A bunch of little poems that wanted out

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Hey coffee, you’re the best,
Hey vinegar, you cut through the flesh,
Hey polio, I can taste you in my ears,
Hey people, come swallow your fears.

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america has grown fat
it’s noble purpose asleep
in a bed unmade
in terms of trade
in a narcotic arcade

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I drank the Kool-Aid, I stole the purse
I said magic words that opened the universe
the back of the mirror reflects a different light
and a different You is staring back tonight

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Send for my prescription,
my sacred beads of mercury.
I’m feeling a clarity,
a stark encounter with the end of us all.
Last call for alcohol
in a city of failing light.

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It is the number five, the number you are
always asking about. It’s always five.
Hold up your hand, make it face the sun,
make it feel that star, make it be felt by the star.
Our only hope is the sun,
Yet still we stare into the darkness,
Lying in wait for the things that come out.

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Pray that he comes
in the heart of the heat,
the bone and the meat,
the pounding of drums.

Pray that he stays,
pray that you’re strong,
an army in retreat forgets
all of its songs.

The Prince has an air
of hard-done-by youth,
and disdain, in equal measure,
for those under his hooves.

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Delight in a thousand engines
Lay waste to the prime meridian
Out of the fire and into the physics
We’re bred in the lab, unconscious.

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Obviously, there will be a full investigation
Utilizing all of our imaginary resources
But the bottom line is that
you will get your money back
It’s just a question of where and when
the wrong atom is split.

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A red brick
Sailing through the sky
Signals the start
Of the next revolution.

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A molecule of air
When bathed in sunlight
Is as bright as a berry
When bathed in rain.

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Too late!
Too late!
Screaming at the ambulance,
Screaming at the world.

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Artificial light, sailors tie their knots
like ribbons of sugar and weeds.
as popular as you get, a rapidly growing franchise
has neither the womb nor the ratchet
to bring about riots.

There’s a glow in this room, from above and below,
a vanilla cream hum in the floor and oddly fragrant mists
focus slippery sounds in the ears.

There is a spirit of dust that has settled on my shoulders,
A head like a tunnel, a passageway for colour analysis and time.
Lose the analysis and keep the colour.
Or is it the other way around?

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The road to ruin
Is paved with
Abandoned pets
And smoking jackets.

-----o-----

there will be no more Pepsi
for your awkward illusions
there will be no more foie gras
no pastries, no handsome paperweights
the full scope of your mad dreams
amounts to nothing
but a whistling insect
and a few grains of rice

-----o-----