at the funny house
Posted: April 21st, 2012, 4:21 am
the shit list
the stuffed toad
the loaded dice
everything is naughty
and has its price
lines in a poem like veins
the lines on the highway
written into the distance
we follow some yellow arrow
or the neon sign in the dead
of night blinkin at the silence
the bombs fall out of the sky
as each word falls on the page
the grind of the coffee beans
the grind of the reality factory
the headlines have no lock
the luck has no meaning
I read a poet once like a moon
I saw them arrive at the street
where the language of animals
meets the sound of human beings
nothing is as it seems it seems
there is only an articulate scream
the cigarette burns on the end table
mark time as the dream nods out
its last feint flashes of other movie
everyday the poets wake up
under the freeway over ramp
looking right and left at the directions
that point down one way or the other
so you flip your last coin and some cheap
whore tells you to read Bukowski
and the little circus fires up another tiger
oh the people wander in and out
of the buildings of poverty and mind
looking for the reason they cannot find
the bastards of religion preach salivation
at the bells and whistles of God we spit
at the ground as if to spite its low place
and still they believe in right and wrong
and the old black man sings his blue song
this here world has been spinnin too long
might as well blow up another terrorist
might as well line up another poet to blame
for holding up that mirror in the mad house
oh they keep playin the same damn record
the needle is stuck in the groove can't move
and the cat jumps from out of nowhere
and scratches the plastic and the needle
pops out of its rut and the revolution revolves
again, and the painted bum on the corner
yells at the traffic that the road to nowhere ends
some crumbs of poems slip out of the holes in
his chancy pockets that's a banana and he
is happy to see you at the funny house
the stuffed toad
the loaded dice
everything is naughty
and has its price
lines in a poem like veins
the lines on the highway
written into the distance
we follow some yellow arrow
or the neon sign in the dead
of night blinkin at the silence
the bombs fall out of the sky
as each word falls on the page
the grind of the coffee beans
the grind of the reality factory
the headlines have no lock
the luck has no meaning
I read a poet once like a moon
I saw them arrive at the street
where the language of animals
meets the sound of human beings
nothing is as it seems it seems
there is only an articulate scream
the cigarette burns on the end table
mark time as the dream nods out
its last feint flashes of other movie
everyday the poets wake up
under the freeway over ramp
looking right and left at the directions
that point down one way or the other
so you flip your last coin and some cheap
whore tells you to read Bukowski
and the little circus fires up another tiger
oh the people wander in and out
of the buildings of poverty and mind
looking for the reason they cannot find
the bastards of religion preach salivation
at the bells and whistles of God we spit
at the ground as if to spite its low place
and still they believe in right and wrong
and the old black man sings his blue song
this here world has been spinnin too long
might as well blow up another terrorist
might as well line up another poet to blame
for holding up that mirror in the mad house
oh they keep playin the same damn record
the needle is stuck in the groove can't move
and the cat jumps from out of nowhere
and scratches the plastic and the needle
pops out of its rut and the revolution revolves
again, and the painted bum on the corner
yells at the traffic that the road to nowhere ends
some crumbs of poems slip out of the holes in
his chancy pockets that's a banana and he
is happy to see you at the funny house
