The Brutal Violins

his head's above the water now
bobbing along like a little duckling
he'll serve as cannon fodder/prow
as we beach this big old thing
the rocks smashed across his brow
and now his brains are leaking
no matter he softened the blow to our bow
and kept our ship from sinking



Good plots require lots of paper
barrels of ink, sharp sickles and blood
collusion renders all dark plans weaker
as so many molehills before a flood
so we plan and jot our plots in sands
then bury all the remains in the mud



we peel and listen for the squeals
delightful slick and rubbery
bloody pain and torturing!
the tools of all our ecstasy?
a melon baller sharpened,
a pair of tongs red hot in coals
your fluids and dreams escaping
as we carve you to fit our perfect mold



everybody fades out and blends
each plays at differentiation as avocation
a game of picking up names and stations
for a climaxing hero's presentation
well up until each end

Night's Air

we will all be spirits, just ghostly songs
from a sad flautist piping all alone
on a world of driftwood, wind and bone
soil scraped down to sand and stone
not a creature living, not plant nor crone
for these sins on Earth we can't atone



respect is outmoded, dated and dead
we haven't such luxury in this new era, no
events are exciting and fill mortals with dread
but it's all just part of the overlong show
and what they won't get through enough of their heads
is that humans are dependent on snow



this cricket cacaphony
batters all our senses
they endless drone nocturnally
and look like barbs from fences
black but grey all filthy and dusty
only death or deafening could end this

Sand and Smoke

the delightful and habitual
go about like little ants
these systems architectural, static
...strange rooms in which to dance
constrained by these conventions
renders us imperceptible in our clothes
in a predicament, a suspension
with no wild places left to go



everything we loved was filthy
with the impurity of human touch
their greedy sweaty faces grinning
marring all beauty like a smudge
how could we be anything but a monster
in this cheap world of greed and lust?
And a nice spring cleaning is fabulous:
Even the pools of blood.




This cheap catharsis is a crypt or has a
life we cannot see
we'd rather build a house for bones
than chase nothing endlessly
we dance to songs of sea and earth
like birdsong: Not frippery.
artifice with no art in it?
Such artisans should be worm feed.




two by eight we navigate
these rolling bloody hills of hate
to spin a yarn we must gyrate
so this plate of slate we'll consecrate
between two ridges parallel and straight
a place to cremate and assassinate!
this is where we'll hibernate,
and rest before we exterminate.



we rest and wrap one tentacle
round our head to keep out light
a habit we developed in incarceration
as a monster—otherwise we'd fight
our fetal curl has rocked our world
as we grow ever-larger with spite
our symmetry has a heavy forward
and our gravity gives others flight



Some spend their lives lengthening
while we sing our same dull drone
aware of every stone thrown at us
... can't wait to return home
or to a labyrinthine ossuary
under the earth with all the bones
Sister Death is always with us,
without her we're alone



a sack of snakes is a mistake
let them out or meet a fate
cruel and wicked and agonized
maggots will eat your living eyes
centipedes large and unceasing chew
crawling in your skin they move
you'll be peeled, flesh torn and rent
that's what you get for bagging serpents!



this desert changes every day
shadows irregular and unclear
in this heat haze and smoke of burning trees
it's difficult to smell the fear
or any other warning sign
that we are drawing near
we'll play with our prey for hours and days
as a puma stalks a deer

A Canary's Condition

The arrival of death
and decomposition
one comes from our West
the other exists in every condition
from the heart of a storm
to highest pinnacle's position
to the same earth
goes each expedition



this is the nature of our joy and mirth:
bursting from within the earth
like a geyser we whirl and laugh and shout
spin and spin and spin about
reave the dreadful dogs of doubt
then worm below to clean our scales
down with the rusty coffin nails



Hope springs ever so eternal
but the devils are all over the details
mining, digging, dams and wells
like locusts from the ninth green hell
burning every tree and trail
...the results look very infernal!



The Mortal's Song

this is not the best there is
though nothing more exists
we're born into this cruel sphere
dripping wet from previous bliss
as time and age, decrepitude,
a lifetime spent amidst
other fools no more wise
than a bully's balled up fist




this wave is on the verge of cresting
breaking down into calm seas
the parts inside of us are creaking
rusty, sparking and hissing steam
we restless prowl around our cavern
waiting for the final scream



O endless Moon, how are you
on this cloudy evening black and blue?
We're hungry and beaten, feel like poo
we've hardly eaten since half past two
only three people! That's far too few...
we suppose tonight we'll have leftover stew.