A MOURNING COUGH & A SHORTNESS OF DEATH
- Lines In Space
- Build A Tube To The Moon, A Circular Sphere
- Cage 22
- Job No. 1
- Typewriter No-More
- Where It All Goes
- The Mechanized Harp
- Lessons In Life & Sex
- Our Distractions, Dangerously High.
- Screened Against The Dust
- The Pink Of Bubblegun
- Morefully & Lessdistracted
- You Can’t Catch A Snowflake
- The World Of Lost Arms & Legs
- That Thing Inside Of You
- Momma’s Cotton
- At The End Of The Start
- The Fishbowl Theory
- The Drawing Board
- Time Tolls, Bye
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,
against a pushing
& pulling sun;
been going on
now, just like this,
for how damn
I’m sure -
it’s only when, you
think about it
of it teetering off
into the abyss,
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!”
“I don’t even like your cloths girlie,
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
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
Build a tube to the moon!
Build a circular sphere!
No matter, no matter,
one is there!
“A Faction 5 Stellar Pod:
a bed; a cockpit;
some space for a fight
and a million light-year long
“A spot for my good suit?”
(Scene 5: ballroom dance.)
“All for your pleasure Sir.”
all for your pleasure
“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.
sunlight dances on atoms born today.”
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.”
nothing; lasts forever,
nothing, ever stays;
“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,
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
Tubular Getaways to the Moon.
and chain our gates.
and bolt our front doors
— and then we wonder why;
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;
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
YET — INSTEAD,
WE STARTED ON THE GRAND PRIZE.
BEFORE WE WERE CONFIDENT,
THAT IT, WAS THE TRUTH.
THAT IT; WAS NOT A FAKE.
DETERMINING THAT, THERE
SHOULD HAVE BEEN
OUR FIRST ESCAPE
OUR FIRST REAL VICTORY,
MAIN-PRIORITY NO. ONE.
SO WE DID,
& AT THE SAME TIME
WE FORMED A LIE —
THAT “COULD” BE TRUE.
WHO WILL TELL?
BECAUSE, IF WE WANT IT BAD ENOUGH
WE’LL GET IT ALRIGHT,
ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
WE’LL CREATE IT.
ALWAYS IN THE MIND.
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,
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’
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.
We used to need an explosion next to our beds;
to curdle our wills,
we used to need the sound of machine-guns firing
to free our souls;
but these days, we’ll settle for a sound sleep
or a night of
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
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
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
or very close to it.
It seems to take hours to float down,
and when we finally hit, there is no impact
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,
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
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,
Only he; knows the nature of her dreams,
and what their nightmares look like,
and how long the nights;
Or, how long, she will sleep
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
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,
When any woman tells you that he, has
found; the man of her dreams,
Only she; knows the nature of his dreams,
and what their nightmares look like,
and how long the nights;
And, how long, she, will continue, to sleep
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
And you — almost — learnt
nothing while studying
after-night; in schools,
And though, you may think, you
learn a lot from books,
religion and politics,
you only truly
understand what you learn;
when it happens
And you may call people:
“teachers”, “doctors”, “philosophers”;
“leaders” or “Christ”
but they, they learnt most of what
they know, or knew —
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 —
And then you later
believed that all you needed
had something to do with sex
— or love —
but what you really needed
to know, was breath —
lungs filled with air,
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
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
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
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
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.
millions of lights away.
Projected & reflected;
formed & refracted
— in a different
All things in the galaxy
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 —
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
appearing — as an open skyline;
willing, wishing; to take you, to another life.
Love is a machine-gum the pink
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,
— 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.
— 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
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
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.
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——
it’s an arm
— left or right —
with others, it’s a leg
— one of them
at least, but
— both —
yet, they go about,
(as we normally do)
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
within this world,
of lost arms and legs.
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
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
‘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
That Thing Inside Of You
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
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 drives man to murder
drive us to progress
and ultimately leads us to
That thing that destroys chance,
and creates new possibilities,
that thing: is inside of you.
In your bones,
that thing, that you;
deep down — inside,
Wrap that shit up.
Weak at the edges,
but pretty well
But pretty well
All twisted and
broken, on old
wrap that shit up;
wrap it up good
in momma’s cotton.
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.
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.
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
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.
It makes us more like fish
in a way, closer to the beginning
but further from the truth.
is our fishbowl,
that’s why people love fish.
We identify with their
I always wondered why I liked round fishbowls more.
When you look at it closely
we have the ‘Fishbowl
Syndrome’ in many cases.
is like that fish
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
in the oceans; the spawn of thought,
It’s much like a ripple.
It starts small and out it goes;
until you have
The Drawing Board
People always think that the final product
but as always;
people are wrong.
People always assume, that the end result
is where it’s
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,
Time Tolls, Bye
Time tolls by; very, slowly;
and you don’t want to sleep...
and you don’t want; to stay...
and it’s never your first cigarette...
and, it’s, never really;
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
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.