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Sunday, July 7, 2013

Satan's Ice Cream Truck


"I'd kill for a damned ice cream cone."

---------------

SATAN'S ICE CREAM TRUCK

Discordant noises and screeches of the damned
jingle together like an Elfman score on crack.
First brooding and dark, then sickly sweet;
the song of an angel having a heart attack.

Departing from the corner of Rot and Sin
and following a regular route,
it offers heartache and poison and soul decay
disguised as cream, sugar and fruit.

Slinking through your neighborhood on a hot summer day
with promises of chilled seduction,
your children are begging for quarters and dimes
to purchase a taste of corruption.

You hear its darkly melancholic jaunt
as a whisper in the back of your brain,
it rounds the corner onto your street
and begins its madhouse reel once again.

With numb fingers and soul, you proffer your cash
while bargaining for treats from its stores.
The man smiles a smile that never touches his eyes
while opening frost-rimed freezer doors.

He withdraws something that wriggles on its stick
beneath a wrapper of seeming purity.
Handing it to you with a grin and a wink -
your soul’s protest fades to obscurity.

You gobble and lick with sexual abandon
the morsel of carnal delight
Ignoring the maggots and spiritual death
temptation covering the blight.

Having sold your soul for a moments respite
from the heat of day to day living
your only hope lies in the Grace of a God
whom you can hope is truly forgiving.

So guard your soul well, and that of your kin
When you hear the siren song of the damned.
For Satan can only fool you with your consent
Those with Faith can never be scammed.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Urban Jungle Song






I hate guns, gun culture, gun enthusiasts, gun shows, gun belts, gun manufacturers and most of all, gun lobbies. My position is known, so I will spare you the argument, but guns take lives that can be taken no other way, that in itself should impel their rigorous control.

Some people should have guns. Some should most definitely NOT have guns.

Bio-metric controls built into every gun manufactured by 2020, every registration requiring proof of certification, every registration accompanied by ballistic mapping, and treating bullets like a controlled substance would allow responsible gun owners to exist, stolen guns to be useless, and ammunition to be cost prohibitive.

Your mileage may vary.

But as a poet with no inhibitions about putting my words out there, I want to share the following poem with you:


URBAN JUNGLE SONG


Galoshes slip slop along, plop, plip as they drop,
slicker slides like grease otters swimming in slop
pop, pop, pop, rain pelts the rubber hood in splats
as chubby hands launch paper boats shaped like hats
that float on ahead down the road

awash with wishes that swim and slosh
innocent of the need to cleanse or wash.

Pop, pop, pop goes the weasels in the stolen Pontiac
Popping without stopping, as they shot him in the back.
He trips, then slips, then watches blood drip-drip
as he raises a palsied fist to the mist across his lip
while they drive by and roll down the road

cackling and slapping high fives with a grin
the random boy’s death was this punk’s ticket in.

Wiper swipes and swipes the glass, cop's paperwork required.
His eyes cast down until the sound of pops and squeal of tires.
Without regard for fear of pain, he slipped it into gear
to cut across the ganger’s path as it barreled ever near
he cut them off from access to the road

his duty in actions without hesitation
ensured justice and eventual incarceration.

Mum wipes tears for her dark fears have come true.
Her child gone and there is none she can do to undo
Justice cares for just us and don’t you forget
there is nothing they cannot take from you yet.
Would life be better if you walked down that road?

Life happens when you are ready or not.
Fate says you get what you already got.

You are captain of your own ship Destiny,
if you slip up on your trip don’t rip it on me.
Sloppy plotting costs us lives each and every day
and sometimes we forget what we really want to say.
You never walk alone, no matter your pick of road.

We each have our own true voices
and make our personal choices.