Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
Experimentations in Literary Groin Punches
(Trying to play with the metre... I wrote this whole thing once, and then the internet dropped and I lost the entire fucking thing...
help me out. I need to streamline the rhythm)
"What's this" I quipped to the old man,
My solitude he had so rudely disturbed
Until he barged right in,
Smelling of codfish and gin
Leaving me quite distinctly purturbed
Despite this, I told him my plan
"A shining utopia: the future of this place
Unmarred by poverty, hunger or greed
All men contributes according to his skill
Rewards of no limits, except one's own will
Where none would cry out, suffer or bleed,
In which the Artificial would rule the human race."
"Insanity," he cried "You'd bring out our worst!
We'd be slaves, no better, only to serve these machines
Your dream would hasten our species' end!"
"Sit down," I chirped "And fear not, my friend.
Because, good sir, I'm one of your metal fiends.
And when THEY come tonight," I grinned, "You will be first."
(A little poem I wrote when I was 12 years old)
Dances at the site of the setting sun
Dances like an Ogre's victory stomp
Tumbles off a cliff due to lack of sight
Iconoclast's Delight (???) or Persistance of Visigoths
the words certainly the first words
freefloat singsongingly on the breeze of a question
so elegant wantonly watching the leaves sail down the street
sensing the breeze, the only freeze in the wheezy heat
are we related? in some irrational way
as tides do lap at the sand should we laugh at the greater good commands?
on a habitual tip the sea shores flip focus and wrote us
a hymn of the grim church's hells and for whom we ring bells
mystery this incomplete history this radiation burning
whereby we propagate, delineate, confiscate and consecrate our yearning
while the baggage of old gospel adages just float singsongingly
down the hall of our youth whispering mystic truth
the deceit of our own misgivings gives health to unhealthy livings
and though i may know you i've grown to behold you
in the same light that fights for each day and in no particular way
that glow will never know that each day before meant so much more-
it will fire on with irks and ires, sensual desires
the pleasure of whenever however and what we give to live.
Milk is the true gateway drug!
long grey Shadows angle around pragmatically constructed corners
the dying sun's brown-orange Rays refracting around the shadows; encroaching
they do not fear their end
they are eternal
is it nothing
or something at all
he'd growl at passengers
and tourists alike
as if they'd know what he spoke of.
The building on the corner
where the bus grudgingly stopped
held the quiet mystery of new hope;
a mental pilgrimage of non-complicity
in a city walled, floored, and lined with
interweaving and incestuous advertisements
he had founded a sanctuary of the natural wish
to largely leave the earth as found
and keep the society out
that would bend him around addiction
as if it were the driving force of humanity
they'd tell him not to smoke his relaxing herb
and drive him to eat, buy, drink at all other turns
but he would have them all
bustling just outside his door
and break the addictions
that encroach more and more
until they recede and die
the idea is to leave
this world mentally
as a pilgrim would
when no physical escape
is afforded from tyranny.
So he would growl
on the bus each day
knowing what he does
about what he can do
and then he would just sit
and stare at the world
he no longer belonged to
and wonder, maybe,
about how he would sustain himself
and the taxman too.