Son of a Beach

I find the whole business of interaction
a bothersome distraction
preferring to be peacefully alone
like an eremite inside his cave
instructed by a roaring wave
on how to pound redemption from a stone.

Don't Look At Me

The paths that we tread often curve
to disappear into a haze
and every new step takes some nerve
for hazards exist in the maze
but uneven ground shouldn’t faze
a person that watches for stumps
unless they are lost in a cloudy daze
distracted by curious lumps.

Mild Please

A yellow drone came buzzing through
the window where I stood
alighting on a silken stretch
across its sash of wood
and suddenly, not one but two
arachnids sprang to munch
upon the madly flailing wretch
reluctant to be lunch—

but then with one last frantic tug
that entrée left them there to plug
the rupture in their silken strand
with hopes to wrangle grub more bland.

Distinguishing Marks

We raise the bar, then plummet twice as far
to scrape away a chunk of hapless clay;
each faded scar is part of who we are.

It seems bizarre to only shoot for par
when every day presents another way
to raise the bar, then plummet twice as far

and soundly jar our bones, condemned to mar
the shell we pray will make it through the fray.
Each faded scar is part of who we are,

each jagged star like strings on a guitar
that helps convey the verve with which we play.
We raise the bar, then plummet twice as far

but still we spar with those that knock our tar
to yesterday, despite the bloody spray;
each faded scar is part of who we are.

As Zippos char the tip of a cigar
our feats will gray and we’ll devise a way
to raise the bar, then plummet twice as far—
each faded scar is part of who we are.

I Beam

We all need a place to sit and just think
to brood on what may have brought closer the brink,
a private retreat where it’s okay to vent
without obligation to humbly repent;
but we can’t remain in our bastion of stone
forever defensive, forever alone
expecting the succor we seek from within—
support is best found in the arms of our kin.

Out of the Woods

For Phil Jr. - I love you and don't ever do this again!


Beneath the lush primeval brush
you wander through the shadowed hush
uncertain how to make it back
to sunny fields alive with plush
sensation.

You hear the sound from all around
this cloistered copse of stippled ground
determined to escape the black
which gnaws your heels like Satan’s hound,
damnation.

Benumbing pain that won’t abstain
then suddenly, the way is plain
lucidity sneaks through a crack
to guide you from the grim domain.
Elation!

Changing Stations

We see a clean kitchen (though really how can you tell in black & white) and a tall man dressed in a very dashing suit. In a condescending tone he begins to talk to the woman working in the background. Her smile is tighter than Hoover’s ass and her dress is pressed so stiff it appears to be made from cardboard.

Male: “Sally is preparing a hot meal for her hard working husband when he gets home, not to mention those starving children. Look at all the dishes piling up, poor Sally. If only she had some help. Well now she does – BING – (dishwasher appears) because here is the one and only Wash-O-Matic!

That’s right, now the little misses can put those dishes in our handy dandy pull out rack, pour in some soap, and bingo, you’re off to the movies, or maybe even a little shopping, right Sally (wink). So don’t delay, order yours today!”

Female: Silently poses by washer.

click

We see a colorful, well styled parlor with a chicly dressed woman wearing glasses that make her exude intelligence, talking quite confidently to a somewhat scruffy looking guy that suddenly appears in the doorway with an unmistakably bewildered look on his face.

Female: “I just picked up our 2.4 children from their various s extracurricular activities after washing the clothes, cleaning the house, writing my thesis, generating record profits for the company I am CEO of, and oh yes, I even changed the oil in your truck.

Please tell me you brought home a nice greasy bucket of that KFC so I don’t have to whip up a gourmet meal from common pantry items and can continue my superhuman efforts unabated.”

Male: *grunt*

Cuts

All the purple crowns have been dethroned
for daring to encroach on land that’s owned
by a faceless despot simply called ‘The State’
destroying beauty it can’t regulate.

Running Courses

For drook—

The jumbled babble of a fevered mind
is all that I can manage, for it seems
coherency departs when illness deems
to crumble walls so shoddily designed.
Inside the linen labyrinth that twists
about my frame, resistance is afoot,
inciting fierce defenders that will put
their lives at risk until the raid desists—
bestowing peace upon the realm once more,
releasing characters that heretofore
were languishing behind a dungeon door,
while peeking through the cracks the best they could,
determined to get free (they knew they would)
to help the race move forward as it should.

III - Evil Victorious

A bizarre shadow controls the band
The music makes you weep

It's a cold day for the celebration
Marching feet keep time with death
Lost souls cry declaration
The crowd begins to sweat

Feelings rise
Tension mounts
It builds to a volcanic head
Everything alive holds its breath
The moon turns bloody red.

Behold the Beast in his glory
Worship at his feet

It's the only way to live these days
When reactions answer fear
There is no mercy to give away
Survival instincts commandeer

Terror rules
Pain is king
The victory is complete
Thoughts don't belong to you
A pawn on useless feet.

II - The Final Stand

Echoes reverberate and catch your ear
The reckoning time is near
You'll know it's come
When freedom is gone
And your thoughts are filled with fear.

It's a deadly game where no one wins
You lose when it begins
A hope for victory
Can never be
The stark reality makes you cringe.

Screaming vengeance for the wrong that was done
New problems have begun
Outlook on life
Teaming with strife
Social lepers shall be shunned.

It becomes a dream where you don't wake up
Troubled sleep won't stop
Toss and turn
Memories burn
You're slowly falling from the top.

Hypocrisy is the accusing soul
With infallible morals
Feel the guilt
A new lie is built
The Apocalypse takes control.

I - Of The Beast

Macabre reactions at parallel crossroads
Infect your mind with disease,
Shallow waves with tide reversing
Flutter in the fetid breeze.
The crooning moon sings to the night
Stars listen intently,
A glowing ash falls through the sky
Sight is gone completely.
Crooked trees with dead skin falling
Turn and face due west,
An evil beast with red eyes blazing
Rides a boiling crest.

Playing Hooky

How do true believers? Just in case anyone is wondering, that little tag line was ripped off from Stan Lee’s Soapbox, as anyone that used to read Marvel comics can tell you.

Well as regular readers may know I have been extremely busy lately and now I seem to be a bit under the weather with a cold. So over the next few days I will be posting one of my older compilation works because my mind is mush at the moment. I noticed long ago that certain poems I’ve written at different times in my life seem to have a connection, and so it was only logical to combine them into one story. And as luck would have it, while I was lying in bed resting yesterday I caught a whole blasted in depth series concerning the End Times written of in Revelation. I did have a very religious upbringing as a child, but since have wallowed in spiritual apathy, trying to figure things out for myself. Needless to say I haven’t been very successful.

At any rate, I present to you the one, the only – Apocalypse Trilogy.

Possibility

We make a choice
to use our voice
for dismal drool
or to rejoice

a moment gained
with hope maintained
to face the cruel
and unexplained.

Just Desserts

You spoiled the tart
with too much dough
and not enough attention;
now off the cart
you wish long ago
you had exercised prevention.