Zones
Posted: December 15th, 2008, 11:10 am
as written by Lrod and improved by Secret Editor Girl
----------
ZONES
1.
There are zones and there are Zones.
The Combat Zone.
InterZone and Zona Roja.
But I won’t lie to you about eternity.
My eyes are too short.
Binoculars don’t include a future.
Is forever a word in songs
and plays and novels, cinema?
Drop a dime on my assumptions.
What I assume you shall assume
forever for never more in balance.
2.
All joys are fleeting.
Rapture and capture my doubts
with rhymes and reverie –
winter ice and hearts bereft.
The climate changes
and our view of destiny.
I pull it pull it pull the weed
and roll destiny in a holocaust
gently
Go gently.
No, I won’t
No, I won’t
But take you by the hand,
I like an erogenous zone.
3.
We have the Drop Zone
And the Combat Zone
InterZone and Zona Roja
and we go onward into that
good night, night of hope and
resolution, twist the ends...
Don’t.
I am a post in the
pasture of change,
a babe in the manger
of my own suspicion –
faith in what was lost.
Faith.
4.
The onslaught of words and meanings aloft,
circumscribed gently no not gently but fighting tooth
and toenail in clenched rapture, scattered escatology on
expectations and dental syntax.
Synapse poets are two steps above the kitchen help
just scrubbin' pots and pans manageable unlike
promises on tissue
Our paths are wound in retrospect,
scattered escatology, circumference
magnified, a menagerie of lust and witticism
just a heir’s fuck around with your press contacts.
Don’t lie to them; don’t try to work them or pull
the wool over their eyes in any way.
If you do you’re history.
5.
There are zones and there are Zones.
There is the Panic Zone the Danger Zone
Don’t ever lie to your press.
I like the Erogenous Zones.
We have the Drop Zone
And the Combat Zone
InterZone and Zona Roja.
6.
Glaciers snatched tuning up on circumstance
the last poem written into the minute held aloft
and sacrificed Super-Nova Kid's Meal double fries
designer greasy envelope def into lust and indifference.
Scattered escatology.
The planets have no destination but are
slinging, thrust into compulsive orbits,
melody against rhythm; melody against
the stock market for oh nine kay
the milky weigh is more than a candy bar.
The Last Poem was seen leaving the building.
Elvis lusting after Joan of Arc smoking cracked digits
on a credit card banked and seedless thrashed
centuries ago in middle English
on the road to Shakespeare.
Rotten Amsterdam of hash and whores,
relentless tombstones of desire
from a staight glassed by centuries.
I am not Nostrodamus.
I can't see millenia unfold.
Poems are as extinct as miracles
and belief in what is untold.
Watch it unfold
7.
U got a lot of ‘splainin’ to do
Desi, Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
Let’s call the whole thing off.
Yer only as good as
your last poem, baby,
succinct soliloquys
rasta criticisms and twelve steps at a time
an erect perspective, inject, reflect, inspect
and count the hours, the hours of our lives.
Divide and counterpoint the rigid sonatas.
I don't need concentration; I need dope
off the end of the scale, make my bail, the maximum
six percent sythesized to Mcdonald's diabetes
interesting Aztecs with their calendars and extracted hearts
jutting into the minute held aloft and sacrificed
super-nova I don't need concentration; I need dope
8.
We’re Desi and Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
Desi and Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
You're a kid's meal double fries designer greasy envelope,
digits on a credit card, banked and seedless thrashed,
admission to the stadium franchise, wandering.
Go maximized like a jpeg lounging on the universe
web of dimensions, soul slinging, thrust into
compulsive orbits, melody against rhythm;
melody against the stock market for oh nine kay.
The milky weigh is more than a candy bar.
The last poem was seen leaving the building,
Elvis lusting after Joan of Arc smoking crack
from a staight glassed by centuries.
I'm not floundering on the internet.
I don't need concentration; I need
scattered escatology.
----------
ZONES
1.
There are zones and there are Zones.
The Combat Zone.
InterZone and Zona Roja.
But I won’t lie to you about eternity.
My eyes are too short.
Binoculars don’t include a future.
Is forever a word in songs
and plays and novels, cinema?
Drop a dime on my assumptions.
What I assume you shall assume
forever for never more in balance.
2.
All joys are fleeting.
Rapture and capture my doubts
with rhymes and reverie –
winter ice and hearts bereft.
The climate changes
and our view of destiny.
I pull it pull it pull the weed
and roll destiny in a holocaust
gently
Go gently.
No, I won’t
No, I won’t
But take you by the hand,
I like an erogenous zone.
3.
We have the Drop Zone
And the Combat Zone
InterZone and Zona Roja
and we go onward into that
good night, night of hope and
resolution, twist the ends...
Don’t.
I am a post in the
pasture of change,
a babe in the manger
of my own suspicion –
faith in what was lost.
Faith.
4.
The onslaught of words and meanings aloft,
circumscribed gently no not gently but fighting tooth
and toenail in clenched rapture, scattered escatology on
expectations and dental syntax.
Synapse poets are two steps above the kitchen help
just scrubbin' pots and pans manageable unlike
promises on tissue
Our paths are wound in retrospect,
scattered escatology, circumference
magnified, a menagerie of lust and witticism
just a heir’s fuck around with your press contacts.
Don’t lie to them; don’t try to work them or pull
the wool over their eyes in any way.
If you do you’re history.
5.
There are zones and there are Zones.
There is the Panic Zone the Danger Zone
Don’t ever lie to your press.
I like the Erogenous Zones.
We have the Drop Zone
And the Combat Zone
InterZone and Zona Roja.
6.
Glaciers snatched tuning up on circumstance
the last poem written into the minute held aloft
and sacrificed Super-Nova Kid's Meal double fries
designer greasy envelope def into lust and indifference.
Scattered escatology.
The planets have no destination but are
slinging, thrust into compulsive orbits,
melody against rhythm; melody against
the stock market for oh nine kay
the milky weigh is more than a candy bar.
The Last Poem was seen leaving the building.
Elvis lusting after Joan of Arc smoking cracked digits
on a credit card banked and seedless thrashed
centuries ago in middle English
on the road to Shakespeare.
Rotten Amsterdam of hash and whores,
relentless tombstones of desire
from a staight glassed by centuries.
I am not Nostrodamus.
I can't see millenia unfold.
Poems are as extinct as miracles
and belief in what is untold.
Watch it unfold
7.
U got a lot of ‘splainin’ to do
Desi, Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
Let’s call the whole thing off.
Yer only as good as
your last poem, baby,
succinct soliloquys
rasta criticisms and twelve steps at a time
an erect perspective, inject, reflect, inspect
and count the hours, the hours of our lives.
Divide and counterpoint the rigid sonatas.
I don't need concentration; I need dope
off the end of the scale, make my bail, the maximum
six percent sythesized to Mcdonald's diabetes
interesting Aztecs with their calendars and extracted hearts
jutting into the minute held aloft and sacrificed
super-nova I don't need concentration; I need dope
8.
We’re Desi and Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
Desi and Lucy
Chopin, Debussy
You're a kid's meal double fries designer greasy envelope,
digits on a credit card, banked and seedless thrashed,
admission to the stadium franchise, wandering.
Go maximized like a jpeg lounging on the universe
web of dimensions, soul slinging, thrust into
compulsive orbits, melody against rhythm;
melody against the stock market for oh nine kay.
The milky weigh is more than a candy bar.
The last poem was seen leaving the building,
Elvis lusting after Joan of Arc smoking crack
from a staight glassed by centuries.
I'm not floundering on the internet.
I don't need concentration; I need
scattered escatology.
