They slither in plain sight,
tailored suits hiding scales,
cold eyes behind warm smiles.
I saw one on the news today
blinked twice, vertical pupil flash,
then back to human charm.
Of course.
They meet in marble halls,
forked tongues drafting laws
while we argue over bread prices.
Brilliant, really.
Last week my neighbor changed
his handshake too dry,
smile too wide, teeth a little too sharp.
He offered me coffee.
I declined.
They’ve ruled for centuries,
pyramids their charging stations,
royals their breeding stock.
We are the cattle,
happy in our pens,
scrolling, voting, consuming.
But here’s the joke
they shed their skins every election,
and we cheer the new one,
never noticing the same slit eyes
watching us clap.
Yeah.
Totally real.
Pass the tinfoil.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight shakes frost
from his whiskers~
Chester the squirrel
slips into the chimney,
claws click on brick,
tail a question mark
in the soot.
Inside his sack:
acorns wrapped in tinfoil,
stolen sprigs of holly,
a walnut cracked open
to show its golden heart.
He leaves them
in boots,
on windowsills,
behind the dog’s water bowl
(just to watch him sniff).
Dawn finds Chester
back in his oak,
giddy
with sugarplum
theft,
dreaming of next year~
Maybe I’ll learn to drive a sleigh.
“Stampede: The Bitumen Blooms”
All the promises under the Sun
could never buy time, and
all that glistens on a wrist in a heartbeat succombs
peels away the romance
like tinfoil scraps, wrapped and cutting like razors
into the skin of what matters most
liked barbed wire
around a wrist bleeding
glistening golden brands like some kind of reigning crown
the so-called pulse of keeping up with the J’s
will never deliver the most precious intangible,
it burns inside out unseen
underneath the bitumen
the buried truth blooms
strange journeys crawl
and their animals released
from the cage,
eventually,
stampede;
sacrifices are made.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
A paper man
Under paper clouds
The sky is falling
and he doesn’t know why
His edges are folded
He feels he’s undone
There isn’t any warmth
from a paper sun
Cellophane grass
Cardboard under feet
He has a paper girlfriend
With a paper heartbeat
His feelings feel flat
Just a few wrinkles
Paper snow is falling
A tinfoil star twinkles
A world of my creation
I just want to feel
Hoping my sky won’t fall
Nothing feels real
I’m three dimensional
Under a real sky
There’s hope beyond clouds
When my mind tries to lie
So I grasp for happy
A bit of pleasure too
Even when it’s not easy
It’s just what I do.
Inspired by a friend.
As men we are taught to keep our feelings to ourselves and suffer in silence. In 2012 I went through depression and it took me a long time to look for help. When our feelings are flat and the world feels two dimensional, seek help and reach out to a friend. There are people who love us. There is no reason to suffer in silence. Colour returned to my world and I am thankful. The sky didn’t fall even though in the moment it felt so real.
I cannot commune with you
if you don't believe Sasquatch exist
or if you think Nessie is just a myth;
if you do not see
science fiction is prophecy;
if you say the Mandella Effect is simply mass
misremembering things that have passed
and not caused by a glitch in the matrix,
even though researchers say we lay bricks
in a computer simulation
run by nefarious algorithms;
if you believe government does not lie
and Intelligentsia does not spy~
please do not come knocking on my door,
I will not hear you any more,
my tinfoil hat is always ready
to ensure every conspiracy theory
is kept in safety from the mind worms
infecting us at every turn
of the screw,
and from the Globalist shrew!
it is not raining
yet the sky seems like
a tall waterfall
bones crack
under the weight of falling water
if I crane my head up
my eyesight get washed away
as a kid
drowning in a lake
the sky not the water held me down
the water was trying to push me up
the sky turns your mind to rock
just another falling rock
All wings falter
nuts and bolts come loose
seams open
despite daily inspections
you begin to rattle
Like when kayaking
I flew over the edge of a waterfall
the gravity of light-weight mountains
can send you plunging
yet it is in our very nature
to spread tinfoil wings
hope and theorize
They may mock me, but soon they shall see
I never wanted them to simply agree.
I don't have to always be right, not necessarily.
I just want them to realize all this time I could see
The truth of the matter in this reality
And the lies they impose upon us inhumanely.
leftovers
wrapped in tinfoil
the dogs waiting
The night air was frigid, and a shivering shell of a man wrapped in a tinfoil blanket made eye contact with me, his skeletal outstretched hand begging for coins. He was emaciated and in desperate need of a hot meal and a bed. I offered him my coat and asked if I could take him to a shelter for the night. His eyes widened, and tears slowly began to run down his bearded face. I helped him up, gave him fifty dollars, and had him put on my coat while we walked to my car. He told me his name and said I must be an Angel sent from God. I assured him that I was no Angel, but I did believe in karma, and that kindness done for kindness' sake will always come back to bless you manifold. His grateful smile told me he understood as he shook my hand, one man to another, like a brother.
god gave humans souls
and let his gift of free will
shape humanity
911 Carousel
by Michael R. Burch
“And what rough beast ... slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats
They laugh and do not comprehend, nor ask
which way the wind is blowing, no, nor why
the reeling azure fixture of the sky
grows pale with ash, and whispers “Holocaust.”
They think to seize the ring, life’s tinfoil prize,
and, breathless with endeavor, shriek aloud.
The voice of terror thunders from a cloud
that darkens over children adult-wise,
far less inclined to error, when a step
in any wrong direction is to fall
a JDAM short of heaven. Decoys call,
their voices plangent, honking to be shot ...
Here, childish dreams and nightmares whirl, collide,
as East and West, on slouching beasts, they ride.
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Mindful of Poetry, Gostinaya and Scholasticus/Fullosia Press. Keywords/Tags: 911, war, violence, children, visionary, surreal, power, retribution, twin towers, terror, terrorism, east, west, dream, dreams, nightmares, error
A bunch of dry lime leaves like schoolkids runs
across the street. Be careful, do not slip
on crispy morning frost. I see someone’s
bike on its side, its owner rubs his hip.
Are you okay? He is okay. A crow
pecks out a crumpled tinfoil. What's inside?
Alas, inedible. I’d like to know
what cars parked off the road dream of at night.
Oh, these wet dreams that make their windows sweat,
you’re definitely better, to misquote
Poe, than reality. A young brunette
next door walks her old dachshund in the coat.
That's how a pen of poet turns sometimes
a routine morning walk into the rhymes.
21.10.2019
Your Best Sonnet July-December 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
It was nineteen sixty-nine; I was eight years old.
My plastic spacemen moonwalked in sandboxes
We made lunar capsules out of tinfoil.
On Halloween, spacemen mingled
with mad clowns, jack-o'-lanterns, and ghosts.
Santa said ho ho ho from under paper mâché moon glow.
We drank Tang by the vat because the astronauts did so.
My head was in the clouds; I thought anything was possible...
There were starry miracles beyond our four-block world
I believed it because the astronauts told me so.
The muse time travelers fatefully freewill say,
this love of ours was written long ago in the stars
But presently, my earthling feelings
is Venus empty
Got no romantic future happening ...
on another orbital losing spin
Just a tinfoil head man
listening to the upper UV wave band
Alpha Centauri hoping for a constellation prize
Then out of the delta quadrant,
I heard a string of “pings”
A supernova force, binary stellar voice —
Projecting a holographic image of a robot face,
it was mechanically screaming wildly at me:
Danger, Will Robinson!
Your heart is gonna get lost in her space,
and there ain’t no outer limit to this pulsar pleasure place
The cosmic choice given
was a “Love Theory of Relativity”
Grab hold of the quantum bond
and let the cold fusion burn nebular deep
That’s how it time continuum is
when you meet the Orion woman of your galactic dreams
Constellation prize instantly arrives
on a solar wind flight “faster-than-light” transporter beam
Danger ... passion overload, Will Robinson!
Your heart is gonna blow pure crystal dilithium,
and there ain't a single symbiotic soul to repair the hole
SECRET DIRTY PRISON LETTER
Socket
Pocket
Secure
Manure
Ladder
Rocket
Poison
Towel
Mature
Hammer
Market
Tinfoil
Drama
In for
Prison
Letter
11/02/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2018
The weather is warmer and snow turns to rain,
outside for us freedom awaits,
no clearing a path down the driveway again
and no drifts piling up by the gate.
The cat ventures out with a wave of her tail
eight days of confinement now end,
I've tried everything to keep her entertained
but she's driven me right round the bend.
We played with some string and a white plastic ring
Catnip mouse and a ball of tinfoil,
tried to teach her pontoon she just sat on the cards
while my patience went right off the boil.
When one day I need to find some other pet
there is one thing for sure, and it's that
a Snow Leopard will be the creature I'll get
and not some young hard to please cat.
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