twenty seven years

27(3)=81 twenty seven years dead indians on the highway assassination nation riders love the storm face down in her lap janis white bitch jaz busted southern comfort jimi main line licks where's the raz, razzmatazz and trixie's tender tricks twenty seven years dead dud walking 27(3)=81, love me dear if not, i'm outa here stephie

four

When the august moon is full in 2010, its 57Th occurrence in my life will mark
20,819 days of living on planet earth; 499,656 mostly forgotten and vague hours... so my judgement day should be an interesting revelation {if the book of life is a full account - accurately written}.

I honestly can not fully remember the 24 hours of last Tuesday... much less the 25Th of last December {nor can you dear friend, neither should you desire such cruel unimaginable punishment}.

This seems a great blessing to me, a tremendous kindness of creation, that no rational human being recalls all their good and evil hours lived... the selective limited recall ability of human memory is a natural protection from complete madness.

I think of my own forgetfulness, not as some dire disease of my aging mind, but as real evidence of ultimate cosmic goodness, a natural salvation of self forgiveness; a true redemption of my cosmic soul before the reclamation of my temporal physical, and mortal being.

"all these things will pass away,
all things will be made new,
and the former things
will be remembered no more...
then truly shall there be
real paradise found in me... and thee".

Eternal damnation would require an eternal memory of total recall... only in the legendary lies of religion is such an evil state of existence imagined... and only a completely satanic and eternally evil being would require a living consciousness to experience such a hellish existence.

There is no reincarnation of consciousness, no realm of eternal punishments or rewards; such fables are told to the children of man from birth, so that others may rule over them.

By such means, in every generation of humanity, social economic Machiavellian rulers have always successfully used ignorance and superstitious fear to enslave the people of earth.

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three

its a simple silly line
turn her over in the clover
in my simple silly mind
like mary's mud pies
she made me play dollies
and squat to pee, just so
her friends could laugh
and tease a boy of three
when the sing-songs get stuck
like... all dirty dogs do fuck
i can't blow them right out
like trick birthday candles
like the fireflies of summer

donna belladonna
my true and trusted friend
she coaxed me up the ladder
pushed me down into the hay
made me kiss her private parts
teased me with her tiny titties
laughed and ran away
donna belladonna
laughed and ran away
my friend was almost ten
i was almost seven then
when her sing-songs got stuck
in my mind's sweet sad muck
i can't blow them right out
like moonbeams and sad dreams
like the star light at night

my sing-songs don't lie so much
as my educated verse
thinking thinking thinking
will only make them worse
denying my mind is mostly made
like a silly putty part
won't make me a better poet
than my silly putty heart
yes we all sing and dance
ring around the rosy
yes we all fall down flat
with pockets full of posy
yes we all remember
that we were so damn happy
hiding in the closet
playing a little nasty
yes we all remember
can't hide them away for long
our silly putty souls
our silly silent songs

two

a song john fogerty did not sing on center field

like the old man down the road, only more

like u2 wants2, or they should... maybe someday

something once rocked my socks and rolled'm down

(something i hear in my heart's silent-shadow-song)

like I saw it on TV, hung above a favored bar, where

rock-n-roll girls lap dance and sing to bad-ass cunt-ry

between swallows of ecstasy and throw up in private

dancing room with a video feed and gorilla door pimp

collecting the house bread, dj's and barbitch's tips

real damage payed every time i kiss her sweet-ass-tattoo

or snort the sweat from the freckles of her breast

or lick the fussy dew of her navel down to Venus moon

she trembles realistic empathy, as my song-set ends

she smiles with silly sadness, jerks out my shirt tail

hiding the big wet spot soaking through my jeans

(we both laugh, because that is so fucking funny...

like someone in this shit hole would really give a shit)

she hangs on my orgasm limp arm, leads me into light


gulping down stiff shots, smoking killer weeds at the bar

watching her vacant eyes searching for more daily bread

stupid tears come into mine, the song flames... but dies

just one quick moment in her god damn sad knowing eyes

then her tongue tasted my tears before her next stage call

maybe she heard the music in my silent heart... the song

john fogerty, and all my heroes, did not ever sing

she danced for free at my table just before last calls

hugged me hard against her near naked body, and with

her small cold fingers feeling-up heart, bitch-sighed in my ear

"all i want is money... all i need... is to dance the song i hear"



( in my drunken dream that night

sex and love were exactly the same

and there i knew her completely

one honest and sweet lying whore

one who hears her own silent song)