Coup d'oeil

As my forbearers firebombed the outskirts
and paved city streets in chromatic parades,
the wonders of the world
fell to my marauding progenitors
potentially freeing me from my ascension.
I should thank them, but I will not.
Their bursts and beams of light
covered the cloudscapes and deciduous sky
turning sun to shadow and saturnine smiles.
A caliginous concert for the converted.
Surely tomorrow will never come.
Eden is in a mushroom cloud.

A Centurion Broadcast (Raw Imperialist Radio)

The Caesar’s map is smeared in red blots
and it's filling up fast.
Even the sea is falling
to the legion of our civil duty.
We strike at the hordes who keep the land
and savior the sweet, sweet victory.
All the world will feel his wrath
for the glory of an idea: this union.

Might as fucking well be Helen of Troy.
They say Rome wasn't built in a day,
but let's see how fast it burns.

The Great Escape Down the Last Bayou

An old hat outlaw rashly on the run
with an overzealous heart and a gun,
the half-emptied shine jug,
the new left-shouldered slug,
and an impending mosiac still undone.

On the homemade raft down the bayou
to escape all those who would pursue
he strayed away from the coast
and the Mississippi ghosts
and the dragons to paddle on through.

Lights flickered beneath the canopies
as the creeping things began to tease
with their old tricks and hex
by this slightly erred annex,
so he left a token behind to appease.

Orphaned on his own accord, he'd admit,
though the past is nothing to forget,
and there would be no doubt,
so proven, he then took out
the old, ivory snake-eyes in his pocket.

The passive current would leave prize,
for beneath sins and his very eyes,
as his famine soon overcame
he no longer held his name,
and now his own mind was a disguise.

The crescent moon lit his final route
finding his way to water pouring out,
his determination could rest
where he settled in the west,
he knew what escape had brought about.

That Final Curtain

More and more I feel the need
to break away and recede
and shake away the past
and make today the last
time I'll walk these streets
and pace my feet in defeat,
so I'm planning for tomorrow
to escape the sorrow and regret,
to replace my debt, to live
and forget the tragedy
that seems to follow me and
make me disagree and make
a guarantee that I can get up,
I can stand up, rise up, and
leave this all behind, and
leave mankind in its own ruin,
these thoughts this late afternoon
leave me feeling it'll be soon,
this one thing is certain
that once that final curtain
starts closing in, I'll be
content within and I won't
be around, because I will
not die in this town.

What You Want is What You Need

You do it all to yourself
and blame others.
You want them to hurt you
so you have something new
to bitch about.
You love the pain
but say you don't.
You need somewhere
to rest your head.
So here, let me tie
this rope into a knot
and hang it from a tree.
Tilt your head to the side
when I let you drop
and just enjoy the ride,
you closet masochist.

carpel tunnel vIsIon

I sit impaired and uncaring
to the effects of a saturated mind
that unravel in distinct determination
to an unbecoming man who once
seemed to understand the consequences
of an apathetic mindset born
from the senseless and unsympathetic
and the unforgiving that placate
and hold contempt for the pure few
that grasp in their hands the six keys
to salvation while in themselves
they can only hope to destroy
what everyone else seems to fight for
and in time they desire nothing less
than the dissatisfaction of others
and the disassociation for a society
that is slightly less pleasurable
each day that ticks away in nothingness
and there is no chance that the paradox
and your own enigma created
on your own accord for the benefit
of no one since you wouldn't
have it any other way or perhaps
you haven't the slightest idea
what your ideas entail or entice
in the minds of our children and saviors
of the simple and untapped thought
that unite and provide us with all
we will ever possibly need to survive
but the only chance for something
so sweet is to put you at your
bitter end with a fell swing of an axe.

Thank the Pessimists

Optimists continue on
and persist to say
that they exist
in bliss and happiness
and that they're
rarely down and you
should "turn that frown
upside down" all for
the sake of forgiving
mistakes made by others
one after another.
That they aren't sad
when they lose what
they had to people
who already have all
they could want or need.
That they don't feel
greed, envy, or desire.
They just admire and
love, as if they're above
the rest in wanting the
best, and that the world
is just fine as it is.
They say pessimists
are never content
and their time spent
is a waste to everyone,
but what they've done
is presented a theory
that perhaps things
could be a bit better.
They hope when you don't.
They change when you won't.
Never needing something
more will mean you will
not exist anymore.
If you're complacent
and refuse to adapt
to the world around you
then you will find
the world has left you
for something better
for everyone in the end,
for people that could bend,
for those who hate trend,
for ideas that will send
you on your merry way
to the depths of the pit
of your blinded happiness.
"The grass is always greener"
unless you're an optimist
content with eating dirt.
It’s not so much “necessity
is the mother of invention”
as it is discontent with
simply being without.
Thank the pessimists
of the past for your
full, wonderful life.

The Gospel

In you birthed visions
from a passive placation
of bastions of fruition
of fallacy for a heretic
from an usurped power
providing no sanctity.
All misled to disguise
the tempted telling truth
of a seed planted, uneasy,
in such twisted motives
to erect in elevation
your rivaled rampart
so ripe for decay.
Led so far from home
you dethroned, discrowned,
and discredited a bitter
fool of his only fortune.
Now is the most opportune
to befriend the prophets
and saints, and preach
your holy gospel of dirt.
So continue your digging;
you will bury yourself
soon enough, I promise.

At the Edge of Now

This space of time that is all mine
could easily be termed a plateau,
no crescendo, nowhere else to go,
at the edge of now I will take my bow
and silently, somehow, consider
abandoning my post, and raise toast
to my coming ghost and the speak
of my selfish retreat into the space
of time that begins to remind me
of the edge of now, so I take my bow.

I Regress

You're complacent
without routine
while I erode,
and lose steady speech,
and recede and defect,
and slip into something
I forget how to define.
In time you will find
i shair not a singel thing
in comon with any 1 of you
and repete and refuze to change
while you acept wat gets throne
your way like its encredibil
but i stand my grownd
en constint repetishun
and wont bak down frum this
so keepyor denyall
keepyor contint
ill bejusfine
ul c

Silent Apologies

Condolences would be in order
for my inaction all these years,
but overbearing regrets will always
ensure failed attempts at constructing
any resemblance of an apology.
My words buckle and fall.
I'm so sorry.

A Petty Confession

Lately I'm feeling a bit tired,
tired of judging and assuming,
and getting lost in the thought
of pretending to understand
as if I know the in's and out's
or even the here and there,
and like how I know everything
they'll say before they even do.
I'm tired of the hate building
inside of me like a little bomb
just begging for a reason
to explode and bring an end.
I'm sick of your hostilities,
your cowardice, and your lies,
and your arrogance that steals
every shred of decency you had.
I no longer care if I'm right
or if I'm wrong, not anymore.
Call me apathetic, call me lazy,
because at least in the end
I won't be the one who's fucked.

The Ivory Throne

The king of the ivory throne,
the keeper of oaken walls
released his last breath.
Emebedded in the pearl floors
remain only his dying words,
encrypted in a forgotten tongue
and beneath the seal of kin.
Bretheren of the code
to which he followed
lay to rest his withered body
upon a pyre funeral in solemn honor.
No queen and no spawn,
the line is broken.
The ivory throne now sits empty.
A bastion of freedom slumbers in doubt.
Time will not heal this wound.