Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these,the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door hiding the criminal legality of letting of you rot .Because I got mine and soon what you have will be divided across the line of vultures
the gleaming of red,white.and blues that flies for the chosen few and blind fleecing the blind
This golden lamp shines bright but not for you dying at the hands of the church,the steeple…open the doors and see the corporations that are people
Lady Liberty is the yeti of NY harbour ,everyone swears they have seen it but liberty is no where to be found
Go hunt through the concrete wilderness and see what you find because too many are still looking
Better luck catching a Harry and all the Hendersons panhandling in union square just so they don’t have to eat their pet

Childrens Hour

The red headed banshees and smiling ties hide under the bed right next to us
Hiding from what we’ve become in this long run against grains and tides under our covers from the evil that men do
It permeates from the walls of the bedrooms and steel zoos we’ve lived in since childhood
It lurks waiting from their creeping time to help along the monsters we have been made by outside hands and secrets never told
Being it everywhere it just waits for the blankets to be pulled away
This is the world of the demons we didn’t create
And the fight is daily to preserve who we want to be

The wrong foam

Boiling it all down waiting for the frothy truth to rise above the heated bubbles showing the bests honest sincerity
Instead the heated turds polish themselves in the days boil
Shit does not always roll down the cliche downhill
Evil defecation floats as strong as the creams best submerged in the fabrics of best intention
Turning even the best people into full shining examples of the polished shithead roaming society as grand examples of how the full of shit get further than the foam of the top
We are all full of fantastic shit
And some shittier than the rest
Shine on you crazy shitheadd

The words I have, the stories that need telling
Weekends in the abyss picking of kitchy baubles to prove the trips are real fighting back tears under the storm clouds and crows
I lug around me most days since I found out the hopeless, the outcasts, and the downtrodden
Everyone relates to the songs
Poetry written from a gutter
They get loved for the relation to tune
When we get right to it
They can only relate in abstract senses begging to live that life
Just when faced with it
It’s a refusal to acknowledge or even see
These are true stories
From the invisible

Her shadowy delicate hair curls around her made up face of a porcelian doll
belonging to no one
i am lucky the warm and fuzzy moment is all mine,time is hers to give
time is hers to take where ever she pleases
in sickness and awful health she will stroll by with another giving them her warmest pleasure
no dancing tonight lad just deep dark struggle recalled from before she was even thought
we will just blame her for the big hole in the chest because that’s what we do until we win her time again
she comes back like clockwork

Another Rose’s Name

Light the smoke over the even colder by now coffee

pondering the prophet Jesus and all the wonderful things he said

were meaningful for a carpenter,

love thy neighbor and give unto the meek

(but by the next match

we all know in the end he was just profit.)

People writing songs that no one gave a shit about

no one dared echo the sound of car adverts

We don’t belong in the gnarled grip of bad melodies

from John Hugh’s scripted teenage opera,

the muscle in the chest lives further –

Even as it is dragged out daily to crawl

a gutter of boiled up memories

whilst remembering your life’s valued

by a mobile list of other people

Pour another and laugh at a napalm heart

that is not buying it.
I said pour another, when the napalm clings.

Effluence flows from Shit Water Creek,

bite off your nose to spite the cheek,

can’t smell, can’t speak –

they all made choices, even me.

Who lives afraid and doesn’t even know

the prison bars are their skull,

Tell me again

the crimes of us all,

tell me again

I don’t understand, because

the story at the end of it all.

The napalm clings to palm hearts that fall,

and so what? We’re burning our dreams

with diesel engines,

while little boys die on distant oceans.

the constant purring child’s diesel hope engine untainted by told limited boundaries

it if was never taught how a barbed wire world sadly worked

the sky could be green as she flew to on swan as oppose the little train who not

fires never go out they are only fitted for the updating status quo

laugh at the glowing glass,, laugh at love and this old love that is never really old

the dark that comes even with a flammable heartbeat

the corner next to the jukebox that only plays Nick Cave Murder Ballads

prime real estate for when she walks in because she owns the poorly lit joint

change the world or stay in bed but the alarm goes off at 6am

they still play those early morning pencil shows

napalm hearts know where to find without them without turning on a television

they only play with constant buffering of existential crisis

They are there

screaming to share

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