Juvenilia: Tyrannopolis

[Ah, to be young and full of spunk! In the spring of 1978, I was living on Beacon Street in Boston's Back Bay and attempting to piece together a cohesive poem cycle on the living decay of large cities. I had fire but, alas, not so much focus. As much as I want to edit the hell out of it now, I'm just going to present it in its awful form from that time period. Actually I don't think editing would help. The wording, form, presentation, and the balls out, full steam ahead character of it would complicate editing. A re-write would probably just drain the life out of it. I think it could easily benefit by cutting half of it. Naw, I have to acknowledge it is a beast unto itself, a product of my early attempts to express something in a unique way. Unique, sure. Ha. There's a reason I'm calling this crap juvenilia. --wordlackey]

[Erg, having a little problem with the formatting here. Every other line starting with the second line should be indented. I was able to do this with the whole third section by using blockquote. For individual lines, not very viable. I'll work on it. My HTML skills are rudimentary.]
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Tyrannopolis: Hard Line

It starts with the word scream

in hell lost in self-screaming

and there is no possible way understanding

can open a path for screams

solidly frozen in space

never to hear/treasure anyone

on the path of one alone onealone

without the respite of reassurance and intimacy

needed for the psychical balm it gives

hypnotized by carresses allalone and sorry.

In its clutches

ripped off egofeelings

hope crushed and without faith

to have faith in humanity

is the repeating pattern silently rippingoff feelings

by society demands societydemands

and the whole world is black

nightblack engulfing smothering darkness

of notalk nocommunication nounderstanding

of one for another crying among society pylons

rebuffing the emaciated lovers of tenderness

and stressing the impersonal redlights

flashing in the perpetual emergency night

the state of the emergency art

meeting the deepshadowed one once again

while turning a fog shrouded corner

and the straining of tired heartstrings

separated from everything people can offer

and take terminal take ripoff of energy

hate taking from all...

(dragging through prismspectrum of hate/distrust

(all the same don't touch don't talk don't feel

(remorse do what youmust to survive to kill

(all threats against bodypsyche attack all pain

(fetter all bind all threats get away from me

(strike dead help hit help killhelp fright strike

(out blindly at all help egopowercentre shall

(kill threats blow away threats neverend sight

(sound of all coming for paranoia afraid stranger

(kill power over environment to fear all go away

(from me damn you asshole bumping me kill you

(bastard sonofabitchfaggotpissing threat to

(egopower shit son of mutated reptile offal

(touching me shit bash your face all over the

(ground you goddamn shitforbrains asshole...)

An ever crouching coward of tyrannopolis

society problem thing of a misbegotten hopefear

death and torture which we all have in common.

Part of you is dying in the city

for the hopes you once had

and now there is no compromise

you must meet the city on its own grounds

of hatefear gasp last breath on the steps

of this cathedral dedicated to death

dedicated to noescape from all the pain

in the cityhate comes the end of the revolution

and feeling helplessness creep over you

for the dearth of any gibbering sanity

straining hope spending itself in the citynight

deathnight of the city killing all in its path

reach out and tough cityskin hits you

with its callousness

the closer connection of hate breathing

through your pores selfdenial of all hope

for the nightblack city is only for the hopeless

try to understand hate and it destroys you

with the citysoul feeling of hate

strangling suffocating you in the night

and then performing a twisted act of mouthtomouth

resuscitation on the remaining husk

to create an artificial semblance of life

which is possessed and controlled by the night

and the night belongs to the city

breathing its hate into you.

There is nohope for survival intimacy here

drink to escape but it is there

in the shadows

in the morning too hating for words

too overt for forgetfulness

the deathdealing machine known as the city

breeding hatred for all enough hate for all

to share in egohate always

to share in the common tyranny

so hatelove it or leave it.

© 2005, wordlackey for php

Sorrow in Gehenna

Dark hot winds carress withering flesh,
Soul contortions across the map, breathless
From every breeze, from every atrocity.

Who saves countries from the failings of empire?
Who provides the crippled larks with healing shelter?
Who will slaughter the patriots, free the wage-slaves?

Not the wicked piper singing hosannahs between verses,
Not the eager whipwielder sharing a passion for pain,
Not the sly seller of dreams stripping still living bodies.

There’s a hero but he’s busy in an alley getting a handjob.
There’s a stalwart but he’s grown stout with soft living.
There’s a jerk who’s perfect, he doesn’t care at all.

It’s a new morning where late the sweet birds sang,
It’s a glory train going over a trembling trestle,
It’s a righteous blade, consecrated, thirsty, bare.

Half-lidded eyes devour sere fields without mercy,
Drinking in the sundew remaining on the stubble,
Sustaining on pain, fear and induced corruption.

Do not weep for the wounded heart of the body politic,
Do not loose anger randomly in frustrated bursts,
Do not harrow barren fields nor water the lifeless dust.

Stoke these fires, bank the embers, prepare the wood.
Turn the wheel and do not look away:
The mystery is not in what has been lost,
It is in what will grow in the empty places.

November 5, 2004
© 2005, wordlackey for php

Sheltering Sadness

Calls running down the line from the past,
Epitomized, without eulogy, by the scent
Of dry grass summer days.

Cement so hot feet are burned through the
Thin soles of worn brown shoes padded out
With yesterday’s newspaper.

The framing of we in the country of silence,
A shared alliance against loneliness, a suture
In preparation for colonial imperialism.

Could we shy away? Would we prevaricate
In dulcet tomes? Should we read this sortie
As remedial or rectification? Reification?

There is a stamp of sad bemusement about us,
Stolen participation leaving voids of consent
Where we sing paeans to a false history.

Can we replace tear-filled byes with shock and paw?
A mauling we requested without knowledge, yet
Offering withered fruit on the vine in tribute.

Snarling anger lashes, contempt so present and
Palpable it’s a organism living beyond its origins,
Rising metaphor creating the new rhetor.

No shelter remains viable, the erosion of complacent
Idylls leaves only firebrands ascendant and joyous,
Renewed through blood and such special fire.

These flames are dark, birthplace of broken glass
On night sidewalks, torches refracted by shards in
Pools of liquid so black, cooling in the moonlight.

We were told and told and still we forgot:
Fascism isn’t the boot in your face;
It’s the boot in the face next to you.

August 18, 2004
© 2005, wordlackey

Gassing Temptation

All right, there’s no control and no lead to believe in,
Au currant contagion could be the reason for seething
Emotional sparks spraying out from a shuttered room,
A collective stutter racks bodies of facile conviction.
Gone to weed, wild growth of clever entendre shot
Across select bows for cheap access to schemes
Unfilled, unstilled by manipulating fingers, probing all
With a ravenous and rapacious will to conquer.

Looking for condemnation and a sickly sense of history
Culling and calling us to submit to Oedipus and Franco,
Dictators of will and not, abrogating an abomination shared
For the warm feeling of emotional fascism brought forth.
All the care patriots take care, strangling the public discourse,
Drowning it like kittens in the self-polluted river we collectively
Piss into, barking our opinions loudly and braying laughter
Convulsively, almost faking at real need, almost really needing.

There’s a hulking father-figure adding it all up, doling out
Kicks and cuffs and limitations with indiscriminate passion,
Cashing the checks and checking every move for transgression,
Drooling with slack eyes drifting, looking for every bad son.

Suck up to the creep,
Let him f--k the sheep
If it’ll keep him busy,
Keep him stuck in a rut.
Don’t laugh at the clown
Who mercilessly kills souls,
Claiming higher ground
With snide sardonic simpers.

Karma doesn’t kick in fast enough to balance these crusted scales,
These night sweats of induced fear, a patriarchal legacy smothering,
Stealing even the shallow breaths from the silent son’s dreams,
This parade of failed revolutions, this required shroud of weeping.
Thus rage kicks in, a white hot need for justice pounding temples,
Bursting out hard and brilliant, no requiem sung for sorrows past.
Revenge is not always best served cold; sometimes the very heat
Of the moment can thaw a frozen core, releasing feelings at last.

August, 2004
© 2005, wordlackey

Griffin Smile

This codex gives meaning to cryptomorphs hanging around
Selling their legacy for pocket change, hocking the future.
Chorus of damage claims uncertainty, reprehensible and wise
Beyond years in verse, successively victorious in deed.

Prattle down the years while sharing a ride back from the demo
In conversation, a thick intimacy, a pall of blue cigarette smoke
Hanging, these shrouding gestures part of covert operations
Between natural allies, a pact of fortunate suggestion indeed.

Hawkers of mythology garner excellent reviews.
Contused by grim reavers sweeping along the shore,
The revel celebrates slash and burn tactics,
Capturing a modest consent.

August, 2004
© 2005, wordlackey

How Do I Love Thee?: The Spam Answer Poem

[I’m sure this exercise must have been done by now but it amused me to see certain patterns and put them together. Every line and word (sic) comes from a spam email subject line exactly as it appeared over five days. Capitalization and punctuation are all from the originals. Repeated lines are from separate messages. A few were split to separate lines for aesthetic (sic) reasons but these are not always the ones you might expect. Enjoy! (esp. since they’re not in your mailbox; no deleting necessary.)]

Everyone Need This Patrick
get drugs in your own privacy
Large thighs please go away
st0cks in P|ay
ready for the sex life you dreamed about?
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Re: All the different types of pain
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Ain’t misbehaving, ain’t bothering
Annushka was arrested just
Help balance the mind and soul
Anxiety problems
medical essay: painfull liberty inside
It might be the answer for the question

Waiting for your reply…
fed up of pain issues
Protection against human viruses
No troublesome trip to Canada
Fight that awfull disease
IMPORTANT: Please read
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Is The Time Right For This SmallCap?
The Next Grand Slam st0ck
Everyone Need This Crones
former’s burden of guilt
We are waiting for your nomination.
quickly. But only on

mothers looking for fun
said you’d be home
We Are the Best Moonstone
constituted a prelude to
No messing - the real thing
Re: while the rest went
It is a better alternative for u and me

make a smart choice
her suffering hurts
36 hours: for all your needs
This is what your girlfriend desires,
don’t make her wait!
Hey, let me know what’s going on
Time may be running out Rosalinda
Muscle Pain, depression, weight loss,
info for every man and more!
all phawrmacy for cheap
stomach in a frenzied
time, then hung on
mothers looking for fun
lady, and with her
When can we set this up?
IMPORTANT: Please read
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Re: began peering into some
steaming StOck - it’s shO0ting
s0ft. ware runs on PC, for pe@ nuts
find me by december 30th

Make the most of your home Burt
Many Talk the Talk Isn’t you Time to Walk the Walk
For a happy start of the new year
Download clay and ruben -yyy 4007 s
Re: was these two bodies
Get relieved from the pressure and anxiety
We Are the Best Navarro
I definatley don’t smell good

January 7, 2005
© 2005, wordlackey

Burdens of St. Nick Cave

Bastard son, how fare you?
I am plagued by crows,
contorted by misshapen creatures,
consumed from within by sickness,
pocked without by flesh eating disease.

Blessed son, how grows your heart?
It grows strong with my love,
weakens with the sum of all failure,
petrifies living within my tight chest,
sustains on the gleaming of hope.

Cursed son, how do you pay me?
I pay with the pain and misery,
measure for measure for my old childhood,
naming joys and suffering alike,
striking the anvil of resentment.

Fey son, who are you to me?
I am the sorrows of the storm,
rolling thunder surrounding you with panic,
the bearer of the ax used to right wrongs,
and keeper of the keys to the Kingdom.

Bitter son, what do you reap?
I reap the fields of blood,
harvest the crop sown with tears,
I thresh the grain and surrender to hands,
storing red memory against the winter winds.

Firstborn son, where lies your grave?
I shall be carried back to my homestead,
covered with the earth of my birth,
laying down my burden with glad heart,
feeding the flowers of ash and embers.

January 6, 2005
© 2005, wordlackey

Cutter's Moon

Bleak landscape, washed by the bright full moon.
Firesight, blind in searching out to far reaches.
Likened wave standing, yet shimmering close
within bodyspace, within adoration distance.

freeshame idea certainly deserving
rhyme, demanding tundra certainty.

More or less fear-free, cunning and twisted by water,
Searing to find limits of burning, of destroyer’s love.
Voluptuously riding writing, mindful oblivion expressed
word word, line line, time time; lextortion vocation.

bane tauma, clickecting contation,
little miss destructo, towering inverso.

Martyred verse, spoken with injury by maddening poets,
Metered in Hell, cadenced by stripped gears grinding.
This, then, is the gift of a holy editor,
worshipping by the light of the Cutter’s Moon.

January 25, 2005
© 2005, wordlackey