Poems

Forget Your Manners

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To the rich you are cattle
Moo oink fuck shit piss
You ought to be grateful
For that ignorant bliss

The Journaliste

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You’re a wasted choice,
you’re a hollow voice,
you’re pent up pen pusher
in a pinup cloister
rewarded for warning
the public about the poor
and the sun and the Africanized
bee, democracy is disproved
by a chat on the streets,
yeah, fuck the police,
public service for those
who can afford it
and civic responsibility
to completely avoid it,
there’s one cause I can’t
resist–it’s the way I pay
my way by carving out
beautiful landscapes
over the boo and hiss,
Jupiter’s meal is through
and there’s nothing left of you,
swimming away from the Everglades
reduced to trade secret goo.

Embrace Smiling

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You are a roulette chip

ready for the asset double-dip

a money laundering scheme

of the ruling sociopathic clepto-twit

a front for the Wall Street mafia

calling itself a country

we got a back room

for to register a complaint

and find out what’s it all about–

no one gets in, no one gets out

The Ones that Get Away

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The corporate scams
the stolen pension plans
the government shadow games
the black helicopter and drone
pyramid scheme frames
are no big deal,
they’re old hat
pasted to a camel back,
it’s the little broken down
petty empty losers what get you
for what they lack,
walking through the eye
of the needle
in the pyramid vein,
pretending to understand
with their lonely confidence
in a lonely mark,
they nod but don’t know
what you’re talking about,
no one get in, no one gets out.

Sickness Unto God Past Teach

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You are all beggars
who have had someone
or something agree
to hand things over
to you, the charlatan
past teach crossed palm
stigmata oracle of the garlic-eyed god,
with stitching of holocaust
victims maintaining minimum safety
blindness, thou shalt not frack
until the we turn our back,
one hand beggars confusion, hear ye
hear ye, clang clang, the town crier
shall now commence to weeping
semen into the soft tissue of your forebrain
but Not In My Back Yard on Easter
ye rabbit-brained rubber-stampers
dodge me quick the red marks
are like unto stigmata, never healing,
and the pigs in their filth
so gently squealing its hard to tell
who is doing the stealing when on
your street and endangered feline drop
the mad schemes resource robber barons begot
Sun Tzu meets Macchiavelli meets Rick Scott