Old Men Walk Funny (V2)

 

Old men walk funny with shadows and time eating at their heels.

Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, then most die.

They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home,

and forget their social security checks bank account numbers,

dwell on whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers;

did they put their underwear on?

They can’t remember where they put down their glasses,

did they drop them on memory lane U.S. Route 66?

Was it watermelon wine or drive in movies they forgot their virginity in?

Hammered late evenings alone bottle up Mogen David wine madness

mixed with diet 7-Up, all moving parts squeak and crack in unison.

At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears,

they are flapping jaws sexual exchange with monarch butterfly wings.

Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair;

sagging pants to physical therapy.

They pray for sunflowers above their graves,

a plot that bears their name with a poem.

They purchase their burial plots, pennies in a jar for years,

beggar’s price for a deceased wife.

Proverb:  in this end, everything that was long at one time is now passive,

or cut short. Ignore us old moonshiners, or poets that walk funny,

“they aren’t hurting anyone anymore.”

Time Loves Heroes ♥ Heroes Hate Time

 

Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves timeless

 

Time loves heroes

In stove-pipe hat

Veve symboled suit

Cemetery lace cravat

Skull painted face

Bad blood veins

 

Time loves heroes

In tarot card skin

Tattooed and scarred

Wild wind-worn hair

Bone adorned jewelry

Outlaw’s boots

 

Time loves heroes

In feathered warbonnet

Dog chasing sun legs

Electric octopus arms

Iron horse blues

Rainbow eyes

 

Time loves heroes

In a porcelain soul

Underneath the bridge

Lost and broken

Abandoned and abused

Forgotten and alone

 

Time loves heroes

In all walks of life

Woman or man

Gay or straight

Black or white

Red or yellow

All genders and colors

 

Time

Loves

Heroes

 

♥

 

Heroes

Hate

Time

 

All genders and colors

Yellow or red

White or black

Straight or gay

Man or woman

In all walks of life

Heroes hate time

 

Forgotten and alone

Abandoned and abused

Lost and broken

Underneath the bridge

In a porcelain soul

Heroes hate time

 

Rainbow eyes

Iron horse blues

Electric octopus arms

Dog chasing sun legs

In feathered warbonnet

Heroes hate time

 

Outlaw’s boots

Bone adorned jewelry

Wild wind-worn hair

Tattooed and scarred

In tarot card skin

Heroes hate time

 

Bad blood veins

Skull painted face

Cemetery lace cravat

Veve symboled suit

In stove-pipe hat

Heroes hate time

 

Time is a flat circle that strips heroes taken for granted away

 

 

 

Antiheroes

 

Jeff Bridges

The Dude

 

Hunter S. Thompson

Gonzo Journalist

 

Oscar Zeta Acosta

Brown Buffalo

 

Maya Angelou

Civil Rights Poetess

 

Charles Bukowski

Dirty Old Man

 

Jim Morrison

Lizard King

 

Martin Luther King Jr.

Activist Minister

 

John Lennon

Dreamer

 

John Henry “Doc” Holiday

Huckleberry Gunfighter Dentist

 

Aleister Crowley

Occultist Wizard

 

Bill Hicks

Conspiracy Theorist Comedian

 

George Carlin

Truth Speaking Comedian

 

George Jung

Cocaine Kingpin

 

Keith Richards

Highlander Guitarist

 

Leonard Cohen

Musician Poet

 

Leonard Nimoy

Actor Poet

 

William S. Burroughs

Madman Novelist

 

Elvis Presley

Drug-Addled Rockabilly

 

Marilyn Monroe

Drug-Addled Mistress

 

Ron Jeramy

Hedgehog

 

Man Is the Only Animal

That Blushes. Or Needs To. – Mark Twain

 

Or that can remain on friendly terms, says Samuel

Butler, with the victims he intends to eat until he

Eats them; that shows interest in the sex lives of

Other animals; that is able to invent a story and

Spread it over time and space; that insists on its

Uniqueness, superiority and omniscience; that

Refrains from farting or fucking in the wild open; that

Tries to live not only in the moment, but also among

The pasts and futures; that is capable of making medicines

Machines and machinations; that can readily convert

Himself from one ism to another; that enjoys playing

Words along this line as Nelson in his ‘Funny Bird Sex.’

 

 

Mega-Physics

 

Few are really aware of

Such universes

Existing beyond our own

Even fewer of so many other versions

Of selfhood living

In each of them, let alone

This simple secret:

At the depth of consciousness

Lives a quantum

Or soul as we prefer to call it

A particle, demon and/or angel dancing

The same dance afar, far apart

In an entanglement

Beautiful Advertisements for Hell

 

last night

we roamed the

intermediate grade

 

between the ease of

everything &

ecstatic adoration

 

& pushed deeper

into

 

liquid fire

we loved

until our

hearts

 

content

 

a desperate act for the approval of strangers

 

it’s a blank page

 

words flying by

at a million miles

per hour

 

the average person

can’t do this shit

 

you then think of

all the bad poetry

out there

 

the average people

are doing it

 

you are not special

 

you were not blessed

with any rare talent

 

it’s all a trick

 

smoke and mirrors

 

that’s why you can’t

make enough to call

it a profession

 

it’s a hobby

 

a desperate act for the

approval of strangers

 

a lonely voice in a

hallway with no echo

 

an old dirt road where

all the old poets go

to die

 

look at the scars

and know it’s time

——————————————————————–

 

even you deserve to be loved

 

sometimes it’s catharsis

and sometimes it’s just

a good shit that removes

everything but the brain

 

a passing thunderstorm

and the bold belief that

even you deserve to

be loved

 

your father never had

the time to teach you

about fools, dreamers

and the need for a few

dark souls to dig ditches

and graves

 

all the young girls in the

houses around here are

growing up so fast

 

you’ll probably be in a

different world by the

time they start exploring

the dirty parts of their

souls

 

it’s a faint taste of blood

 

it’s another shooting on

the west side of town

 

all the old lovers have

moved on years ago

 

one of these days

 

you might get around

to it

 

Undercover

 

A shortening of this time, a tranquil hour,

as chaos and celebration continues behind

closed doors and bars. The stillness outside

allows the patter of foxes feet on concrete to

echo like avalanches.

 

The first sip always tastes bitter now,

my taste buds filed down by decades of

misplacement. A singular crack across

this glass is now more than sufficient in

bringing this evening to a close.

 

The recovery over four days lets those clouds

slowly break, but without rain. Just a gradual

reminder that our stride has now shortened,

our voices now grate against the most stable

of nerves.

 

It all crept towards us too early, like mould

upon damp carpets. and managed to break

our delicate swagger. that never held more

than its own body weight. It’s centre never

as soft as we constantly liked to portray.

 

 

Once it’s Gone

 

Just off that side road, taunting the last

dregs of each pint, our fingers never gracing

the filthy change left in our pockets. We again

look forward to that fictitious holiday we have

planned- two days upon uncut grass verges.

 

We drift pass those dilapidated lairs, once

occupied by working hands; calloused and cut

short without a word of thanks. Their achievements

now our meager entertainment, the fruits of their

labour now encased in dust and dispersed on this

slow, tepid breeze.

 

We climb those make shift steps, the clear

air a vaccine for our lungs, to protect us from

the next four months of smog. My eyes for once

stop excreting false tears, as we approach that

final bar, we understand the stain we leave is

unavoidable; yet another unwanted necessity.

 

 

 

 

Acid On The Lake

 

Silver seas

shimmering

mercury

diamond-glossed

reflecting

refracting

turning my

green pyramid

window-pane

mind

to stone

like it wasn’t

solid rock

before;

I slip

walking on water

fall

into depths

of subliminal archetypal

consciousness

watch out for that propeller!

WRITING OUT MY MADNESS

 

When the time comes for me to escape I’ll be glad

But right now all I want to do is simply sit and write

Gripped by an insanity that comes from living in this place

I sit and write as there is nothing else left to do

All the drink has been drunk and all the weed has been smoked

For now, well nothing left to do but sit and write

 

Thinking of my past life, before I moved to this town

And events, themes, chaos and scenes spark memories that need to be written

As they are as important to me as the things which happen right now

The times at school, of growing up in suburban hell

Of finding the real me in a forest of weed, sublime tales and dirty rock’n’roll

When the summers seemed endless and fun was to be had

 

The youthful times when I dreamt of being old as no kid seemed to be like me

Or dreaming of being a bin-man as I sat watching a black-n-white TV set

Spending time with my Nan as my parents worked all the time

She’d always whip me at table-tennis when I was aged 9 or 10

Or cut my tomatoes up so small that I wouldn’t even notice them as I ate my salad

Before sitting down to watch the cricket on a test-match afternoon

 

The days at school, of being the odd one out all the time

Towering over my bullies they would taunt me, freak, and weirdo before

Finally letting their fists and feet fly in my direction

Pushing me closer to a life of isolation where I spent every break-time

Avoiding playing football in the school-yard and hiding away in the library

Fostering a love of books that has long out-lasted my love of humanity

 

And every one of these incidents and experiences has helped make me

To help make me the kind of person I am today so for that I can only be grateful

But not to the bullies but to those who’ve stood by during this period

When I’ve been totally gripped by an urge to write out my madness

 

 

I HAD TO

 

I heard him crying
one night, alone,
I crept downstairs
from my bedroom
into the lounge,
he wasn’t aware of
my presence:
I crouched down
and watched my
father weep, drunk,
confused and
fucked-up:
for several minutes
I remained silent
and then I
returned to my
bedroom and wept,
I didn’t know why
except that
I had to.

 
IF I ASKED, I’D SAY

 

Write something down that’ll
kick-hard between the world’s
legs, let it know you’re
around and that you’re not
fucking-around for applause
or pages in books:
write something down that’ll
seize readers by the throat
and will force the heart to
beat faster, to take away a
breath, to leave a scar, give
no mercy and fuck the
consequences:
write something down,
scribe the truth
and don’t be afraid.

you gotta keep writing to keep from going insane

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

no one ever goes inside

(I once went in there …

you wouldn’t believe the garbage I saw)

 

sitting on the steps of an old white building in the hot sun

doing nothing

wondering why I’m here and

not somewhere else

as the sweat crawls down my hairy back

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

doing nothing

admiring the thighs and asses of young girls

as they walk by in their summer shorts

(did you know that the age of consent in Mexico

is 12?)

 

sitting on the steps of some old building in the hot sun

doing nothing

as the benches burn

the parking meters boil

and the world gets ready to explode.