 

is our fishbowl, 

that’s why people love fish. 

We identify with their 

existence’s; 

 

&

 

I always wondered why I liked round fishbowls more. 

When you look at it closely 

we have the ‘Fishbowl

Syndrome’ in many cases. 

 

You see 

NAuSeA, 

NASA 

is like that fish 

that escapes, 

only for us we need mechanics; 

we are a little like TRANSFORMERS in a way 

(but that’s a whole other discussion). 

We try to escape the mystery too, 

just like beached whales. 

 

They are the ones 

that have evolved 

to enlightenment 

in the oceans; the spawn of thought, 

‘what if’ 

perhaps, a 

‘maybe’

an 

‘I

think’ 

therefor 

I die.

 

It’s much like a ripple. 

It starts small and out it goes; 

until you have 

 

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

1

BBBBBRRRRRrrrrr 

BLAST 

OFF.

 

The Drawing Board

 

 

People always think that the final product 

is gold,

but as always;

people are wrong.

People always assume, that the end result 

is where it’s

at.

 

The sketchpad,

and notebook

hold the choir,

but the choir, in performance

is just there, for the show.

 

No song; as good

as the way it sounded,

in the head, of the one; 

who the song did compose.

No painting, as vibrant, as the 

image in the mind; of the 

man, who murdered it 

in its final, demise.

 

So we should sketch more;

and hide — that, 

which people cannot understand;

on dusty shelves, and, buried out of sight.

Yes, people always think; that the final product

is the way it should always, have been

but as always,

people,

are 

wrong.

 

Time Tolls, Bye

 

 

Time tolls by; very, slowly;

these days...

and you don’t want to sleep...

and you don’t want; to stay... 

 

awake...

 

and it’s never your first cigarette...

 

and, it’s, never really;

your last...

 

and for some reason, you need work;

to live again.

 

If time flew by, could you work again?

If cash rolled in, would you smile again?

 

And, you’re not sure;

can’t really make a choice,

for work — is the devil’s dildo

and you; you are, his favorite bitch

and money, money is better left to God

and time, well; time is not your friend,

‘cause it’s slowly jogging out...

 

And you’re never fully convinced,

can’t ever really make up your mind;

because work; is the devil’s brothel 

and you; his favorite whore;

and time, well... time; 

has run out on us 

again.

 

 

A MOURNING COUGH AND A SHORTNESS OF DEATH. Copyright © 2011 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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