Sitting and Looting

Let the record state that he did not commit this crime
He was laying in his home on a hard wood floor
Watching the latest news on the history channel
Channel surfing through the exact spots he'd been before
Pausing only briefly then coming back for more
Circles and circles that go around and around
To no ones surprise he is utterly forgettable
Lacking all his motor skills as he slips away into oblivion
No matter the cost of pay per view
He will dream of everything under the sun
While the waning moonlight passes once again
Determined to float on his cloud till its over
But the television static keeps his mind shocked
Keeps his blankets too warm to cover with
As the cold essences of night and winter bleed into his skin
He will shiver while sports casters review the week
Lying about their favored influences
Commiting sins as they rattle off insults to the institutions that allowed them to exist
and he will shake in place distracted by the sound of the passing track stars
Training in the summer while they hustle from block to block
Keeping in shape in little short shorts
But he has no time to watch the view
He's busy turning it from channel one too two
Little by little the termite mounds build
Molding into the houses that are digested still
His home and he's been getting older
But no more bolder as they begin to eat his toe nails
For there is nothing left but he
He and his television
He and his cable equipment
Everything is on
But none of it means shit
And when the hopeless romantics pass him by
Trying to take pity on him
He will shoo them off
Haven't not bathed for days
His eyes are glued to a commercial
Featuring some famous star
Just lying through their teeth.

Straight and Narrow Nevermind

In yesteryear 

He had a tingle of anticipation

Behind his eyes

But he didn't heed the call

He stuck to his studies

Bound his eyes to the road

And seldom greeted his neighbors

He wandered onward

On a direct path

Oblivious to the beauty and the horror

That unfolded alongside

But he continued on

Not caring

For never seeing

He had no time to be repulsed

Or to want it

His goals were set

And so were his ways

That when he was old and feeble

He was indeed chronic

Chronically infeebled

Embarassingly un-peopled

Not knowing left to right

Only front and forward

Sitting up straight

And never slacking off

Seldom taking time

For any jacking off

Desposited in his ways

So that at the end of his days

He was worthy of nothing

But his own reward

So with a shrug

A pat on the back

And a world weary sigh

He mustered up the courage

To look behind

And he cried

Swallowing a lump in his throat

But despite wanting it all now

As hard as he tried

To walk backward

He coulnd't make it there

He fell on his knees and begged and begged

But he couldn't be heard

For the maker was busy

Making joy for the weary.

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.