Long Catacombs Poems
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My dear brother Butch,
Hair are the highlights of my week:
I got a job at the Hairway to Heaven salon!
Our motto: "We color your hair or dye trying"
When the interviewer said "I mustache you a question..."
I answered, "May I mullet over?"
Seriously, working there is a shear delight,
with some nice fringe benefits
They're a real cut above the rest
and I shave a lot of money on hair products...
I bought Dad a comb for Father's Day… I bet he'll never part with it
It is a long drive to the salon, but now I know all the short cuts
Oh hey, I know hair-growth seminars are not your style, but
call up your receding hairline buddies and comb on over!
It was great to see you last week, you are looking so trim!
I still feel terrible about the curling iron incident…
You can rest a-sheared I'll straighten it out
but I mussed warn you, you might get fro straighted
Just remember, $15 for a hairpiece is a small price toupée
You may not like short hair at first, but it will grow on you
...that's the mane thing
Did you hear Mom and Dad had a brush with death?
It was a very hairy situation with a real twist:
buzzing down the highway at a decent clip
someone tried to cut them off
Mom was ready to wig out, curl up and dye, but thankfully
Dad went to great lengths to avoid an accident
so there was no permanent damage
you had to see it to be-weave it
Ok, time for a couple of jokes to lighten the mood:
How does the man on the moon trim his hair?
Eclipse.
Why did Pavlov have such fabulous looking hair?
Conditioning.
Why do felines groom with their tongues?
They can't find their catacombs.
Why did the little girl watch "Black Stallion" more than "Babe"?
She liked pony tales more than pig tales.
What was the barber's sign before he went on vacation?
"Hair today, gone to Maui"
Did you hear about the novelty store selling fake piles of dung?
It was sham poo.
Just teasing!
Take hair,
Curly
Dear sister I have been mistreated but surely not defeated
The fit are unruly and those who rule unfit to wear their minds along their brow
Pitted and fallen are we claimed she
Uproot all the timid, surely they’ll quake
The Earth is at rest while the heavens are testing
Surely the catacombs are our place of hiding
Rapture the worthy, the poor, and the hopeless still more
Braven the brittle and salvage what’s left of the widow’s stores
For we are at war, O’ good women, it’s a fight they will get
A Patriot cry, a life worth living, a pride in my name that keeps me standing
Hearty or meek, we’ll take the keep
Bind them up, but don’t let them bleed for pure bred savages are what we need
The breasts of the mothers who weep for the bodies
The weary who laugh gas portrait tears leaving their insight foggy
The Devil is hunting, Oh but let him flee
For our fists will have him fishing for his faith like rotting bait
Breeding among us are the wolves that seek only to measure their gut
And they will fill the skies 70 meters high with the the must of unfinished feet
Winded by bows of boredom and broiled beliefs
Sifted through, borrowed, unused
The lazy will not lay seated in our ancient sanctuaries
They will lay pitted among the soiled seeds and left to the leeches
Reign in the kingdom of popular knowledge do both snakes and sirens
Danger is beneath us and furnaces over heat us,
Leavened bread will rise our eyes to the souls in need of teachers
If education ain’t free then dare me to teach for free
Let linen and fleece overwhelm us all
For the sun rises still again, constant with the moon
Midnight is foreign and sunlight is gloom
For inside these walls our eyes will close soon
The mirrors outs our flaws and undersea our scars
But heaven is shaking and creation’s worship awaits us
If every day is good and every evening soon
Then tomorrow is only distant, a matter of your zoom
Jupiter is rising further south than my liking
Perhaps it was the wind that blew it there
Or the birds that sang it somewhere upstairs
Or the lions that laughed it underneath body beats
Or the vines carried it to prepare it for more pruning
Signs are timing and the clocks are not ceasing
So listen little one, I know you are bare, but don’t be a fool
Comb your hair.
As the final child of the catacombs fell
your plastic knife driven into their heart
as they evaporated into the wind
you didn’t stop.
you kept searching desperately for a new toy.
someone to slice
someone whose fragments you could scatter in the dying breeze
but nobody came.
As the ruins-keeper fell
laughing maniacally as your eyes hardened and hers faded away
you thought you were finished
but it was only the beginning.
as you continued onward
you wondered if anyone had missed out on your justice
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
but nobody came.
As the guardian of the frozen wasteland reached out to you
mercy flowed from his soul
but it bounced off of yours
and into oblivion.
as your fist hit his neck
there was no going back.
walking through the empty streets of a desolate town
you wondered where everyone was hiding
cowering in fear
all because of you.
you wondered if you could break down their doors and take their lives with it
but nobody came.
As the heroine made her last stand
and melted away into nothingness
the world’s last hope was gone
and the survivors burrowed away.
unreachable.
hidden away in a place of monstrosity
you pondered how to draw them out
so you could slaughter them like the demons they are.
but nobody came.
As the final star burst
leaving behind nothing but burned out embers
you prepared for the end.
Curious as to what would happen
when none were left.
as you walked through the abandoned city
gazing upon your final destination
you contemplated a world
where nobody would remember you
like you never existed at all
but nobody came.
As the fallen prince told his tale
of how he had cried out
for mother
for father
and when nothing happened
he cried out
for anyone to save him.
but nobody came.
As bones crumbled to soot
your soul had become ice.
your violence
your hate
you were scarred
and when they appeared
the demon who comes when people call its name
you took their hand
and the world was gone.
a blank void
just you.
your soul.
and them.
and as you realized your mistake
you called for anyone to pull you away from your wrongdoings
to save you from your crimes.
but nobody came.
This poem was adapted into a youtube video! Check it out at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8JO8TwlmcE or https://bit.ly/3li8roI
Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper the secrets of the soul,
A river of thoughts flows endlessly, weaving through the ethereal landscape of my mind,
Carrying fragments of self-knowledge that must be torn apart before I am whole.
The man I know myself to be—the one who walks in familiar shadows—must meet his end,
So that the true man I am, hidden deep in dreams, can rise and truly exist.
The echoes of an old self ring hollow, desperate for the dawn of a new essence,
And in this dance of melancholy and magic, I glimpse the delicate balance of transformation.
I wander through a labyrinth of metaphors, where each corridor leads deeper into the fog of introspection,
Where the walls are adorned with pale portraits of the past,
And every turn brings a moment of reflection, a confrontation with the shadows of an old self.
This man I have known, a tapestry of familiar fears and comforts, must perish,
So that I can lay him to rest in the catacombs of forgotten dreams,
And rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn at dusk, unburdened and pure.
It is in this crucible of self-destruction and rebirth that I find the essence of who I truly am,
As I walk through the valley of my own soul, unweaving the fabric of the past,
I understand the necessity of erasing the echoes of the old man within me,
To carve out space where the true man can breathe, live, and flourish.
The old man must die, his spectral presence fading into the night,
For only then can the dawn illuminate the contours of the true self.
In this mystical journey, where melancholy kisses the edges of hope,
I surrender to the flux of consciousness, a current that carries me toward the horizon of becoming.
This dissolution of the known self is but a necessary prelude to the symphony of rebirth,
A metamorphosis that transforms the chrysalis of the soul into the liberated butterfly,
Wings unfurling in the gentle light of twilight, where magic and melancholy intertwine.
And as the twilight yields to the night, and the stars paint the canvas of the sky,
I stand on the precipice of my own becoming, the old man laid to rest,
While the true man steps forward, a vessel of possibilities, a testament to the beauty of transformation,
Embracing the melancholy of loss and the magic of renewal, in the ever-flowing river of consciousness.
My shy moth eyes
were attracted to the beauty of your flame
The pleasure of knowing you
was worth the risk of me feeling the pain
From the hurt burn of you leaving ...
a house of mirrors with no image of you within
I always knew this day would come,
certain, like the rising of the sun —
Beautiful rabbit you would wanna run
Timid, nervous ever ready to flee
The mirror of reflection
would always set your fear in motion
Numbed by the booze,
paralyzed by the pills
Gave you enough courage to stay still ...
but, only for so long
Beautiful rabbit on the run,
afraid to face
the demons you’re running from
When the face of reality would sober in,
then the cracked mirrors
would leave your bleeding heart sobbing
So many lovers before me
handed you jilted tissues
for your self-esteem issue tears
Wiping the candle mask of your promiscuity,
cold wax let you know when it was time to flee
Beautiful rabbit you on the run,
wielding your body like a weapon
Beautiful rabbit giving the foxy bullet stun,
using love like it was a loaded gun
Beautiful rabbit on the run,
marred habits has disfigured you
Ugly memories you can’t let go of,
scarred flesh melted by an abusive flame
Leaves you often holding a gun,
ready to make your last rabbit run
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
beautiful rabbit lay down the gun
It was the loss of your gorgeous butterfly wings,
which so attracted me to you
I saw the beauty inside others never knew,
the vulnerable side you kept hidden from view
The trauma of your lovers no longer wanting you,
made the truth of the silent phone too painful to hear
And the vanity of rejection you use to give,
is the emptiness you are now forced to live with
Lonely, emotional catacombs you weepingly prefer;
the Before portrait on your wall, I never saw her
Tragic soul went bed-hopping down the rabbit hole
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
beautiful rabbit put down the gun
Beautiful rabbit, I desperately desire you,
let your marred heart be warmed by this truth
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
finger the safety between my loving arms
Beautiful rabbit, don’t leave this way ...
burn the suicide note in the fireplace
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run away
Stay here with me ... please stay
the rest of your enchanted cottage days
Author's note: This is an epic length poem that will have to be split into parts and will be serialized in successive posts.
Part 3
Dr. D. confers in panic
with Rex and boys at the Limbo Saloon
by now my eyes are ping pong balls
the final recommendation is for
ritual abandonment
Fra Umbilicus answers his page
in the monastery wing
and servos his motorchair up to my railing
intones the curse of the catacombs
think of it as original my sin er son
how the flat line fooled the experts
was on the 6 o'clock
perhaps it was the fact
that it went vertical
tripping alarm buzz circuits
from Hell to breakfast
like a reeking retching lurching
Nietschean Lazarus
a scarred and demented Universe
gave birth to itself
and the combined riotous
and cheering populations
of BURN WARD 3
and AMPUTATION WARD 2
and NARCOLEPSY WARD 666
cameras pick up deicide in the stairwell
a theomachian commotion
clangity-whaaang go the
oxygen tanks bouncing four flights
plopity-smash go
the out/intravenous bottles
whackety-crack
goes his portable Respiropump
screechety-eech
goes NEURO WARD's $90,000 Lobotoscan
cascading sympathetically
8er from Decatur
straining against the tube works
and their attached impedimenta
beneath the basement corridor steam pipes
awakening autopsy cadavers
with every labored pitch and yaw
bursting through the fire exit
on the firing squad's day off
out onto St. Hilarity's loading dock
he turns and waves howdy-ose amigoes
to the gathered throngs
Musela, Tex, the Santa Guadalupe Mariachis
slams Lucille the ambulance's door
severing all connections
arm tube nose tube mouth tube
chest tube piss tube
hits the throttle light bar and siren
and lets Lucille's squealing wheels
burn rubber clear down
to the land of rubber plantations
until the tank hits empty
and memory returns syllables
and lost parts of speech
the twin t's of utterance two swords
and fate the swindler of souls
has a blowout
at 90 at 5...at 15...
the separated twins
separate the H-O-R-I-Z-O-N
into before and after
rhyming less on the outside
than on the inside out
a vacation follows
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
you are all a lost generation -- Gertrude Stein ?
I
Once hallowed encephalon
cavernous cerebral chasms
now less serene
ruptured n' spleen
Subjected to ravenous days?
Days n' illumination?
n' summers hibernation?
Awaiting eschatology and Madonna's divination
In summers somnolent slumbers I was told
In dreams of all truths and history's scrolled
and what a fair delication to unfold
truth rings from the shell aft each reeling beak's descent
Forsake of the shell's salty fleshes derivment
A fleshy flower buds on the briar
To pluck and dissect or leave to admire
Death in creation
dreaming awakes, awakenings dream
In our waking weakness lies perfection
But, oh how sweet to dream
Subjected to my piety in blinding ruth
did I in dreaming sin for sooth?
Had Queen Mab or Archimago
twist my thrice twisted dreams
with lies, abashing
and which in violence dance and beam
As waves with phosphorus' glow
they in guise clever crashing: gleam
false sooth, in golden pools of indigo
ever changing yet constant
As waves upon the shore
singing
Sometimes soft and melancholy
Sometimes malice, as to destroy
Death in creation
dreaming awakes, awakenings dream
In our waking weakness lies perfection
But, oh how sweet to dream
II
Oh my visage
how it pales in the light beside...
her
my madonna
my oracle my day
Darkness in its defined fray
and I Amidst a Yeats' Byzantine nightmare
to linger, to consist, to decay, an ill-stared heir
a doxology,
pregnant with heterodoxy.
Paling in comparison, in cavernous fright
days n' days and infinite blight
Static tremors. Intangible vibrations
Winter
Summer
Solstice
Hibernation
To seek what lay beneath
the countenance of the Madonna
the purity
The past I prospectively reap
n' seep
n' sow
The city's concrete catacombs glow
The future in night
day's abrasive
in its own right
reside in the day
confide in night
Rage, rage and endless blight
in dreaming escape day n' days of
a lifetimes endless death, in love
Death in creation
dreaming awakes, awakenings dream
In our waking weakness lies perfection
But, oh how sweet to dream
So I sit at a café in Paris and relive my life. I feel the pain of yesterday and the anxiety of today. I see that my pain is so palpable, I almost reach out and touch it. I look down, and it seems that my hand is no longer mine, but a lost appendage unable to write even the simplest haiku. No, I can’t ignore it, I let it simmer and fester until the free flowing sadness begins to leak from my pores. I catch it in my hand and toss it over my shoulder. that. sadness. desire, reality, and YESTERDAY. The sting of thought snaps me back into reality, eyes on fire for reasons unknown. Within a blink, I’m back to the house I grew up in, 4556. Waves of nostalgia crash, I’m down again. The green of the carpet in my bedroom reminds me of my vomit from three days ago, I sickly smile. I see my mother and avoid her eyes, they’re as sad as mine happen to be. S I’m walking the streets of Paris, avoiding the cracks because I still love her, and I come upon a penny(heads up). Once again I toss it over my shoulder. that. her eyes. that carpet. nostalgia, and YESTERDAY. So I’m heading to sleep in Paris and my eyes can’t focus, staring at the lamp that reminds me of my grandfather. We always joked that he’d choose when he wanted to go, gunshot to the heart, self inflicted. I’m afraid to fall asleep because when I do, I’m sure someone else is going to die. My fingers shake along with my clacking knees. Up and down, up and down. The sound echoes and swells in my ears and in my desert chest. I must have used my last tissue because I can’t find any, I guess my tears will fall. They fell before and I couldn’t catch them, I let them tell me what to do. Tonight I wipe my tears with my hand and flick them over my shoulder. that. gunshots. insomnia. tissues, and YESTERDAY. So I begin to awake in Paris and I look in the mirror unable to recognize the woman with sad eyes that stares blankly at me. She begins to rot in front of me, waves of skin pour from her face, her eyes drained of life, teeth on chin on chest, She takes some in her hand that resembles bones from the catacombs, and tosses them over her shoulder. that. reflection. recognition. sad eyes, and YESTERDAY!
the Medicare, an undeserved fund the patients spend,
which seems extremely excrescent,
must be crushed immediately without any mend.
No coverage serves them right! Be they gravely ill or convalescent.
In his favor, all the rules the Capitol shall bend,
prosecution immunity, business chance----each prerogative coming on end.
His flagrance in abuse of power, plus republicans' acquiescence, plunges to a state perversely putrescent,
in consequence, honest individuals wizened while tower of liar and mar-a-lago mire tumescent.
High as the staff's passions hit, perfectly as their patiences fit, more than half at last have to quit.
What has ground away every panjandrum's wit and grit?
His inopportune blah-blah and twitter tantrum bit after bit,
the latter a globe-mocked target and also, often a globe-shocking tool kit.
Atmosphere of allies only too calm and bland,
against them, with his single hand,
he stirs up trade wars amid the entire world's guffaws.
Prostrate shall be the security of homeland,
prostrate shall be the competence of diplomatic corps,
bolt upright frontier walls shall stand----
but stand only in his brain, which constantly bolts out lunatic lore.
Pants on fire, collars on fire, hard and fast is this refractory liar.
Really a refractory and prolific liar, really a refractory and lifetime liar,
boasting his lying score higher than the steepest steeple's spire,
never plans to retire, until one day he has to expire.
Nonsense the globalization trend, nonsense what the majority attend,
abandoning all oversea interests and renouncing all international duties are the cause he shall defend.
And the itinerary of isolationism, his pilgrimage route.
Endorsed by none, would he be alone? A point nothing moot.
Epiphanic from Roman catacombs, arms open, ecstatic and naked----an epiphany non-faked----
Nero comes up to embrace him grinnily, like a kindred spirit in long pursuit eventually slaked
acting as his soul mate cum his sole friend
and escorting him all along to his final end.
His final end, Nero's end, that's who could brazen out the mass hoot.
His final end, Hell's end, that's where he takes root.