They Say Only Fools Rush In

Pharisee

Pyrotechnic hands are raised
As eyes are glazed with blind faith
Offering un-fazed salutes
With (one) finger to the truth
And (two) upright in sacrifice
For each of (three) denials.
(Four) of (five) are tried by trials
Of the vague and "Christian" sense
That may or may not exist.
Thus with words both never meant
And scattered over fourths and fifths
Poor chords sear their souls with glee
Euphoric mid-cacophony
Of post-creativity
Then lost for (six) or (seven) days
To masturbate away the gays
Then wake up at (eight) and rinse . . .
Abandon sin and common sense
For prejudice and pretense
As if we're (nine)-lived creatures.
Backroading faith to glory
To escape the bloody stories
Of the dying and burnt out
Tourniquet tithe a small amount
Now, are we down . . . for . . . the count

(Ten).

Quiero Comida!!!!

Prepositional Incarnations


You can tell me that death is forever
That beauty in strange places
Wearing scarred faces never was.
That the timings of hoping are chance
Matchsticks in desolation are trance
That the void in the star-scape is coming
And the mind of the skeptic is humming
In our ears, and that science defines
These disparate blurring lines
And all else is just blips
Random synaptic firings in a chaotic world
All but begging me to believe
You tell me, you tell me
But that doesn't change what I see.

Only the Lonely

Antipathetic Filler Kills

"Negligence" cry blinded mice
Speaking in the land of lice
Reeking both of unwashed flesh
And branches grafted, limbs spliced
Together into mansions
Built pseudonyms of failure
Hanged man from the monorail
Finds the apathy of God.
Nausea floods the remedy
Hemorrhaging memories
Like aneurystic doctrines
Bail other facts in buckets
Keep floating in the muck yet
Listing toward the monolith
Anti-intellectual
Mostly ineffectual
Thinking God is in the synths
Distortion pre-recorded
Our Theos burnings dormant.

Percent Ampersand Ampersand Snicker Snicker Snicker

Fourths and Fifths


Change is born with each phasing atom
Chance within each split infinity
Empty, hollow rocks hold destiny
Though enmity spans many fathoms
Incompletion scrolls the universe
As oppression fakes each hallowed hold
There exchanging divine sparks for mold
Leavened with the covenanted curse
Brokenness bars possibility
And mars scars with insecurity
Now turning healing into pity
With each irresponsibility
Burning promise into claustrophobes
And our pain attempts one last escape
With velvet sin forming concrete drapes
Where death is cloaked with our human robes
Remember, it's just the beginning.




Earrings, Statues and Snakes


Wandering inside these what ifs . . .
Yes, grace and pain feel much the same
And we wish the gods would tame
Themselves for our amusement.
So go ahead and turn me gray
Baptize me with spit
Tongue bathe me with shit
And wash me clean with irony
In the baptismal font of fire and farce
Forbidden fruits of Spirit sparse
Only eaten by the chosen few
Keeping company with fools
But there's only dark in whiter lies.
Prayer drops warping wooden floors
Tattooed with shrouds and plaster and sores
Waiting for the wild to come claiming
But everything is too tame to save me
Smoke and grinning torture
And god I need a drink.

Somebody told me that Mormons taste like donuts, and I said that's not possible, they don't drink caffeine

Witnessing a Murder


Creating Hell with insistence
Spontaneous riffs on existence
If life is wasted is breathing vain?
With each contraction exhaling shame
Conjunctions spell subtraction slain
A teeming mass of human game
Hunted by the same, divine without fame
Mocking each stitching, seizured side.
A Sisyphus climbing Syzygy's slide
And form without function is pride
Least until Dante finds us a home.
Industry replacing Shalom
Post scripts of violence echo Dear John
Where God signs the greetings of cons.
A poorer place, the world is lost
The sky is calm, the trees are tossed
By endless vengeance and arrogance
If we're going to die, then shall we dance?
Whiskey tango foxtrot, my side's caught
I can't breathe, dimes for nickel thoughts
What if I traded love, created naught?