Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
Experimentations in Literary Groin Punches
the man's hand and the one up his sleeve
i enjoy slow sex
and the illusion of love-making
as i do a smoke;
sensing the negative need
solely to feed
my devil's scream.
the pace makes not a lasting
lingering form to occupy
for speed matters little
when it comes
only truly as a race.
sad songs that should not be sung
are morally criminal
impulses that feel right at home,
waiting to be hung
in a mocking display
of the many things that shouldn't be done.
they sure fit right
when i don't pay them mind;
when i stop the machines
that make my judgement blind.
these are the things i do to cloud
my natural state refined.
i lament and curse the clouds
by day, blocking the sun and warmth
but oh how they reflect the night;
the artificial light-
these times i find welcome
looking away from home.
as the last of the marching swine
i am i - i draw no lines;
for the last sees all
and all goes to waste.
yet still i am i
and with him i am faced.
Some days I enjoy
holding slimy water rocks
While my legs shiver,
knee deep in a run-off stream.
Those days remind
me of learning to
play well with others,
Unafraid of the nature around me.
Nowadays it's tough to find
someone who'll grab those slick
disgusting rocks with me because,
its hard to have faith in the safety
of what lies beyond sight.
Sunk deep in the dark
Cherry cream of the coffee earth skin
Harlequin of whom I chose to stalk
While the dreary drips begin
Falling to pavements singing
Sweet noise of my pursuit.
“no tree shall bear witness to the axe that fells its kind
nor shall the green grass shed a tear on cue
for the benefit of dramatizing the slow death of the earth
so that simple minded humans can judge their own actions harmful”
the chase stumbles through neon modern echoes
and the footfalls quicken with the race of the excited heart.
“the danger of his pursuit is not my own,
but that he may catch me
only to dream there is someone more suited to pursue”
the chase ends