Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Left on Burned

Posted: February 21, 2016 in lyrics, madness, poetry, rap lyrics, writer's block


Unless I can become like chameleon
ready to feel again, steady enough to in my own head
deal again
with the spinning wheel that keeps stealing
every deal I was ever in
Like a clever pin
always flies away from it’s own donkey tail
cause what taught me failed to teach me
to stop haunting what I preach
with lies over-reached
Every whale on every beach sinking
back into the ocean and thinking it’s close
to where it’s supposed to be
meaning as a mammal of metaphor
an animal edit store
of energy, memory and angst
an inch from death pinched
doom breath of old turtle toon talking
spoon walking red herring overload
exploding into a prolapsed sun
expanding into the new universe
of unheard, wish and well-lookers held
fed all the ego juice so it breathes
grows fruit mold Pegasus wings
and flies between the fridge door
give birth to a new monster
haunt the kids for crying
staying up
watching R rated films
pocketing nightmares
like models of a horror kiln
over turned on burned the house down
turned on burned the house down
burned on build the house found
burned on learned the house down
left on burned the house down

A fighter
muscles left to pound themselves out
stress obsessed with a shiny grimy magazine
vision of science fiction
tugging at the gravel scabs of being airplane spun
out the driveway window
out of the highway symbols
when the absent glow of traffic cone robots
gives a last lift home to the last bit of hope
of decency of an asshole drunk cyclone
on hypnosis self-help clone training videos
to train your clones to hide in ninja clothes
so you can try to whip their asses
when they jump out at you
but when they jump out at you they are too trained
and your brain is being paved
as the triple pane of glass on the driveway window
on the highway high-speed chase
CGI fight scene of you
fighting a loose tooth and a screws loose
and a cyborg goose laying gold plate
hiphop beats that hide as rawhide transformers
enhanced torture on every fantasy
of every leper colony dirt bag beggars cup
left open to suck up all the writers block
and all nighters chalk
outlining your body like god was a hobby
you forgot to read the instructions about
and now you try to build a cloud
out of IKEA Lego towns
but the tools are for an alien species
and your hand cannot handle these
wood panel cheese volvo
station wagon memories
left burned on
set upon words
messed tongs turned
bar-b-que bird
and I am not a cute cartoon stuffed friend human
to hold close like aspirin
I am not your last ditch effort dad asking
if your sister washed your hair again
not the garbage being walked out
to get burned
I get burned by being left on burned



Tuesday Sun Out

Posted: May 5, 2014 in nature, poetry

I know I look skinny
You think I need meat grow
But I still spit it
Get down with a beat slow-

Writing in a notebook
Walking in the wind
Talking to aliens
They try to be my friends-

Cars be my enemies
Money is a poison
My only tech’s a drum machine
So hear the noise go-

I’m reading comic books
And watching cartoons
While my fictional world
Starts to bloom-

Like a fallen angel
I ate my own wings off
I can play guitar hard
And still sing soft-

Maybe a slave to white
Powder crushed on a mirror
Rolled up the queen
Forgot and got queer-

I dream about the world
Ending in a flood
So when I juggle outside
I never drop in the mud-

I’m invincible, sick
Yet one day I’ll die
People promising riches
Some say they’ll cry-

My lyrics might take
Some misinterpretation
No reason not to blog

Words come out fresh
No reason to edit
Cells reborn infinit
No reason for a medic-

Hell, I’m my own breakthrough
An effing miracle
When I get teary eyed
And all spiritual-

When I read the dice
Coins tossed and drawn
Skeptical people want me
To sing a different song-

But I’m a child of the new age
Blue wave hat on
Pick my instrument and
Sing a new rap song-

About everything I hate
And things I haven’t decided
Cause it’s all Lady Luck
Broken urban planets collided-

Hide it on confusion
Corner in a bottle
I’ll be flying to the next
Level full throttle-

If traffic doesn’t kill me
I may live forever
Like pillow fights in
The land of Never Never-

A little less clever
Still I’m rarely stupid
Unless I choose to be
You’ll never see me do it-

With a lab coat
And some Nyquil
Stumbling between two
Buildings on a tight-rope-

It’s Tuesday the sun’s out
I’m free of winter
My feet cruise
My mind’s a splinter-

My hands take control
And bleed black ink
I may look crazy
Like a speed K freak-

If it’s not poetry
It’s a lovely confession
Takes my mind off
The other obsessions-

Like spacedust
And card games
Mental exercises
That aren’t hard to blame-

For my wallet being
As light as a feather
I’m just so glad
For better weather-

Give me no destination
And I’m smiling
The sun beams down
The hours are just whiling…



Kill the Thief of Time

Posted: December 5, 2013 in poetry, work

Six calls for money and I’m making less-
Smoking to deal with the stress-
Surrounded by cigarettes-
Another for hours in the warehouse of death-

I’m working for dark merchants-
Trying to gain power to purchase-
My tranquilizer of choice-
Capitalist sympathizer, indebted by force-

Put aside the credit card bills-
Feed the insatiable cash tills-
A slave buying cold pills-
While my pen hand just won’t be still-

Blue ink overflows with the same old concepts-
Where the stiff winter dawn crept-
Beside my buzzing phone I slept-
By the remnants of forgotten nightmares haunted-

So I jot down harsh rhymes at the back of the bus-
Sweating in my black jacket I rush-
In time for my shift with no fuss-
And from my supervisor I get no love-

Cause I’m just a scarecrow in the warehouse-
A trained monkey to scare mouse-
Living where the corporate air is so scared of-
Someone devising a heist to steal the mountains of dust-

But sometimes you go where the poetry flows-
When your money just comes and goes-
A bus you’re on, but its going to slow-
A sprout out in the snowbanks that just won’t grow-

I patiently wait for my shift to end-
So I can go get shifty with my friends-
Dancing in the dark of a bar basement-
Watching poor white dragon chasers do their chasing-

And I know I’ll chase that white dragon tail as well-
Laid out on a mirror reflecting a sort of hell-
Dragging me down that lost gravity well-
Of the habits I dabble in, but afterwards can’t tell-

If I’m a hero or a monster-
A zero or a top score-
The Mckoy or an imposter-
Deploying my brain cells like cannon fodder-

Before the machine guns of destruction-
In the dream drug fueled combustion-
The walls keep breathing, crushing in-
You ray so hard for something, where nothing is-

Cause nothing is real in this oblivion-
The heats on high but you’re still shivering-
Your quiver of arrows is empty, the dead bodies of sparrows-
Litter the streets you’re living in-

You’re thinking of giving into the darkness-
Drawn by the power the demons harness-
Hide your life in corners till you’re heartless-
All the evils you sow seem so harmless-

You count your phoenix feathers before they burn-
Forget your lessons before they’re learned-
Steal others blessings, undeserved-
Down the cesspool of the river lethe your death boat swerves-

Lost souls eyes lined with red coins paid-
Dead bodies piled the riverbanks made-
A wild red river rushes untamed-
With the bones and skulls the grey bridges are paved-

And you walk a long lonely trek home-
Muscles creaking over joints that moan-
Your nose running mucus lined lips shone-
Whispering songs in a slow low tone-

Turn a cold key in a snow crusted lock-
A hunger returns that you must have forgot-
You shuffle your boots off and put on a pot-
A last bag of cheap chinese tea is all you’ve got-

Blow the steam off the cup and breathe-
Time to leave your fears for troubled dreams-
While reality and oblivion blur at the seams-
Time to creep into the empty sleep of the fiend-

Body still, a mind to slow down-
Because I still find this whole town-
Cannot be eaten by poetry’s hound-
Or in a river of metaphors drown-

So forget words lines and syllables-
Finding solace should be so simple-
The next day is a book you fill-
While the night is a crook you kill-

So I kill the thief of time-
Give myself chills with rhymes-
Inside dark beats I find-
Darker words that climb-

Out of my throat like scarabs-
A mummy with no wrap, hairless-
A fallen angel feasting on cherubs-
So fearless, so careless, so hear this-

Song like a foreshadow of doom-
Notes that rise from an undug tome-
I shrug like the bug on the mushroom-
Telling Alice she’s grown-

Cause my words are slow-
Mixed grey with smoke-
The thief of time is broken-
And my dead hours don’t know where to go.

The Gift of Freedom #1:
Of never having been incarcerated
for the numerous crimes of my youth-

The Gift of Life : #2:
of never having succumb
to the diseases that have surely
brushed my essence.

Gift #3 (or Reason):
For only briefly entertaining
the madness that comes
from the unchosen unprofession
of poetic engineering.

The Gift that is Number #4:
[Fearless Fear]
which also contains:
the gifts of speech-
not sleeping
and staring the carriages of death
in the eyes unflinching.

And Finally (the fifth) Gift:
Membership for five lifetimes
into the Imagum.
Where I bear my hands
to the winds and give life
to sentences of frozen ink
that vampires of the future
may lavish over or ignore
as is their specific will.

Poetry, is a window into a world without reason.
the days grease the cogs of production,
reminds you that this machine is a facade built
over the headquarters of madness.

UR ink

Posted: October 28, 2013 in Aphorism, modern life, ode to possessions, poetry
Tags: , ,

hold a pen
index finger, middle fingers and thumb
hold it like a friend

the space of your hand
makes a smiling face
the gentle ink appears
as if by magic
from the tip

and you scrawl out your message
to the world that day

Addicted to Poetry (c.2003)

Posted: October 14, 2013 in poetry

This has become
a little piece of evil
a never ending line
spilling from my fingers
greedy as they are
stealing little notebooks
from bright Shoppers Drugmart
light snow falls on Selkirk
Craig walks aimlessly
story of his life
addicted to poetry
greedy as it is
stealing the meaning
from whispered metaphors
take a seat
on stone covered in ice
maybe too caught up in himself
to notice the watchers
paranoid little fuckers
writing in third person
buying his bic pencils
in the throes of addiction
addicted to his poetry
that of the broken
short word style
nobody reads anyway
snow falling lightly
omens appearing heavy
he continues his misspelled journey