August hides in a tinderbox somewhere,
because the girls of spring can’t be found,
so kindle your cinders
and kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

July is a haven of unmistakable splendor,
I know all the pope’s ministers would agree,
so with your smile big and bright,
o kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

June sways so gently in the arms of summer,
it’s golden like a fable when drunk on black label
and we danced to music, so soothing n’ amusing
now kiss me goodnight, Lucinda!

A year’s gone by maybe more this May,
the lips of the sun couldn’t compare to your stay,
there’s only one time when the flowers bloom right,
and now they’re somewhere with Lucinda!

All summers beget Lucinda!
All the world covets for Lucinda!
All my dreams are made of Lucinda!

A Poem of the Very Buoyant Russian Black Sea Fleet in Belbek

Tension at Belbek, the crisis of Crimea
There is talk of freedoms and sanctions
It’s all out there like a great big tidal wave
that is held together by a thin layer of glass
Reddit LIVE feed, Reuters –Bang bang
I turn my head to Google,
Death by Canadian Rye and images of Sandra Bullock,
Russian President Vladimir Putin is making a statement
Twelve hundred hours and thirty-five minute dregs
What is defiance? What is revolution?
And where is the change?
The Russian Black Sea Fleet floats around by Belbek
–Ukraine remains defiant

Cremation Phoenix

A dream of death cannot be seen before you die!

Listen to the truth in these roots of gospel sound,
The clogged minds rust under simian cries
Venereal disease flogging this Jesus carcass
Oh Christ is weeping through our olden times
The virtue of horror, terror, terror, horror

Sleepless and burned lay barren each idealistic lie.

Cremation phoenix, cremation phoenix
The smoke and ash all satisfy
with the evil so rampant we’re petrified,
I lock my doors with long lush hair
Oh Christ, Oh Christ
contracted disease that just ain’t there
flogging the Jesus carcass carcass carcass

I say, the Cremation phoenix is coming down
She’s here to take Christ out of our Jesus carcass,
hollering bail me out, bail me out of this hell Leviathan!

Seventh Serenade: The Story behind the Six String Switchblade

This is the seventh serenade
that got stranded on this earth:

I’ll put a ring on that finger
like knife to your side
as my love will streamline
past your ubiquitous eyes.

A serenade for the weak,
for the meek who are fighting,
this is the seventh serenade
that got sold without worth.

The seventh serenade
to have died in the dirt.

Sicko’it

I’m sick of this polka parisienne
that all trapped songbirds sing,
but why complain when the sounds
that I crave aren’t even audible,
how could I listen to words through metal bars
if I cannot stop and think in my time of living.

I watch film snippets with familiar faces,
they make me think of home, but something is missing
The motion lacks life, depraved of emotion
it lives, yet not within me, but in hopes.
I have lost the touch of that reality
and as the credits roll I suffer of a saudade
that I didn’t know that existed.

In the film,
I watch souls escape modernity into nearby forests,
they’re poets, artists, singers and songwriters,
It’s in the woods that they love where they feel at home,
whilst I like to fear death and breathe through concrete
–my home was built around looting and riots where the worst of humanity
sadly comes to light.

When I am with the world,
I listen –eyes closed–
There’s a gentle whisper in the breeze:
“Sick of it, sickovit, sicko’it.”

Numbers

Number One likes lonesome fun,
While Two sticks together like glue,
the way Three is mighty and free,
as Four is sure to be sour,
’cause number Five can’t wait to get high with
Six whose already waiting for a fix.

Seven is deadly,
the Eight has faith,
and Nine was fine until eaten by the Seven
–Ah, Ten is in heaven,
because he saw Seven hanging out with Eleven.

Twelve is myopic
and can’t see Thirteen,
while Fourteen had a broken spleen,
because Fifteen punched him nice n’ clean.

Sixteen couldn’t see the signs, he’s too carefree
While Seventeen was fighting crime downtown,
Eighteen wants safety,
and Nineteen thinks all this shit is asinine.

And Twenty, you don’t want to know about him,
for he has too much on his seedy mind.
He has too much on his seedy mind.

Undesirable

When the horrors of alcohol psychosis make for a bearable life
I grind my teeth at night and converse with pink elephant mansions
with beautiful bell towers, immaculate architecture
While outside faces blank people crave for altruistic egocentrism
I roam hallucinatory dream worlds in my sleep
And wake up an undesirable

Struggling to bring calm to the self
I sway with the winds of the 21st Century
The destruction I see around me I commit on myself
and take part in the decay of a culture,
I become a violent descent to abandon
with my fists flailing wild, ecstatic

I question the sincerity of the very air
that murders us by night
and the stories we feed each other
about being pretty individuals,
for when the day is done we have ripped
all good souls to shreds

But who am I to wag a finger
I am an undesirable.

Follow Your Dreams

I have no wisdom
I have no feeling
One day I will wake up
I have no emotion
I have no aspiration
With a gun in my hand
I have no job
I have no love
Placed on my temple
I have no future
I have no sadness
Shoved into my mouth
I have no pity
I have no shame
Ready to fire
I have no truth
I have no courage
A bullet that would break
I have no empathy
I have no desire
Inside my mind
Inside my mind
Inside my mind
Inside my mind
There is no heaven.

and i only am a man

I wander the empty roads around the forests by your house,
it’s the dead of soggy winter January 6th,
I haven’t taken the New Year too well,
and it has left me with empty pockets that speak
a sign language that I cannot begin to comprehend.

I hear your footsteps and I know I hear a charming man,
You make the wind quiver in the Finnish weather/filth.
This time I haven’t been drugged by pharmaceutics,
and I haven’t been fucked up by therapeutics,
but you already knew there was no worry.

You are so very bright and innocent now,
you gave up on the dregs of society’s piss filled heads,
where my voice was alone in a cave of echoes,
but your ears were there first to guide me.

And I only take baby steps in your glory.

What’s a Love Song?

The ceiling was repressed and shouldered by your minarets,
I kept calling, calling out from the tenement blocks,
Searching for tenets and orders, keeping myself in abandon.

What is a love song without a klaxon sound,
sirens singing like pistol carrying pawns,
What is a love song written on the hearts of law makers’,
and law breakers –the shakers of society anguished by
Those persons wild in disbelief.

I hang my gown on cigarette packs as I hang my soul
on cracked beer bottles, half-drunk half-empty
–but filled with pity and spit laced with bacteria.

What is a love song that doesn’t corrupt the heart,
slow and steady like larvae who only wish to reproduce a thought,
What is that love song so unheard of that drives an ape insane,
mad enough to slaughter history and themselves.

I have no eyes for my neighbor,
I have no words for my father –sister –mother.

What was that love song,
that was forcefully taken from another?