The Murder King - One
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Monday, November 15, 2010
A really outstanding day! It's your responsibility to find Happiness. The key is not so much to force The World to conform to your perceptions and petty whims, but rather, appreciate what you see Right Then, Right There, Right Now. YOU will never be more Beautiful than today. Uploaded with the Flock Browser - http://www.flock.com
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Monday, September 14, 2009
One Night In November
Prologue:
We gathered every treasure,
every pleasure, every pain.
Marching through the Never in the cold and pouring rain.
Although the load grew heavy, we endured every mile.
We dreamed the dream of little men,
if only for awhile...
Four walked the corner, at four in the morning.
A rumour of War had broke late, without warning.
The corner location I hardly remember,
but I'm sure that it happened one night in November.
The seed sown by Eve, and by Adam, lay dreaming,
while a rotted-out nation ignores their salvation.
Through gutter, and ghetto, and alley, I walk.
There were four on that corner,
and we needed to talk.
I look on ahead, and I view on the corner:
A Tyrant,
A Vicar,
A Whore, and a Martyr.
The Whore had her Garter,
The Vicar had Faith,
The Martyr had Agony, the Tyrant had Wrath.
The Whore and the Tyrant debated Religion.
They angered the Vicar, who loudly opinioned:
"I'm ending your quarrel forever and all,
for I am Religion, and therefore, the law!"
The Tyrant retorted: "Only if you're dead.
I'm Law for the living, or I part neck from head."
"Whim isn't Law." said the Whore with the Garter.
"You're Law isn't Justice, why just ask the Martyr."
The Martyr inhaled, and parted split lips:
"I've never felt Freedom; I've just felt the whip."
"I've Faith in you, Martyr!" the Vicar declared.
"I've taught to The Multitude faith in your Word!"
"You're a goddamned Liar!" the Martyr then spit.
"You corrupted my Truth with your Dogma and shit!
Diluting my teaching, and editing my Word -
I hardly can stomach the tales I have heard!
Ignoring The Father, and beating His Son;
You’ve made Holy Ghosts out of living children.
You torture,
You murder,
You pilfer, and thieve!
You've lied to the broken who dared to believe!
I gave my strength to the downtrodden weak!
My Word was a shield to the Voiceless and Meek.
Mercy was mine in a Peaceful domain.
You Blackguard,
You Cynic -
You prophet from pain!
You're knifing the horse,
You’re robbing the cart,
You’re picking their pocket, and breaking my heart.
Your Lawless Commandments leave all Truth undone,
In silence, your violence part Father from Sons..."
From Killing Fields, came not one, but two,
Folly and Cruelty had nothing to do.
They rode our economy like a new stolen car.
They both drank tequila in a third-world bar.
"Which way are you headed?" The Tyrant called out.
"We're off to the Village!" they drunkenly shout.
They staggered on over, while spilling their liquor,
and took turns embracing their cousin, the Vicar.
They spoke of Madrid, Tel Aviv, and Iran.
Folly then cleared his throat, and began:
"Down In The Village, the women wear red.
Our Leaders are liars, our Profits are dead.
No Preacher will preach, no Hero will save
in the Land of The Free, and the Home of The Brave.
The Village was dreaming of Warlords in Asia.
I heard Doctors scheme for a new euthanasia.
They fabricate illness, Police cause the crime.
Teachers breed ignorance most of the time
A chorus of wounded, they sing at my feet,
as Dignity Battalions go roaming the streets.
Marauding the fallen with spears at their sides,
They're crashing the wedding, and rape battered brides.
They stalk out the Churches, the Temples, and Malls,
lining up cattle along Wailing Walls.
A kick in the teeth, and a kick to the balls;
Our knees are all broken.
We're Broke, and we're choking.
The joke is on you, and you happily laugh
at the lint in your pocket. Why, just do the math!
We've strayed off the Path the Divine has so given,
and the hearts that are beating have long lost their rhythm.
So low fell the cheque, and the Halifax-driven
have gave way to Dragons and the end of the living.
The ethics involved in a gang-rape and pillage have come home to roost,
and they're Down In The Village.
On a dark, quiet night,
(if the Moon is just right)
They sing sad songs of Candleland.
Of broken hopes,
and broken backs,
Of forearms laced with needle tracks.
They'll sing the song of Dan the Cutter who butchered babies in the gutter.
And Bobbie-Jo, who travel far, to our fair city, to be a Star.
One Year,
One Month,
One Bad Habit later,
we found her hanging in an elevator.
They paid her pimp in heroin.
He made a fortune from her lifes end.
We navigate this blasted land, and yet you wonder who I am.
Am I Lion?
Am I Lamb?
Am I the Piper to lead The Damned?
Am I Saint?
Apostate Angel?
Horns and Tail?
Wings and Halo?
Am I Hero?
Am I Nero?
In the Major Arcana, my card is Zero.
In the Minor Arcana, I'm nine slim swords.
Your bastards and orphans are my bonded wards.
Your mortuary chapel is a temple to Me,
and every new widow is my bride-to-be.
Your graveyard's my garden in the Devils Noonday.
I'm Charon,
Valkyrie,
Immortal...
Folly and Cruelty, they now turned to me.
“We shared you our tale, now share one for me.”
Weary, they made me of dark Candleland.
I cleared out my throat.
I breathed in, and began:
When I was younger,
I could barely remember,
when I never knew a junkie, or an alley in winter.
My Mom and my Dad lived together back then.
I had a Real Family until I turned ten.
Father would work, and Mother would cook.
My Brother and Sisters had schoolwork and books.
I can remember VFW Hall.
Every Halloween past, they had candy for all.
Trimming the tree for the Christmas holiday.
“No peeking for Santa!” but we did anyway.
For Santas late snack, we would take special care.
Dad told us Santa liked Slim Jims and beer.
Mother told us “That snack’s not for Santa,
‘cause Santa had ulcers, and would need Mylanta.”
Both of them laughed, but we never caught the joke,
And all the warmth left after Dad left us broke.
Mother suspected, but soon it was known
When they shut off the lights, and cut off our phone.
We sat in the dark, and I heard Momma crying.
She said that she wasn’t, but I knew she was lying.
In all of my wandering from Baghdad, to Rome,
I learned early on; you can’t ever go back home…
A little while later, along came Charity.
The Vicar didn’t know her.
The Martyr: He loathed her.
Charity asked if any would know, of a road or a path, that would lead her from Rome.
The Whore replied:
“Walk well on your way, take The Right-Handed Path.
You will then find my friend.
And my friends name is Faith.
Ask Faith if she’ll lead you, she’ll tell you the truth.
You'll walk until noon, and you’ll meet her friend Ruth.
Be sure you invite her, for then you are blessed.
If you leave her behind, then you’ll be Ruthless.
You’ll pass up Uncertainty, Hate, and Self-Doubt.
Walk boldly with Faith, and you’re on your way out.”
The Tyrant,
The Vicar,
The Whore,
And The Martyr, Each had an opinion they’re willing to barter.
Throw the witch in the water, and we’ll see if she floats
as we litter our wasteland with suicide notes.
This Golden Lack of Opportunity
is an insult and a mockery.
I carefully explained this was grievous and wrong.
The Tyrant stood up, and he burst into song:
“This lack is your lack.
This lack is my lack,
without a need to feed our Sons and Daughters.
We’d rather bloody the Persian waters…
This lack was made by You and Me.”
All but I and The Whore shared a laugh
At the outrage he crafted from grim epitaph.
Far beyond anguish, I barely could cope
with the ending of Rainbows at the end of my rope.
I cock back a fist, and with all of my might,
punched 3 out of 4 on that corner tonight.
“How the FUCK can you joke,” I spat at the Three
“about all the horror you gave them and me?!?!?!?!
By rifle and Canon, I never can tell
If I’ll end up in prison, or end up in Hell
You promised me Justice, and robbed me of Freedom.
You promise Democracy while picking my Leaders.
You promise us Progress, and poison the daisies.
You promise us choices, and kill off our babies.
I promise you fuckers, I'll see you undone,
if it takes me a Lifetime of pipe bomb and gun!”
As if then on cue, came a shout in the night.
Automatic weapons engaged in a fight.
The bombings and drive-bys were rocking Rome hard on the bared
bayonets of The National Guard.
The Whore shook her head, and she offered her hand.
"You get the children, we'll save what we can."
I gathered the children, as she gathered arms
to safe our ways passage, and keep us from harm.
Explosions grew closer, and brighter, and louder.
The air had grown thick in the late midnight hour.
The alleyways cleared as the landing craft neared.
Disaster declared! It was just as we feared.
We climbed up Mt. Zion, avoiding that War;
some children with me, and a gunrunning Whore.
Now cresting the summit, we looked on below,
from where they had shined in the dim neon glow.
The Brown, Black, and Yellow;
both Red Man and White:
not one of those fuckers lived after that night.
And what of our Icons, both Tyrant and Vicar?
They sold out your future for smut and cheap liquor.
How 'bout The Martyr?
Did YOU watch him fall?
Show me the proof he existed at all!
The only thing Real were The Children with Me,
and a gunrunning whore, who avoided that War.
I now call her Hero.
I won't call her Whore.
There will be no more Village.
There will be no more War.
When Rome is just ashes, and legend.
I think,
I will toast my new Hero, and buy her a drink.
Epilogue:
At The End of It All, I would hope you'll remember
every liar,
every cheat,
every cunning pretender.
Conveying non-fiction via frictional diction,
I defend my depiction of the Urban Condition...
We gathered every treasure,
every pleasure, every pain.
Marching through the Never in the cold and pouring rain.
Although the load grew heavy, we endured every mile.
We dreamed the dream of little men,
if only for awhile...
Four walked the corner, at four in the morning.
A rumour of War had broke late, without warning.
The corner location I hardly remember,
but I'm sure that it happened one night in November.
The seed sown by Eve, and by Adam, lay dreaming,
while a rotted-out nation ignores their salvation.
Through gutter, and ghetto, and alley, I walk.
There were four on that corner,
and we needed to talk.
I look on ahead, and I view on the corner:
A Tyrant,
A Vicar,
A Whore, and a Martyr.
The Whore had her Garter,
The Vicar had Faith,
The Martyr had Agony, the Tyrant had Wrath.
The Whore and the Tyrant debated Religion.
They angered the Vicar, who loudly opinioned:
"I'm ending your quarrel forever and all,
for I am Religion, and therefore, the law!"
The Tyrant retorted: "Only if you're dead.
I'm Law for the living, or I part neck from head."
"Whim isn't Law." said the Whore with the Garter.
"You're Law isn't Justice, why just ask the Martyr."
The Martyr inhaled, and parted split lips:
"I've never felt Freedom; I've just felt the whip."
"I've Faith in you, Martyr!" the Vicar declared.
"I've taught to The Multitude faith in your Word!"
"You're a goddamned Liar!" the Martyr then spit.
"You corrupted my Truth with your Dogma and shit!
Diluting my teaching, and editing my Word -
I hardly can stomach the tales I have heard!
Ignoring The Father, and beating His Son;
You’ve made Holy Ghosts out of living children.
You torture,
You murder,
You pilfer, and thieve!
You've lied to the broken who dared to believe!
I gave my strength to the downtrodden weak!
My Word was a shield to the Voiceless and Meek.
Mercy was mine in a Peaceful domain.
You Blackguard,
You Cynic -
You prophet from pain!
You're knifing the horse,
You’re robbing the cart,
You’re picking their pocket, and breaking my heart.
Your Lawless Commandments leave all Truth undone,
In silence, your violence part Father from Sons..."
From Killing Fields, came not one, but two,
Folly and Cruelty had nothing to do.
They rode our economy like a new stolen car.
They both drank tequila in a third-world bar.
"Which way are you headed?" The Tyrant called out.
"We're off to the Village!" they drunkenly shout.
They staggered on over, while spilling their liquor,
and took turns embracing their cousin, the Vicar.
They spoke of Madrid, Tel Aviv, and Iran.
Folly then cleared his throat, and began:
"Down In The Village, the women wear red.
Our Leaders are liars, our Profits are dead.
No Preacher will preach, no Hero will save
in the Land of The Free, and the Home of The Brave.
The Village was dreaming of Warlords in Asia.
I heard Doctors scheme for a new euthanasia.
They fabricate illness, Police cause the crime.
Teachers breed ignorance most of the time
A chorus of wounded, they sing at my feet,
as Dignity Battalions go roaming the streets.
Marauding the fallen with spears at their sides,
They're crashing the wedding, and rape battered brides.
They stalk out the Churches, the Temples, and Malls,
lining up cattle along Wailing Walls.
A kick in the teeth, and a kick to the balls;
Our knees are all broken.
We're Broke, and we're choking.
The joke is on you, and you happily laugh
at the lint in your pocket. Why, just do the math!
We've strayed off the Path the Divine has so given,
and the hearts that are beating have long lost their rhythm.
So low fell the cheque, and the Halifax-driven
have gave way to Dragons and the end of the living.
The ethics involved in a gang-rape and pillage have come home to roost,
and they're Down In The Village.
On a dark, quiet night,
(if the Moon is just right)
They sing sad songs of Candleland.
Of broken hopes,
and broken backs,
Of forearms laced with needle tracks.
They'll sing the song of Dan the Cutter who butchered babies in the gutter.
And Bobbie-Jo, who travel far, to our fair city, to be a Star.
One Year,
One Month,
One Bad Habit later,
we found her hanging in an elevator.
They paid her pimp in heroin.
He made a fortune from her lifes end.
We navigate this blasted land, and yet you wonder who I am.
Am I Lion?
Am I Lamb?
Am I the Piper to lead The Damned?
Am I Saint?
Apostate Angel?
Horns and Tail?
Wings and Halo?
Am I Hero?
Am I Nero?
In the Major Arcana, my card is Zero.
In the Minor Arcana, I'm nine slim swords.
Your bastards and orphans are my bonded wards.
Your mortuary chapel is a temple to Me,
and every new widow is my bride-to-be.
Your graveyard's my garden in the Devils Noonday.
I'm Charon,
Valkyrie,
Immortal...
Folly and Cruelty, they now turned to me.
“We shared you our tale, now share one for me.”
Weary, they made me of dark Candleland.
I cleared out my throat.
I breathed in, and began:
When I was younger,
I could barely remember,
when I never knew a junkie, or an alley in winter.
My Mom and my Dad lived together back then.
I had a Real Family until I turned ten.
Father would work, and Mother would cook.
My Brother and Sisters had schoolwork and books.
I can remember VFW Hall.
Every Halloween past, they had candy for all.
Trimming the tree for the Christmas holiday.
“No peeking for Santa!” but we did anyway.
For Santas late snack, we would take special care.
Dad told us Santa liked Slim Jims and beer.
Mother told us “That snack’s not for Santa,
‘cause Santa had ulcers, and would need Mylanta.”
Both of them laughed, but we never caught the joke,
And all the warmth left after Dad left us broke.
Mother suspected, but soon it was known
When they shut off the lights, and cut off our phone.
We sat in the dark, and I heard Momma crying.
She said that she wasn’t, but I knew she was lying.
In all of my wandering from Baghdad, to Rome,
I learned early on; you can’t ever go back home…
A little while later, along came Charity.
The Vicar didn’t know her.
The Martyr: He loathed her.
Charity asked if any would know, of a road or a path, that would lead her from Rome.
The Whore replied:
“Walk well on your way, take The Right-Handed Path.
You will then find my friend.
And my friends name is Faith.
Ask Faith if she’ll lead you, she’ll tell you the truth.
You'll walk until noon, and you’ll meet her friend Ruth.
Be sure you invite her, for then you are blessed.
If you leave her behind, then you’ll be Ruthless.
You’ll pass up Uncertainty, Hate, and Self-Doubt.
Walk boldly with Faith, and you’re on your way out.”
The Tyrant,
The Vicar,
The Whore,
And The Martyr, Each had an opinion they’re willing to barter.
Throw the witch in the water, and we’ll see if she floats
as we litter our wasteland with suicide notes.
This Golden Lack of Opportunity
is an insult and a mockery.
I carefully explained this was grievous and wrong.
The Tyrant stood up, and he burst into song:
“This lack is your lack.
This lack is my lack,
without a need to feed our Sons and Daughters.
We’d rather bloody the Persian waters…
This lack was made by You and Me.”
All but I and The Whore shared a laugh
At the outrage he crafted from grim epitaph.
Far beyond anguish, I barely could cope
with the ending of Rainbows at the end of my rope.
I cock back a fist, and with all of my might,
punched 3 out of 4 on that corner tonight.
“How the FUCK can you joke,” I spat at the Three
“about all the horror you gave them and me?!?!?!?!
By rifle and Canon, I never can tell
If I’ll end up in prison, or end up in Hell
You promised me Justice, and robbed me of Freedom.
You promise Democracy while picking my Leaders.
You promise us Progress, and poison the daisies.
You promise us choices, and kill off our babies.
I promise you fuckers, I'll see you undone,
if it takes me a Lifetime of pipe bomb and gun!”
As if then on cue, came a shout in the night.
Automatic weapons engaged in a fight.
The bombings and drive-bys were rocking Rome hard on the bared
bayonets of The National Guard.
The Whore shook her head, and she offered her hand.
"You get the children, we'll save what we can."
I gathered the children, as she gathered arms
to safe our ways passage, and keep us from harm.
Explosions grew closer, and brighter, and louder.
The air had grown thick in the late midnight hour.
The alleyways cleared as the landing craft neared.
Disaster declared! It was just as we feared.
We climbed up Mt. Zion, avoiding that War;
some children with me, and a gunrunning Whore.
Now cresting the summit, we looked on below,
from where they had shined in the dim neon glow.
The Brown, Black, and Yellow;
both Red Man and White:
not one of those fuckers lived after that night.
And what of our Icons, both Tyrant and Vicar?
They sold out your future for smut and cheap liquor.
How 'bout The Martyr?
Did YOU watch him fall?
Show me the proof he existed at all!
The only thing Real were The Children with Me,
and a gunrunning whore, who avoided that War.
I now call her Hero.
I won't call her Whore.
There will be no more Village.
There will be no more War.
When Rome is just ashes, and legend.
I think,
I will toast my new Hero, and buy her a drink.
Epilogue:
At The End of It All, I would hope you'll remember
every liar,
every cheat,
every cunning pretender.
Conveying non-fiction via frictional diction,
I defend my depiction of the Urban Condition...
Blogged with the Flock Browser
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
11 month year
January came, and January left.
January burned like a Northern wind.
Had I a dime, for every time I caught your reflection in the firing line, I'd buy the fucking world a Coke, and shove their laughter down their throats.
I dreamed of you in the month of Two.
In the month of Three, I couldn't dream.
April didn't mean much more.
May and June was a silent war - for me and Mine!
But, I don't mind.
I hear they're doing it all the time.
I'll be fine until July.
July, July...you're a fucking lie!
you're a sycophant!
A grinning dog, with a brightly painted hand grenade.
The month of a Tyrant you'll find in Eight.
The rabbit died - I'm way too late.
The month of Nine, and 5 in Ten
predicts the time for all to end
November's here,
and the saints came marching in
on top of us.
Blogged with the Flock Browser
Chinatown
They make collect calls,
and drink ethanol.
They're crawling the walls
in Chinatown.
Junkies renege
every deal ever made.
Noone gets paid
in Chinatown.
Mothers pimp babies.
Rats spread the rabies,
to desperate bag ladies
in Chinatown.
In Denver - there's war!
Every housewife and whore
will settle their scores
in Chinatown.
and drink ethanol.
They're crawling the walls
in Chinatown.
Junkies renege
every deal ever made.
Noone gets paid
in Chinatown.
Mothers pimp babies.
Rats spread the rabies,
to desperate bag ladies
in Chinatown.
In Denver - there's war!
Every housewife and whore
will settle their scores
in Chinatown.
Blogged with the Flock Browser
They Were There!
"They were there!" they told me,
when the daylight ran away.
The burning church lent her a glow that covered up the gray.
We traded jokes, and chattered on, while queuing for our bread.
Flirting on an empty belly, envying the dead.
Broken Dolly pining as the cathode ray tube glows with advertisements for caviar
she'll never have, or ever know.
If you can't afford to smoke your coke, there's always gasoline.
A soaking rag held to the face to wipe your thinking clean.
Sharing highs are foreplay in a parted scabby kiss.
Grimy fingers reaching for an aching hint of bliss.
"They were there!"
They told you that, and burned our Temple black.
And sunshine's just a rumour, like the knife stuck in our back...
when the daylight ran away.
The burning church lent her a glow that covered up the gray.
We traded jokes, and chattered on, while queuing for our bread.
Flirting on an empty belly, envying the dead.
Broken Dolly pining as the cathode ray tube glows with advertisements for caviar
she'll never have, or ever know.
If you can't afford to smoke your coke, there's always gasoline.
A soaking rag held to the face to wipe your thinking clean.
Sharing highs are foreplay in a parted scabby kiss.
Grimy fingers reaching for an aching hint of bliss.
"They were there!"
They told you that, and burned our Temple black.
And sunshine's just a rumour, like the knife stuck in our back...
Blogged with the Flock Browser
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