GAS, GRASS or ASPIRIN:
Nobody Rides for Free.
Edited by W.Marmoset Yarn
Consequence is drama
Said he who dreamt of a trip
To Bahamas, with Gwen F. Altruistic
Poking her ass like my favorite biscuit
Within the onion of her dome, an area
I might once have called my home, were it
Not against policy while poison rules
Where quarantine separates abstract fools.
I paid my dues when Rome was burning
I played my fiddle when Atlantis yearned
To be paramount to valleys while my life
Was learning to be a substitute fantasy where
Love was concerned. Had I been different
& She been that, we may have died inside her twat,
The Police Asking Questions And What Not. Yet, I might
Have been Rimbaud & marshaled the seamen whose
Sperm I implore, to implode. And Boldly!
Lest I breed carols that
Systems overload, with monkeys rolling barrels,
Churning butter that would otherwise be
Left to spinning sorrows while rabbits chase
A Diamonds carat while merchants will to dare it.
The diamonds sweating what a bunny bears when
Fate is forced to face it, and loosen its embrace
Especially when the cut has left the stone some ways from grace,
And yet one still must wear it.
I will pay your annual syntax
Just promise me that in dreamland
My phallus you will wax.
It is not that my mind is nasty
It’s just that my thoughts are tasty,
If often hasty in their tracks
And brusque in their breaks.
Very short politically correct poem number 4:
As a hetero-sapiens dude
I have come to conclude
That it is not whether a
Man likes dick
But whether he is
Capable, as so few are,
& Faithful to the
Task at hand
Or just another prick.
My father was
A pussy man and
He said much of it was tasteful,
Though some of it was rude.
Life as it is, with us as we are, is the key to the rainbow bridge.
Having that been said the key to happiness, is simplicity
& Beers in the Fridge, Avoiding Post Nasal Drip.
One man’s morality is another man’s common sense.
One man’s open range is another man’s fence.
Confusion is a new mind.
We accuse the abused for acting abused
Never questioning the methods we use
Shoot out the lights & blame the fuse.
Abuse follows the same flame as misuse
In whose name fortune seeks recompense
For what density it bruised and what it might
Have left buried in a grave and not a trench
Where things might be retrieved
And where grieves lay dormant in fractured fields
Where myths are not believed.
Looking for his I.D.
Hid Itself Inside A
Squid, though not
One from the factory
But from a Shallow Grid,
That laps Foam on the waves
That slap against the tides that Groan
With Butterscotch Yearnings Of Returning Home.
Mirrors can only make a Goat of those they cannot Kid.
An ID that spoke Yiddish, Nervous & Skittish,
Though not Boorish, but Porous, perhaps frigid,
It dreams of Porsche, though it Rides The Bus
With A Girl Named Brigitte
(At times British, Often Livid & the Other Refractions
That Have To Live With It).
She’s the divide between them & us.
And though Loathe To Admit It, the Brine is the Price
& Texture of the liquid where the ID, looking for his
I.D. Hid, when it’s Pentacles Stretched & Reached into
The Squid, Tentacles Resting on what it Bids &
Keeping the ‘Squid Pro Quo’ Where It Is
& Their Secrets on how they did it.
There was once a young Dexter from Exeter
Who really wanted to get next to her
So he sold his supply
of Hi-Fi for Wi-Fi
So that he could send more text to her.
There was once a lady from Woking
Who tried in vain to give up smoking
She sold her last bong
But before too long
She spent more money coking.
There once was a man from L.A.
Who fell much in love with a lay
He signed a pre-nup
And when his time was up
She sent the poor chap on his way.
There once was a man from Ossago
Who told people that he was from Chicago
When they found him a fake
It was more than he could take
He now sells cheese in Colorado.
There was once a lady from Spokane
Who cried out each time she came:
“Paint me like a starlet
Paint me like a harlot
Just keep it all inside the frame”.
There was once a dealer from Cornwall
Who considered himself quite born well
So he worked out his formula,
Moved to California
& now he invests in porn well.
There was once a market for Limericks
Before it succumbed to gimmicks
That gave it away
For a penny a day
& traded its mimes for mimics.
There was once a sailor from Eden
Who took his boat S.W. to Sweden
He opened his sails
& got eaten by whales
& so now he’s bottom feedin’.
There once was a sailor from Eden
Who took his boat S.W. to Sweden
He opened his sails
And got lost in the swales
And now he’s in Iceland Breeding.
ROBBED BY THE MOB,
He Was A Man Without A Country Record.
He Couldn’t Buy A Waltz,
Nor Would They Give Him Much to Work
With that Had much of a Pulse.
And He Didn’t like coming in Second,
He fought the Hedgerows while in Heat
And Reeling from Feeling Fecund,
Gripping in the trenches fists,
That Wingspan failed to greet
As it wallowed in Swelling
From Its Broken Wrist.
Sometimes the Middle Finger becomes
The fiddle’s final twist,
Some Translation Always lost in the Telling,
Though If the Pictures Hold up
The Mind is kissed,
Stabilizing Mental Health.
And Picking Fights If Not Much Else
(& Picking Noses,
Which He Blows
If He Supposes
It Knows Too Much & it Shows
& Falls Flat on its Feet & Toes
Back to Abraham & Moses,
Burying the Gentiles in
While Tombstones Beckon Bones
& Widows Seek their Wealth
& Fires seek their Hoses).
He wrote ‘Dragon Lines & Valentines’.
He wrote the ‘Ballad of Money Shot Jones’
Who Came On Time & Kept His Throne
While living in a Shelter He Called His Home
Where in Summer He Sweltered
Or he shivered when winter delivered
Winds to Him Alone, Knocking Over Signs,
While Stirring Up Tension That Whisky Unwinds
In the silence of a cone.
If PLASMA SCREAMS
Vision Dreams of the Time It Spends Atoning
For the Limits it has Dared To Stretch when Appetites
Foam At The Mouth Of Paradise,
Where Seeds are Sowing,
Winds are blowing &
Foothills find their Streams.
Even if the Price is Keeping Pace
With promises Kept &
Urges tamed, if not in God’s
Then in Vanity’s name.
The Mississippi Flows
Both In & Out Of Heaven,
Bread to Stone Remains Unleavened
Unless the flood bestows
Derailment on the Southbound train
Whose Clatter precedes its Sheen
& Whose passengers are the types
Who only Spirit knows
& Travel Sight Unseen
(Their lives Assumed more Pleasant).
While Sturgeon operate beneath the
Surf turning 6’s into 7’s.
But Still, Estrogen’s Farms Can Hover Near
& Spank Above their Rank, While
Is to Hide the Waters & Steal
& Wine from the Cellars’
Tanks & turn it into Vinegar &
Then let Circumstance & Accusation shake
Before They Comprehend,
The Pirates from the Plank,
As Right Hand Men refused to Split Grain with
The Left hand of the Sinister
Who might render your death an Afterthought
With the Same Gesture used to Thank.
And who anyway overtax whatever they administer.
Where numbers are growing &
Heart rates are slowing &
Revenues find their stream.
Coughing up their Dollars
From the Rafters & Beams,
Each Man Repeating What the Last Man Hollers,
Completing the narrative of his frame.
AND HE UNDERPAYS WHO CAN
AFFORD TO HAVE HIS NAME
CHISELED ON A GRAVE
Beyond What Stones He’s Already Paving.
And driven by the Horses now limping
To the Barn they’re Braving,
Reduced to what they have.
These Fine Men Die So that the Waves May Swell
While those who bury them beneath their tears
Prepare the Context their Stories tell,
Buffered by the bonus years
And where the bias leans,
Knowing that all sirens save
One Last Song To Sell,
Tailored to its genes
As Well as to The Silver
Tales That Will Bear Engraving
Purchased within their means
From lives they are improving.
Though Nothing Changes That He Was
ROBBED BY THE MOB,
& Is Now A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY RECORD.
Of His Own Accord He wrote ‘Chemtrails & Cocktails’
& ‘Have You Hugged Your Banker Today?’
& ‘If You’re My Mother, How Come Your Name Is Bill
& Why Do You Live In L.A.?’
And Now He’s Hanging on to Hand Rails,
Swiss Visa Revoked, Suffering Promotional ‘Underkill’
& Feeling the Pinch as they say, with
Few resources left for hoax
His pockmarks feeling the stress from the growth
That poked at his profile after the stroke.
The wives got rich, the lawyers went broke.
While impressions pale beneath the
Fence of his Dominance & his Sleeping Will
Locked out of his domicile for being
More Italian than French
& For Losing Touch With Common Sense.
Weeping Willows Stain their Pillows
With the leaves they choke.
He Could Have Gone For Broke.
He might have asked for recompense.
He Might Have Thought Before He Spoke.
Instead He Stood by the Things He Wrote
And wouldn’t move an inch.
And trusts that the Days Will Pay
For any Vows he May have forsaken
Or Any Hearts Betrayed in the Days
That Never Flinched & the Monsoon Nights did Soak.
Delayed only by what might have
Or depressed those who easily took offense
Encumbered with foreign elements.
When Earls Were Men Instead Of Girls
& Counted their Blessings before their Pearls
Got Stuck inside their Throats.
And The Harlequins Last Cigarette Is
The Butt of Every Joke
& Frogs Are Existentialists Since Every Day They Croak
And Even the Ones that Smoke, do it to be Sensationalist.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA
MILANO January 23rd, 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED