Carcass – A Haiku in Four Stanzas.

Void are the words spat,

from the mouths of the elite;

ugliness in speech.

Green is the standpoint,

of pseudo-democracy;

liberties gone weak.

Lost is a future,

Trumped  fading reason,

A carcass for a hairpiece;

“Make it great again”.

Political filth,

Spread amid such poverty;

Serves not a purpose.

Step off the soapbox,

Nobody wants to get clean;

Lathered in those suds.

Soup.

Fuck doing what’s right to do
might have to confront the truth
and you may actually
at last, and finally
have to step up and pay your dues
every single bridge
burned down to a crisp
take the drama and dishonesty
as far as you can get from me
I can’t function like this
there you have stood silently by
done your part to take what’s mine
when all is done
and you have no one
don’t come crying to me this time
you’ve helped to construct
a place that is fucked
from wall to wall
trumping any and all
good in the things you should touch
Fuck staying in this primordial soup
this fucking unhealthy familial loop
when I am no more
around like before
who will catch your boot?
Always choose to color me wrong
over and over until the color was gone
but you can’t tell me what is right
you wouldn’t recognize the sight
pull your blade from my back and move along.

Soup.

Fuck doing what’s right to do
might have to confront the truth
and you may actually
at last, and finally
have to step up and pay your dues
every single bridge
burned down to a crisp
take the drama and dishonesty
as far as you can get from me
I can’t function like this
there you have stood silently by
done your parts to take what’s mine
when all is done
and you have no one
don’t come crying to me this time
you’ve helped to construct
an existence that is fucked
from wall to wall
and trumping any and all
good in the things you should touch
Fuck staying in this primordial soup
this fucking unhealthy familial loop
when I am no more
around like before
who then, will catch your boot?
Always chose to color me wrong
over and over until the color was gone
but you can’t tell me what is right
you wouldn’t even feel its bite
pull your knife from my back and walk on.

No Exception.

I guess you’d expect I might,
be either shocked or surprised,
after being shown the hazy light,
by someone hidden in all those lies,
and – no thanks to you, Dude,
she just now told me the truth,
you somehow failed to mention how,
you’ve got someone speaking for you,
and so, unsurprisingly once again,
another one fails to be “the exception”,
go on now, go take your place in line,
in the long chain-gang with the rest of them,
the only thing that surprises my fade,
is the reminder of being in the seventh grade,
your girl’s making phone calls you shoulda made,
trying to paint over the big picture you’ve displayed.

Fatmouth.

If a shooting star spent all of eternity
in being stricken across the night skies…
ever steady, blazing through the E-40
a distance, never closing –
between two massive, lying eyes…
the bell’s constant tolling –
a sound patterned to symbolize…
one of the fighters is face-down –
lights out, three – two – one
stars still twinkling,
sun still sinking –
along with the well-honed
bare-boned,
dramatic fireworks show,
I belatedly recognize…
the shooting star
fired from the smoking barrel
of Misery’s own Sig Sauer .45 –
no room to wiggle
no time to grow in size.

Inhale

Blades of silver-lined grass have cushioned the fall on my ass –
Once again, I take a hostage and somehow inch my way passed;
Fingers shaking too much to hold still, my own pistol at will;
Thoughts racing too far ahead of me and going too fast.

Trees bearing perfectly painted Paper-Mache fruits –
Line the mirage of roads that lead us so far from the truth;
It turns out anyway: when the sun sinks down every day,
It’s nothing more than another trick being played on me, too.

The moon hangs up high only long enough to revive –
The parts of this pirated vessel that can still “look alive”;
But then it once more – gets replaced just like before,
A solar mockery of a lunar journey to simply survive.

The cardboard doors fall in as soon as the knocking begins;
Just a façade made to look like there’s some kind of life within;
Templates of bodies without faces – drafted in pencil-thin traces,
Erases the lines away where the canvas wears thin.

Wrapped stupidly inside a snuggly blanket of lies;
Happy to step down and hand over such a cursed prize;
Soothed to death by a waking breath – in the wasteland that’s left;
Too tired to cry or wonder why – can’t wipe enough blood from my eyes.

And everyone says I have lost my mind this time;
In which case the truth would be so much easier to find –
But it remains aloof – this thing called TRUTH;
Enlightenment of the most poisonous kind.