scooby

open monkeys sit on doorsteps wondering why the peaches haven't been harvested yet and also, why no one has picked a juicy one for a test drive
[common doorstep]
in box form, print daylight times ten, jobs are done and go back to the dressing cage, renfro and cletus oil mine hollywood
bring back molly ringwald for her misadventures via television wave length, they don't want us talking about
cheddar cheese for lunch and breakfast, singles, day in day out, must lose 15 pounds, must train my body into a machine, no words nothing, just a body and soul while my spirit is getting pummeled by some heavyweight champion of the world, holographs of Muhammed Ali and even Marciano
reveal yourself but not too much for the cameras are always watching
slick standby jet plane mayhem monster makeup ghetto green
i standby for the plane that never arrives, drinking juleps with press conference boys in the airport drudgery of a saloon themed bar.
cater to the kids and the parents will have to buy it, stop wasting time and give them a million now
that's the cost of just a little chance of immortality we have left
our essence into existence makes sure that somewhere, someplace your being is awake somewhere, wandering around in a tadpole swimming upwards downtown
genius callouses on the bottom of your foot make you step down like a wannabe horse trainer on the last bet of the Kentucky Derby
answers no one has, for questions no one asked
i thought i lost my anima but i didn't as i try to type this out
at 30, each of us mold into the body that will be most likely similar to the rest of your life
mocking catering feasting oh lord, what a pig you are, but i haven't had a meal in 3 days
curses and voodoo and the dodo bird walking off the cliff without any commotion
jambalaya soup and fresh tea for those who wait and pay the sir a dollar for a plate of food
saves lives, keeps the needy out of the cold, and into a place of caring and sympathy
the phone number is on the front of the phone but no one calling it and the kitchen's on fire and no one noticed but they finally doused it in water and everything is okay now
cackles from the restaurant drive folks to silence their rib fest extravaganza at the local fair food truck wondering if scooby doo has a scooby snack for us
hanna barbara land  and the ghoster coaster
a childhood lived
and never forgotten

mister Bojangles

my heart trembles to the ocean side
the crash of waves on inflatable, combustible engine tops
then it was easy when we had nothing to do
easy daisy dew wants paradigms personal pesos

daddy's asleep in his underwear
jamming good with evil in his lunchtime machine operated tool shed
where did it go and how does it happen?
i thought it was just a dream, another form of reality

i was carried off into the night in mother's handbag, Gucci styled
sever all ties to the friends who have forgotten
just a lone wolf, soldier, nothing more than dirt on the wall
caterpillar eavesdropping, bungalow squared

can't wait til the minus cold swoops down frosty weather
report card ingenuity and a minus 2 for snow shoes
when can i cope and open the door
when can i live in a time forever more

open your eyes and the future is there
well, so is the past and my computer makes me genuine
the hair on my chest is ripped off in bundles
on a well guided tour of the Danube

turn a mother into a father and see what happens next
the fate of the world in the back side of you hand
you know the score, just gotta place the win
da win, dwindling in the da win of da winner

Easter morning approaches epoch nine tail window open cold front
feature double science fiction, under arm cream
when will it end
and when will it all begin

the space leap

Saviour drunk off lagoon juice wondering why the wind blows the snow into his (and only his) backyard, bouncing off the corner rock garden into the piles of tornado valley chessboards hocus pocus. The one man who controls the destiny of others sits above the clouds in a thought processing supercomputer ashing of the quantum leap of Gibraltar's loony toons escapades. We're climbing the mountain and when it happens you step into space and there's no harness to catch you and you're falling into oblivion wondering why you didn't pass writers craft in high school. First place medals for bedlam and all those fancy gibberish tones of blue and green and hues of gold and amber. When will it stop when the cows come home and they dish out soup to anyone who wants to eat and isn't starving himself (or herself) for that matter. I catch the fluke mid dressing ocelot web slinging ultra productive press room deadlines made in such a time when the work is already a century finished. You leave a 20 at the door for the cab ride home and we slept in separate beds because it was just too uncomfortable to do otherwise. How I yearn for a touch on the shoulder by a mother who needs a father the most. There's no politics today, only righteous bigots tallying the votes again. At least George Dubya was honest about his mistakes, you can't blame the bastard, he had no chance from the start. I don't know what else to say except this weather is the root of all evil, controlled by the 1%, who by this time, the weather of the birds ensures they fly to their yachts in sunny East/West tax havens.

deadline

Green beret hat cap knows the nonsense of the VC north bound brigade
I travel west with the artillery but i'm nothing that great, they just let me carry the wounded
the wounded is too much to handle, i'd have to go to the trenches to dig them out
what's left of our platoon? Not much. We need back-up, the raids overhead
cornucopia and i'm back in the studio, still wearing my dressings, they fit snug even after the 10 pounds I've gained. New years revolution at its finest. it's only day three and i'm going berserk trying to fit into my clothes. Think about Trump in this sick time. This time of decadence and falsetto moans from an ancient gallery of reptiles gliding through the cemetery at dawn trying to find a new place for my dog to pick a spot to release himself. These others know me too well. They captured me so to speak through the findings of the literature which is wrote and written. Trump is an other, we see him and his bedroom eyes and his clairvoyance dictatorship, which is pretty much why he's firing everyone. He wants office for himself, not a person more or less, it's a family vacation, like water skiing or running lines through straws off of disco mirrors and grand station funk journey planned nothing succumbs of it. This just kind of happened, he'll say. He never meant to have THAT much power, he just did it out of spite on his branded porcupine, penthouse floor united states in the looking glass staring down at all the lights and movement. I'm on top of the world he says, then another sniff. If I had to choose between Trump and Clinton, at this present time, Clinton wins my heart for her role in education. I've always had a soft spot for education, free education, free college and universities. Build the perspective of leaders to save the essence of the masses. One turns into four etc etc. And the government looks to the future for our leaders. Slap Trudeau on the back and he'll sign anything. Can't blame the bastard, he saved minimum wages for all employees in the service industry. But they'll tax it off anyways, so who's really in charge? Hell, I could see Trump running two terms, it's sick I know, but there's plenty of shotgun wielding, ex cons ready to vote again.

I'm in neutral. But this car is travelling forward.

candy apples

i can't even do it
i can't write a song
my mother says the same thing
she drops the emotional bomb

now, i lay in bed to sleep off the demons
that have plagued me all year
sucking my blood, spitting the fear
the end of the road is near

continuous paths driven to seclusion
i find hope in my barren isolation
the wasteland it follows for we are all apart of it
mother knows best, leisure time soon

cigarettes and candy apples
cotton candy and peanuts
we go to the ball game
but there's nobody playing

you'd think they'd have the nerve to keep the lights on
as if they wanted it, if they wanted more from me
in the sombre night time shadow of the moonlight
tri-colour conquistador hunter sword

just give it up, i'm told but she doesn't even know how to read
she is epitome of negativity, pushing my dreams aside so she can live through me forever
leaving me behind to age, with grey hair and up and down, around and falling

i leave you on that note, not a happy one indeed but hopefully this job at the Spec is all I ever need.

Gg

beatniks and Trump

beatniks corrupted by suburban wildfire to the outskirts of the city
all the good poets are dead, or dying, as we all die as soon as we're born
cross eyed ink letter, Quasimodo, welcome home
this place is stinky, a weird funk, too much ethanol
how can the beatnik write in these conditions?
does the beatnik even exist anymore?
are questioning questions even the answer.
i look to the left of the chopping block, cutting wood into the fire that my body will once be a part of
burns and gauze and little pustules of water squeezed like lemons out of your hand
the pin guides the liquid, the future will be that it heals, hopeful, no damage
i look around and i see nothing no darkness no triumph no nothing
just clouds in the sky waiting to be pushed away by Zeus to make his sun flow onto our crowded side streets and backyard tool and pool sheds
the beatnik knows this, he yearns for it, for the paper, for the next mission of up and down paranoia if the unknown soldier army pushes forth in the realm of cataclysm wanton self righteousness
when will we show our face in the blowing snow, a wind storm of ice and roofing debris
the roof is caving in on us any minute and i'm fearful that it may fall down on me as i write this, i hear the creaking of the stone throw away from appaloosa card shark, trip wire fence, aluminium calking and some elbow grease
into the light i am shone the example of a man who, newly becoming 30, realizes a lot longer than before
i could stay up all night writing with NyQuil and acetaminophen and nothing would make sense, because your perception of me will differ every 15 minutes
how can you judge a man in 15 minutes? is he raw, handsome, hung? what does the opposite sex want in a man in this comeuppance of answering questions to judge a person
there should be caves in the grotto, whiskey in the den, and a percolator of fresh, organic coffee in every room of the house (just in case i either wander into it or i leisurely stumble upon a cup as i do my daily activities)
this is heaven. too drunk to fuck playing in the background on repeat, those savages, do they understand the meaning of freedom of speech which Trump is exercising to his fullest and is diverting his lack of competence to the daily pop culture suck you up and spit you out news bureau
harvey fucking wallbanger is on the fence for this one, someone should ask him who he voted for, strange brute, he'll probably get me on slander for this article, if there's enough snow, he'll go anywhere
but back to Trump, every twitter message you see of his has a code to Russian alliances, and the Russians who follow, know the code and will act soon, maybe that's just paranoia, but it makes too much sense not to believe it. sleeper soldiers, waking up to a specific word or situation. has the whole world gone to madness?
when a poetic asshole like myself sees this happening just at his chamber door, it must have
my football gut instinct was right and i went for the Patriots, it was a happy day
Trump should have a guy like me working for them so they don't fuck around as much and can actually understand what the people want and that goes for Canada too because Trudeau will be dealing with Herr Trump throughout his journey as Prime Minister (prep school costs a lot).

Well,
Good riddance and good night
Happy New Year,
I have a feeling it's going to be one hell of an adventure

orgasm

my words are your orgasm
i speak them as you tremble
you lust to read the next chapter
you ache and moan and your boy toy is beside you
waiting for his need to be fulfilled
your toy
that's all he ever was
you could look at him with awe but you knew his home was your bedroom
your boudoir, your sanctuary
you let him in with cheap wine and a spliff
the ativan helped too
you'd be at it for hours
breaking into each other, crashing on the waves against the rocks
she would leave in the morning and you lingered around
lazy, unjust, still sweating from the night before
you could taste her lip gloss on your mouth still
well, the lip gloss that was still on her mouth
whatever was left of it
again, my words are your orgasm
tremble, lust, ache and moan
outer space never felt so heavenly
the angels in your ears
the ringing of your libido
good night, and that was all she said before she turned you off
into the storm, into the night, into the lust
but never forgotten

Gg