Materialistic Outrage

Take the collections of the collectors
Put them in a toaster
Melt them down and bake them
Crusted and feeble they fall against the sand
And when they come back for them
The people are lost and confused
Miserable and auto-tuned
So that their voices are fused
Non-Discernible from one to the other
Crying out in high pitched squeals
Foul play conducted on their play things
It makes a tantalizing cover story
When the shop worker finds his stamps are dust
When the cashier clamors on all fours for her ticket stubs
But it is not a nice ending to a bitter trial
But then again no one ever claimed it would be
What it is, is serendipitous
Claustrophobic calamities that no one cared to cart around
As one decade passed into the next
And all they had from then to now
Was a Hostess wrapper on the floor of their bathroom
A pointless reminder of a pointless artifact
Go on and conduct a search
Tally off on your log books all the people you grilled
Hollered off and knocked down for touching your shit
But don't be offended when it comes up nil
For you were the culprit
You killed the things you loved.

The Ballad of a Reaper

In the briefest of scenes 

Of girl meets guy

He said what he means

But it was a lie

The little orchard that was up the hill

Means not a thing now

For once he had his fill

He was left to bloat and drown

Condensed like a can of nothing

Harking back to the ages of darkness

He can't see the blank lines that he's passing

And he is lost in his weary starkness

Blasted the old sage wisdom

Whispers told by those much wiser

A cannon shot of idiom

He will attempt to mask and disguise her

With all the wishy washy wishes he wished for her face

When once he was dreaming on his bed ridden place

But he can't seem to fathom the answers as they pace

Back and forth amongst the apple orchard 

And they will kiss and love it still

Even after the blood letting has gotten its fill

Even after the world seems to blankly forget them

They will not forget each other for the common.

And as Act two opens wide

When the curtain pulls open

The groom will be dead, and the bride,

Well she'll be weeping, with soap in her,

Hands as they are scarcely red,

Where she scrubbed and she toiled,

To make it not her who had made him quite dead,

But the trick you see, it was spoiled

For the caretakers entered and spotted her there

With blood on her hand, stuck and smeared with happy tears,

There was even a droplet of red in her hair,

And they could not even fathom their fears.

Yet they lifted the corpse and brought it out to pasture

In the middle of some farmland specacled with manure

And their they buried the groomsmen for deathly sure

If he wasn't dead then he was dead again now.

And they will kiss and love it still

Even after the blood letting has gotten its fill

Even after the world seems to coldly remember them,

They won't recall it all for they is no longer,

Only she remembers everything,

And he, 

Well he can't remember or regain again,

For he is dead

And six feet under. 

Beast From An Irrational Hell

Don't slather me with your bile
And then claim that I made you sick
I am innocent in this crime
It is I who is a witness,
And you are a perpetrator
I exist in this ozone of poisonous vapors,
But I didn't park my car in a green zone and leave it running
You may have forgotten that you brought in your gases
Left the lid off and then turned and walked away
Though your memory slipped
It is so,
You can't forget what you did just because shame causes you to be weary
At the far end of a spectrum of wishy washy blabber
You are as clean as bloodied whale blubber
That is smeared on your hands from when you killed them
And when you clubbed baby seals
So what if your wearing a tutu
In the eyes of my god who is in all purposes me
Your clothes don't make you
And besides they were made by someone else
And you are only using them to disguise you
Here in the blank tone of your sweet lie
Others can believe you the saint in this world
But the smell of feces is underneath your skin
And you slither your words and mine as well slither your self
For you may just be  a legless scaly lizard
A sickened version of a limbless human being
A sort of demon that needs to be castrated and put in your place
So you can somehow resemble a human.

Possible Rough Opening for New Book

What could be said of Adam Lancaster except that he was an exceptionally unfortunate child.   At the ripe young age of six he would discover something of himself that would forever change who he was.   Before that however other events transpired and shaped him so that when this ever changing event did finally occur he was already on route to be one sort of person.  With great confusion this story will be told.   For if no one knows the impossible, no one can explain it.

            Adam had a certain curiousity that was common among young boys who were often left up to their own devices.   He would wonder amongst the trees in the woods behind his house and find underneath the moist logs a world of bugs and salamanders that scurried about to hide themselves from a spring or summer son.   He would often kneel in for a closer look and once in awhile when his curiousity granted him enough courage he would reach a hand down and allow the creepy crawling things that existed their to explore his appendages and make their ways up his arm.   He never once was bitten by these insect and never once screamed in fear.

            When he wasn’t doing that Adam was in all honesty a rather dull child and only lightly educated.   He had been removed from his public school environment was was supposed to be partaking of an education at home that would have been delivered by his mother but that alas never really happened.   Things ideally had started out towards that route and Adam Lancasters mother had been prepared to teach him everything she knew, but beyond simple mathematics, and simplistic sentences, the only thing Adam truly perfected at that time was how to legibly write his name.

            His mother was called Alice and she was a dutiful sort of mother and loved her child with everything she could muster.    It was unfortunate then that she met the man named Grant Hawkins who introduced her to recreational drugs, and segued into a whirlwind of narcotics until eventually he initially coaxed the lovely Alice into injectin herself with heroin.  The rest as it is said is history.   Those traits that we often associate with wonderful parents were plentiful in Alice when she was sober, but she was seldom not sober, and all the time that she was under the influence of her second more powerful love, she was powerless to be a proper mother.

            Adam looked forward to the times when he would have a chance to be held, hugged, remined that he was special.   When Alice was clear headed she did just that, and bathed him, and read him stories to get him to sleep.   There was a warmth in their relationship that would have made everyone take notice, but unfortunately Grant Hawkins was also a part of this picture too.

            It was around the time of Adams fourth birthday that the man he once called Uncle Grant was becoming his “new father” as his mother had pointed out.    Adam was instructed to refer to him as daddy, and papa, and Adam happily obliged.   The man had wore his disguise well, slithering his way in to the heart of the pair.   In those times he was a warm sweet man, honest, genuine, or at the very least he had been exceptionally well at acting the part.   Till one faithful day the knuckles bruised against the small of Adams back.    He had dropped a small scotch glass on the floor after being instructed to retrieve it with his five year old fingers.   The licquor was drenched and sitting amongst the liquid of whiskey that soaked into the floorboards.   The footsteps were quick and heavy, and the sound of a the creaking recliner as its occupant left it were a haunting reminder of when it all started.    After he was struck Adam laid about the floor beside the shattered glass wailing, and the man Grant Hawkins returned to his chair with a new glass of whiskey, and remote in hand holding down the volume button, and turning his head to tell the pained boy that he didn’t hit him hard enough to warrant the outcry.  Alice was present and absent as she laid on the couch with a belt tight upon her arm and her neck cranked back and eyes to the ceiling as if studying the ceiling fan as it spun and twirled while young Adam sobbed into the whiskey that seeped towards his face.