Saturday, December 4, 2010

The Terrible Irony of Beautiful Words

Dog Poet Riffing.......

beautiful words
do not move me...

I am not entranced by this clever art
I’ve seen the heads roll in the Age of Reason
I’ve watched the bloody scroll of history
While the band played on
And ugly men made beautiful noise
To introduce the thunder of their guns

There is no greater coward
Than the one who slipped by privilege past the front
To orchestrate from the sidelines
What he could not accomplish himself;
Whose skin was too precious to risk
And wrapped in the cloak of God ranting sanctimony
This shrinking nightshade
This empty suit
with the pomp of the preening jackal
Dines on the awful cries of the dying
That he sups like an intoxicating and wondrous wine
He feeds on the torment of the injured and estranged
Wrapped in the cloak of patriotic hypocrisy

He gestures at the battlefield
From which democracy will be ripped stillborn
From the blasted body of her dead mother
The still greater crime of previous event
The falling towers were no accident
Nor did some strangers from afar
Manufacture this without consent
It should to the objective mind
Prove self evident

Across the centuries
The wind of high blown rhetoric
Have driven the millions to an evil death
And yet it never seems to dawn
How like frightened steers they trample what is before them
into the ground
And yet it never seems to dawn...

Something there is in the ignorant mind
That vibrates to the sympathetic string
Of the conscious and applied evil of the Hyena King
Something resonates
Something capitulates
Something rises
As something descends

And all that is decent and good
All that would bring forth a greater brotherhood
Must run to the cover of the invisible wings
While a murder of crows blackens the sky
And smoking ruins
Like new buildings
are transformed before your eyes
Into a wasteland of fire and death
For the profit of the few
For the comfort of some
The usual business will go on

It seems that this must be
Though we have waited with insufficient hope
Perhaps we shall see the day
That these twisted carrion feeders
These iniquitous deceivers
The butchers and the reavers
And all their demonic crew
Shall march into hell fire
Into Their native homeland created from their own need
And the door will close upon the echo
Of all their beautiful words

End riff.......

Patrick Willis narrates:

Thursday, March 11, 2010

In Memorium; Chuck Hugh Farley...

In Memorium

Chuck you
have discarded the used condom,
this body
that great white hope...
this poor drivel of words like an old man too long at the toilet cannot encompass the breadth of that
which you did unto death

Chuck, we hardly knew ye.

Chuck it here boy
Keep on Chucking
Let's take a walk through the ground Chuck of the latter days
Have a few Chuckles
and do a little Chuck and Jive
before we get Chucked out

Terrorism and politics were not always happy bed fellows
not in the former democracies of the West
in any case.
But the precedent now set by the president-
who has not met a limitation caused by lack of judgment or character that he could not evade,
who has not met a bar he could not lower,
nor a truth he could not distort,
has given you...Chuck;
hope of the once free world,
champion of chicken pots of multiplying roasters, cross-dresser par excellence of all things

appearing to be other than...

has given you the opportunity to make our world the champion no interest,
3 car monte,
one used owner only,
deal of a lifetime,
no odometer,
no problem,
drive it away today-
answer to the prayers of millions struggling into polyester pant suits
and spraying,
as if for hornets and locusts
to remove the stench of their need and feed from the abandoned house of their being.
For all of these who have lost the power of speech themselves, Chuck-

now walking on all fours
with the rhinestone broaches and garrish unknown gems bedazzled upon fat sausage fingers,
for the non-push-up capable whining children, jiggling like Jello walking to the video-game shop,

inhaling half-gallon Big Gulps....
low tar cigarettes and
some kind of soft shit from the pastry shelf..
death has given you opportunity.

for all the drunk daddy's lusting after/or
fondling 13 year old breasts through,
"I'm Yo Bitch. I'm Yo Ho" sequined t-shirts cut off above the impaling navel rings...
yet further above scant emerging pubic patches already trimmed and buffed...
because "you're not getting any younger", as the due date approaches...

For every young boy in the brush past the roadside restrooms dreaming about
"fuck, I don't know what."
For the halcyon-eyed housewives and that 10 minute temptation fuck in the afternoon
between drinks and missed appointments
otherwise engaged...
now to spray yet more mists of unearthly hues and sticky stinking excresences of Dow
and Dupont unto Monsanto beneath the bridge strained through the Sterno filters of other dreams more

dead, more remote...
but really not that far fucking off when you think about it from where we are now. virtue tis of thee, cheaper than stolen, freer than free.
For all the once wretched refuse
evolved by faith, effort and determination
into a bedrock American Gothic portrait in the brief camera shot of a prime too short;
now blown past too fast to recall
and once again wretched refuse,
now of its own making-
retching, stumbling, fumbling at zippers and stays...
flesh bulging like Susan Sarandons eyes or that Morty Feldman guy-
from the lobster tank...unsure, uncertain slithering..
mandibles waving

if not drunk then certainly insane
lurching down enormous aisles of nothing but potato chips,
turning into the 'soft drinks only' aisle...
on into the frozen pre-prepared food section of dinners and deserts-
with an ingredient list that might as well be Chinese
unless you are Chinese .
Onward to the doctor,
to the pharmacy,
to the Barcalounger,
to the grave...
oh mighty race of once bright hope and strong facial features...
we now bend over for the Huns at the gate...
not only without fear
but in anticipation Chuck....

for the faux-Blackwater men in Iowa who nightly patrol the perimeters of their split level ranches...
for the Mormons and Scientologists,
the hippies and the girls on the Internet,
Thank you Chuck. Thank you very much.

Thank you for not only the bad things but for
the relentless hearing about them
the buzz in the atmosphere -radio waves of nonsense like
chickens cackling on the astral plane
like frogs fucking in jello
like shit running uphill in January

downriver the legs of murdered monks sticking out of the flooding river bank to the tune of

♫you can trust your car to the man who wears the star♫

It seems like everything we do is murder Chuck.
It seems like second and third hand murder
It's like looking into the toilet bowl between Larry Craig's legs
and Larry King is looking back.
Time Warner wants the funeral pictures
Peephole magazine wants the autopsy photos

What's next after fist fucking Chuck?

It seems like everything we do is murder a few times removed

Thank god for all of it
How could we ever need redemption so desperately if not for this
How would salvation mean anything if not for all of this

There's your silver lining
There's your light at the end of the tunnel.
To find the living light you must
imagine your zeal like that of a drowning man
seeking oxygen... seeking the surface but
actually the depths
they say that sort of thing happens but
you wouldn't know about that Chuck

torment is the purification rite that
strips away the blinders
the ever closing confinement of the energetic lost
the magnificent heat of the pressing density of matter against matter forming the diamond that proves
no matter how dark and confining it gets it ends in deliverance and perfection
and light or something to hold it
something to reflect it
something for it to pass thru
That endless irritation which forms the pearl
and you

That is their value
What they remind us of
the gas that fuels the keep on trucking keep on keeping on.
high in the highest Shamballa
the most pristine of worlds
touches the densest murk and proclaims them one
for the one

one for the one

thank you Chuck and may the roses bloom upon your cross.

Patrick Willis narrates:

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Hare Krishna

Greetings to the one that rules the 18 million internal
and external universes.
Greetings to the one who created everything out of itself
Who permeates and rules it and is the consciousness of and
In it
and who dwells in me

Greetings to the one who is one alone and the many as one
Who is the substance of things unseen
Who is always more than there is
no matter
How much there may be
The rising sun that never hits the zenith

Greetings to the living light behind all appearances
Who composes the appearances and is not what appears
Greetings to the qualities and virtues that make up the personality of
The ineffable in the cloud of unknowing that shrouds the blinding world and
Humbles everything before it and which
Dwells in me.

Greetings to the unassailable unmoving center
From which spirals the galaxies and worlds
Like the spiral of a closed fist
Of perfect concentration
That holds it all in place that
Moves it all that forms and un-forms and does not
Begin or end and which dwells in me.

Greetings to that which endures and prevails
And is the life in everything
That meets and greets itself knowing and unknowing
That scatters itself into uncountable pieces and
Gathers them altogether again and
That dwells in me

Greetings to the dynamic animating principle.
Greetings to the one that does not know time nor size but
Does know sequence and form

Greetings to the one whose idea is complete in the genesis and
Is the intelligence behind evolution and design and not the result of them.
Greetings to what cannot be known but whose presence can be practiced
And enjoyed and who dwells in me.

Greetings in the before and after that both spill into the endless now
Greetings to the one who commands the superiors and inferiors
Whose every effort serves the entire
Who is the one who waits before
In the midst and at the end of every thought, word and deed

Greetings to the mind inside the mind of every architect in every dream
Who waits and watches forever and who
Abides in me.

Greetings from within the sleep that struggles for awakening
That cries out for union with the beloved
That cries in this moment for awakening to the one
Who dwells in me.

many greetings and
much gratitude
Greetings and greetings and
much gratitude

Hare Krishna

Patrick Willis narrates: