Red, White, Black & Blue Poems for Corporate Amerika
more patriotic poetry
i did not write these poems about bushy boy, for george w. bush is unworthy, but rather his ilk.
on a purely spiritual plane, we have to go ilk hunting.
steven b. smith - januwary 1, 2005
T h e y
Wing word round
In classic clown
Till dry discourse
Rues rule
Courts gesture
Recourse
Of course
Lambs lame lions
And liars lie down
In one main line
Of fool
The Rich Get Richer
Republican
Republican't
Republicunt
Republic scam
Replicant
The rich get Richard Nixon
Sold American
We're born in blood, raised in flesh
In Ragnarok n roll Armageddon
So let's go let's go let's go go Sell American
For the red, white, black and blue
Schrodinger's cat is dead, perhaps
And we but lie, lie dreaming
This tit for tat means this this ain't that
No matter what the ragweeds weaving
My Little Bo Peep's out eating her sheep
With Darwin doubtless her handle
Your Little Boy Blue's down sniffing glue
While cooking his spoon over candle
So drink a drink for all that hasn't happened
Bleed in need for all that never will
3 cheers for the crippled, the misbegotten
All hail the politician finger in the till
As Long As Politician Honest
My heart is pure as fall their words
I stand so far behind you
I lick your breast and all the rest
I fill with sperm and hunger
If duty grows it's you to know
I know no tended foreskin
No mirror will see reflected me
I mere vampire forsaken
Eco Syphilis
This earth rolls old through fading sun
as all partake of all.
Yet few return from feeder's lure or feathered palm
interest on said sin.
Let other purse our sloth rehearse
refresh without refrain.
For fascists flee from failed fight
to worshipped imagery
which doubted doubles pain.
When tables turn
most mock concern
and ramble on in shackles.
Dogs of dust neglecting trust
entranced by past disasters.
Since truth be known
by no known tome
until enhanced and factored
let's be done with rough rerun
membrane's sour remorse.
Pre-paid replies
defacto lies
return our lives to act/or.
Confessions of a Conservative
Let others munch spare froglegs and things
Or their mother's tidbits so fine
Not me
I prefer wee bumblebee wings
With a pipe of blueberry wine
I've no desire for porcupine stew
Aunts coated in chocolate yea thick
Fried crocodile
A la flayed caribou
Or some other chef's table trick
A simple table whenever I dine
Not mine all these modern cuisines
I'm quite satisfied with blueberry wine
And old fashioned bumblebee wings
Suck Cess
Amalgam of mind and matter
shutters self cell
sops reliance
and rolls royal shelf life.
Marriage of might over manner
magic mice at midnight.
Mausoleum, Museum, Movie
Entombed in night, uneasy
In the wrought iron knots
Of the grey spider's thread
vague eternal, ember
They scurry replete, unfree
To such preconceived thoughts
As are hung from the dead
Name on the door says REALITY CONSULTANT.
My job is SMITH.
I test coffee-laced watercolors on the desiccated.
It's not a pretty painting.
Everyone claims frame.
My next assignment's those new 18 hr Wonder bras.
What do they do the other 6 hrs?
Makes me wet, wondering.
It's the early 21st Century
Do you know where your God is?
T.V.O.D.
The forgotten blindfold
Acts on obsession
Rides crooked trail
Sweet smells success
Hides blood money
Warriors pit
Lies' true speed colors night
Graphics violence
Whethered Would
Old uneasy cockroach co-existence
Exilic, yet extant
Contingencies of time and space
Acid Snow
Such cunning these beasts
By pruning heaven
They've stilled the old wild yeasts
Yet in breeding unleavened
Seed such sheetings of grief
Shat out uneven
O'er poor human paste
That all dogs believing
Rise lonely and weak
These acids know weakness
No mercy for grief
Or inherent meekness
Unheeded beneath
These semen stained sheets
Keeps meat on its knees
And power unaided
Or tree on the leaf
And tragic the shaman
Almost Persuaded
I've been told too many truths for justice
Or torment in limbic loin
To look for form or function in future satin
I crow denial thrice
Return to green for growing
And look to lust for life in logic's other loggerjam
Damaged Good
The doubting vessel
Strong, unbroken
Sours water, ruins wine
The damaged vessel
Holds its token
Service, beauty, duty, time
The one excuses
The other uses
Which in fact the finer find
The better bitter
The lesser greater
Truth is action, action prime
Marilyn Monroe 1926-1962
Yon black crow hunched against
The yellow asphalt line somewhere
On route 36 interstate north
Is but a breath of my fancy
An inevitable pigment of my integration
One final fiction
Old crow's dead
Died gestalt
Motherless mind sewage
Black cold magpie
Could be raven
Platinum yellow ozling
Mother Mary mud pie
Young mudded girl
Inflected in random pools
Of rainbow auto oil
On yellow lined highways
The dead black crow
Hunched against 36
Night Fragment
As has been said
The night weighs upon the city
In tired, fat insolence. Rat scurry.
Old papers flap down empty streets.
It is an ugly season. Full.
Day slouches in, in shameless anonymity
Devoid of great chained excuses of being
A voided has been of god, notion and country.
Unfocused without, we hunt worms within
To bait further cold excretion of reason, rationale.
Refuse refusing our naked nothing.
Cautious.
Strip steal by night.
Oedipus Rx
They got
beer
pop
wine
But never
mom
for sale
I Ain't Got No White Boy Blues
Pain from one end to the other
Plagued by a black cloud of druthers
It's the "I Ain't Got No White Boy Blues"
Though I got no honey for spreading
And there ain't no money attending
Yet I ain't got no White Boy Blues
For I've roof over rising
A warm bed abiding
Friends fond and affirming
And a past that's worth hiding
So I can't get no White Boy Blues
Possessions don't taunt me
Though lessons they've taught me
Like inner, not outer be
And better to let be
The quicker to be free
The taught me do teach me
I ain't got no White Boy Blues
Yes, it's a sadness I'm lacking
Or, life's licking I'm liking
But that's why I got those
"I Ain't Got No White Boy Blues"
666, the number of the bush - 17 poems for corporate amerika
the george w. bush traitor to american values award
heil to the thief - george w bush league central
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