Long Acid Poems
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Genesis means the beginning
Root word gene, the blueprint of life
So...In the beginning, of the seventies
There were jeans.
Now try to follow this
Jeans cover our bodies, but,
Our bodies are made of genes
Skin covers our bodies like jeans do
But, skin is made of genes too
We all have life, so the blueprints inside of us
So...genes have the blueprint inside
Jeans are printed blue outside
From genes come the word generation
Every generation loves jeans
Unless they are blue genes
That's when they're sad
Humans we are all living breathing genes
We were made by a Creator, a Designer
So in a way we are all wearing designer genes
And sometimes we also wear designer blue genes
That's when we're sad
Babies when they are born what are they?
Brand new designer genes
A teenager what is he?
Lightly used designer genes
A tired old man what is he?
Worn out and wrinkled designer genes
I feel sorry for the stone washed,
Acid washed, hard pressed
Steam ironed, left in the freezer, blue genes
Because not only has he had a hard life
He's also kind of sad.
November 22,2015
For open contest
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
VII.
Reid’s eyes widened with the realization,
she was with child? How long had she known?
His mind reeled and more men gathered outside,
by this time his cover had been long blown.
He glanced down upon red Wolf struggling,
then at the woman who haunted his dreams,
forced to chose between revenge or his love,
just minutes ago so simple it seemed.
He glanced at Mink, and she looked back at him,
said, “If you will spare him, I will go with you.
Take me and our child far from this place,
just please do not do what you came to do.”
Red Wolf argured back, speaking in Cheyenne,
traded words with both his daughter and wife,
then Mink said,”He says he will let me go,
that I bring shame to his lodge and his life.
“He says we should both ride away quickly,
that if we do so he’ll delay the chase.
He says a whore daughter is bad enough,
but bearing your son makes me a disgrace.”
Tears streamed down her face as she said the words,
her mother joined in with an acid tounge,
Reid felt something break through his burning rage,
asked, “Do you truly carry my little one?”
When Mink nodded, he pushed Red Wolf forwards,
keeping his knife at the neck of the chief,
the whole band stayed back as they walked through the camp,
Mink ran ahead and two horses did seek.
She mounted first, Reid pushed Red Wolf away,
leapt on a horse and away they did sprint,
the two kept riding for hours that night,
pushing their mounts through second and third winds.
Red Wolf, it seemed, kept his word to the two,
no pursuit was launched by the Cheyenne braves,
but Reid knew now he could never go home,
he had failed to get revenge for the raid.
In the end he took her to the white world,
back to the people he’d not known since youth,
and I see from your looks that you have doubts,
but what I’m telling you is the plain truth.
I know because my father told it to me,
of how he came to Kansas with his squaw,
I was not that child, I came later,
Mink made Gray Fox ten times over a pa.
He doesn’t talk about it all that much,
most of the details mother told to me,
but when he does, a look comes to his eyes,
a look that’s haunting too all who might see.
It’s not that he regrets moving out here,
he’s lived a life that is worthy and full,
but sometimes I think, when he gets like that,
he regrets not slaying that damn Red Wolf.
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
A hiding place, a warm and darkened room,
A lit doorway, bright against the dark,
Cold against the warmth, a frame for odd
Assorted stranger-forms whose faces loom
As quarrels over (what?) convulse and rend them,
Leering laughter giving in to vicious
Sneers, bared fangs, silent snarls
Of wretched, clutching, atavistic mayhem,
A terror once removed. Inside that hole
Distant from the proximal horrid window
Where twisted evil shadow-puppets fight
Peculiar faint amusement seems to roll
Like waves around the cave, detached and born
Of safety via distance, of certainty
That out would never be in, that warmth was safe,
That war above, so far away, forlorn,
Could be watched as from a languid seat
Far recessed in a darkened empty theater,
Nestled snugly, listening to the voice
Which comments on the raging battle heat.
From somewhere up, behind, not left nor right,
But from the center, voice and fight both
Directly sensed, as if they each occurred
In a vacuum, touch and smell, sound and sight
Being interchangeable and void.
The fighters jab and poke, madly gouge,
And neither gains advantage, being justly
Matched, as both are faceless, the man
At left pitted fair against the shrewish
Plot of his opponent, evil woman.
Both in turn appeal for judgment, turning
Away from fighting to glare and wave and hiss
Silently for a verdict on the ghastly driven
Feud which now has stopped, as it began,
Abruptly, and receiving none, for in
The silence no answer can be given
(Besides which, being taken by surprise
And overcome by sudden fear, aware
Of change in circumstance) the watcher is mute,
The murderous woman lunges at his very eyes
In deadly assault, bent on maiming, killing,
Groping fiercely at his open throat
For no apparent reason; and the comfort
Of the soothing voice utterly halts.
Words without sound fly like spears between them
Accusatory fingers gesture madly
And spittle from their half-crazed livid mouths
Wings through air in visual acid anthem
To this grisly deadly tandem fight
That seems the worse being set in relief
By the rectangular hole that serves as both
Window and door, divider of dark and light,
No protection, as threshold battle threatens
Him within, as blind hatred rages
In deft slashes of lengthy fingernails
While foe from foe extracts macabre debt.
When America bombed Hiroshima our city,
Three days later without pity,
They bombed Nagasaki and ruined the city.
Killed at least 200,000 people.
It was a normal day.
We were all going either to work, or school.
That day, I was very excited because
I was chosen to be “it” for hide and seek.
I was counting down, when I saw
A big ball of light that came out of the sky.
It was getting larger and brighter.
Warmer and louder.
And all of a sudden,
Boom!!!
I felt like I was falling…….
The school building was crashing under my feet.
I heard kids crying,
And I felt pain and blood all over my body.
I felt somebody carrying me.
A soldier………
He carried me to a safe place,
Where I could be healed.
But, there wasn’t really any safe place.
Being carried around,
I saw dead bodies all around me,
Burned to ashes.
Those who were still alive,
Were screaming for help.
And more…….screaming from pain.
I saw a mother who was trying to help her kid.
The kid was screaming his throat out for his mother.
“Mom, Help me….. Mom where are you”
The fire was eating him without mercy.
Not able to help him,
His mother cried and said
“Sorry…..I am so sorry. I am a bad mother”………
The city that was 15 minutes ago full of life.
Was now full of nothing but ashes and a RED ocean.
You couldn’t recognize people anymore,
Nor buildings.
Those who where still alive were wishing to die.
They were hungry and thirsty.
And they were ALL in pain.
Yet, there wasn’t really any body to help them,
Nor any food or water to drink and eat.
After about 6 hours,
It started to rain.
The rain was as dark as the dead bodies,
But nobody cared.
They were so happy that they finally found water.
They didn’t know it contains acid.
Moreover,
They didn’t care.
They drank and drank.
And people started to get poisoned,
And died.
August 1945.
When my people lost their life.
A day that can’t be forgotten.
Nor can have another discussion.
August 6, 1945.
When America bombed Hiroshima our city.
Three days later without pity,
They bombed Nagasaki and ruined the city.
Killed at least 200,000 people,
And ended the war.
With a big smile and a party,
More with no heart.
Form:
Courtesy viz (g)natty Thrip Pest...
This client (Matthew Scott)
availed himself at behest
of following counselor
who bares his chest
to Stephanie Dodds
(maid 'n USA name)
taught technique to minimize
ruffling feathers lest
the missus aggrieved
spending her nest
egg, thus self and missus
live destitute oppressed
as two basket of deplorables stressed
nearly every day envisioning
castles in air pipe dreams
when getting undressed
preparatory to dreams
within illusory shut eye
yours truly dons fancy vest
believe me you sold by Kanye West.
DEAR MAN skills
(feeble attempt more daunting
versus scaling Mount Everest)
embraced with zest
supported and blessedly underwritten
by loan granted from Univest
Bank ohm my dog to mitigate electric
resistance while no resistance
against kool psychological aid acid test,
whereby this husband espoused,
to help him recharge, (re:volt if necessary)...,
which endeavor now poetically expressed
concerning contentious gripe(s),
she would concur challenges we contest
beat within mine (possibly her) breast
unavoidable series of parallel events
disallows me to experience respite
as ye correctly guessed
impossible mission until
death do me part heavenly blessed,
meanwhile to maximize insight woke
involving DEAR MAN skills
with following example I attest
triggered food for thought
countless years gone by, no jest
which behavior even
eldest daughter did detest
specifically oft time ebt -
Electronic benefit transfer
i.e. food stamp money addressed
when wife spent lion's share
in one fell swoop, I did level best
to communicate while pride
hide hid ingest, wife acquiesced
yet without fail repeated offense
whereby mister diplomacy here
explained (with diminishing patience)
allocated funds sole comestible expense
then included four family members
issue got heated more emphatically
groused at my sidelined request
invariably spiking discourse
else... I threatened to divest
and stow card in wallet (mine),
yet invariably relinquished said item,
perhaps first will and testament bequest
if imposed, enforced, adhered...
would have nipped in bud
finding yours truly less obsessed,
nee furious every month
the vicious drama cycled
smoldering resentment did crest
into shouting tense match,
thus body electric lamely fleshed.
An email written to eldest daughter
December 28th, 2019,
which unwittingly, magically, accidentally...
resurfaced while scrolling
thru outdated emails
and OpenOffice documents of mine
thee evening of February 20th, 2022.
The remaining lines
comprising reasonable poetic rhyme
sent to said offspring
more than two plus years ago
and dada feels grief no more, cuz time
heals all wounds.
Papa unexpectedly overtaken with woe
flashback shook me complex edifice
head, shoulder, knees in to toe
quietly processing silent film status quo
shant upended jollity
between when a little girl no
matter mine nonconformist
mien unconditionally accepted,
ye dear daughter(s) don't know
sudden onset of anguish ho... ho... ho
holiday cavorting accentuated as
charade, facade, masquerade fueling ego
particularly Santa with the Misses,
and her sharp faux claws
keeping warm while
temperature five below.
No matter most every detail
I accurately gauge to attest
your life bustling
chock full o' zest
withheld, no doubt emotions
smolder within your chest
and kudos to thee lovely offspring
(both) packed bags
and headed out west
twas honorable duty, though now...
papa feels like
an unwanted guest
thee survived, albeit psyche bruised,
undergoing the electric
kool aid acid test
laughter when playing
Mancala, Uno, Sorry, et cetera,
how dada predictably did jest
when table turned,
I (spoiler Craigslist curb alert)
willingly, lovingly, and blithely
lost desire to win quest
to dispose cards, game
pieces, and/or glass beads
invariably other occasions
ye long since left (as thee must)
me and mother with an empty nest.
Nothing more doth
Matthew Scott ask or desire
then to delight and bask
as well educated hire
swimmingly how thee
learned to acquire
confidence and multitasking,
while I trod thru much
psychological muck mire
oft times (like now)
experiencing financial straits dire,
linkedin to when only youngster fire
within me belly to joie de vivre
peter out and prematurely expire
and yours truly reckons nothing
can change the past aghast being
deprived a marshmallow
at long ago time sharing campfire
with shortcomings scalding,
killing, crimping relationship,
courtesy lack of income
rendered paternal bond disastrously dire
doth now conclude another poetic wire.
A Life in a Day
Alarms pull me from my sleeping
The demand of their incessant routine undermining
The peaceful thoughtless dreaming
Where for a time I had forgotten
Everything
And like a vulture perched upon my pillow
Squawks all the separate memories to peck with their reminders
To myself of me
And while the daybreak has hardly broken
And while the dark room still conceals them
They invade my blood and bones
To return me to their isolation
As I lay there trying hard to think of something else
Still no one sleeps beside me
Their is no one to hear the resignation of my sigh
As my fathers name upon my lips
Is spat to a distance I can forget
And shoved closed the door and close my mind
So from the water risen and from the mirror no recognition
And from televised news no compassion
While I whisper some conversation to a girlfriend I once new
And think the stupid ***** still does not have a clue
No mercy for the human condition
As daybreak is about to be broken
For the support of mere flesh and entertainment
I frequent the hours I sell for money in return
Then as I stretch beneath my sheet
And my children’s faces swim through my head
All the lost years that lay between them
All the moments we never had
Return me once again to my isolation
From the darkness of a lovers hair
From the soft contours of her breasts
In the urgent and breathless moan
All the girls that I have had and known
This sweetness of togetherness becomes an acid made honey
Another broken back on which to sleep
Another collected offense for me to keep
In the silence of the questions they never asked themselves
Still no one sleeps beside me
Their is no one to hear the resignation of my sigh
As my fathers name upon my lips
Is spat to a distance I can forget
And shoved closed the door and close my mind
How this will end is not clear to me
The day has just begun
And the existence of the remains of life in a continuum
I have not yet lifted my head
Not bathed the sleep from my eyes
The blink of dawn has yet to offer me its usual compromise
In the comfort and the certainty of isolations open arms
And isolation has its charms
Alarms pull me from my sleeping
The demand of their incessant routine undermining
The peaceful thoughtless dreaming
Where for a time I had forgotten
Everything
The smoky clubs of thought/ where shadows dance and poets talk of truth whispered low/man, a story without end/ can you dig it, my friend/ improvisation’s the key, always unlocked in time, a jazz riff echoing truth in research of a paradigm/
assumptions about the nature of reality in jazz talk, scales, and harmonies, the framework we embrace/is not life the same? like established knowledge, but thinking out of frame, lighting up the space, to build on a jazz note we create, we innovate, say, give the funky drummer some/
just like Miles on his horn, exploring what's in the score, man, the vibing brain, a hipster’s thought, where networks of creativity ignite, and a conscious soul control breaks through/
The mind unfurls its thinking wings, a melody takes flight in a jazzed-up symphony of science, burning ever so tight/
a rock steady beat, the rhythm deepens, but the jazz spills over, it paints a wider scene, Pollock's action strokes, vibrant, raw, and jazzy, mean/
Oh, but the freedom in his canvas, a rhythm in his hand like McCoy Tyner’s dancing on the keys/
improvisation's spirit, always in jazz and graffiti wall art on subway trains sprayed across the Bronx highlands/Miles himself, he painted too, abstract hues so bold, from horn to brush he journeyed, a creative, restless soul/ life jazz influence profound, taking its hammering toll on his body and soul/
man, the tempo picks up, into the evolution of funk more emphatic, much more in the pocket of James Brown/ ya dig? exploration, a pattern found, a quantum leap into the unknown jazz heap of sounds/ like a jazz horn solo taking a giant step into the ubiquity of a jazz riff, a seed that has been sown across the river of stars/
In science and music, the spirit intertwined/a quest for understanding, etched upon a circle of fifths/ and the universal wind cries Mary, a jazz solo vast like a Jimi Hendrix acid jazz blast/
repeating rhythms echo across jazz music and cosmology/ in spoken word harmonies with in and out thinking with room for improvisation, improvise your life, and breathe it in/ get hip to the rhythm in your soul/ let it flow, man/
Let the jazz of physics make you brilliantly whole/gung-bow-chi, chi, gung-bow/ drums as the backbone to the funk thing/ It’s a strong emotional and spiritual bond into Life, and the physics of the Jazz sound