Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
Experimentations in Literary Groin Punches
Thursday, January 29, 2004
 
(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."

-DrJ
 
 
(A little poem I wrote when I was 12 years old)

Noctournal rock
Dances at the site of the setting sun
Dances like an Ogre's victory stomp
Tumbles off a cliff due to lack of sight
-DrJ
 
 
Iconoclast's Delight (???) or Persistance of Visigoths

comply
the words certainly the first words
freefloat singsongingly on the breeze of a question

reply?
so elegant wantonly watching the leaves sail down the street
sensing the breeze, the only freeze in the wheezy heat

complicated
are we related? in some irrational way
as tides do lap at the sand should we laugh at the greater good commands?

replicated
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

complete
mystery this incomplete history this radiation burning
whereby we propagate, delineate, confiscate and consecrate our yearning

replete
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.

--rev. m
 
 
Milk is the true gateway drug!

-DrJ
 
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
 
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

gone unnoticed
going impeded
doing nothing
proving obselesence
distracting obliviousness
justifying avarice
compromised morality
 
 
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.

--rev. m
 
Home place with writes from guys both one Meduri Preacher. Two healer of Donkies. E-mail drjackass@gmail.com with question.

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