Fallow

I'm beholding the luxury of dirt

the purity in natures fallen green,

praising the scum from this circle of hurt

downed from a lie of a polythene glean

the rich and living filth will be my god

everything more is cleanly out of reach

this messiah is fresh, whole and un trod

I'll aspire to this, not the bleach you teach

give me the warmth of rotting chlorophyll

sodden with the waste of God's fluffy clouds

aftersun burns the pompous daffodil

poets prime your pens for the unwashed crowds

remember the times when I wrote in blood,

wanting and needing to accumulate?

I now fill my quill with the rushing mud

and scratch this stone with a monsoon of hate

In carbon we trust, is our new decree

when aspirations high - die on the ground

aim for below and the fallen debris

an achievable heaven in this is found.

clothe me entirely in old sensual soil

fossilized and ground in life's gaping skirt

pull my hair down with millennium oil

and smile at the stains of a suffering dirt

Generic Anti-War Protest Song

"Machines and foreign aliens of homo sapiens shape"

Horses around a ring track, they say it's the 'sport of kings'.

Running for their masters gain, fast gold the animal brings.

But men are now the horses and 'attack' the running track.

Killing for their leaders game, and bringing shadows back.

When murder kills a murderer in civilized routine,

differential differences divide a hole between.

The cure for social sicknesses? A nurtured common foe!

Enemies of the united state, a unified state of woe.

Information overloaded with a hidden call to kill.

Our innate instinctual genocide circumvents free will.

A poisoned mass identity; a frayed old puppet string.

A thread of manipulation, pulled by a puppet king.

Inhuman will kill human when dehumanized as ape,

Machines and foreign aliens of homo sapiens shape.

Ideas and ideologies of massive mind control.

So easy killing animals that lack a living soul.

Kings, they love their bloody sport and their gilded foreign fame.

All tedium of monotony, repressed by common game.

Shaken die and counter moves of selfish power battle,

Played by puppet populous and slaughtered human cattle.

CHORUS:

Like chess with hollow pieces carved from the bones of men,

War is the sport of tired kings and age-old presidents.

A game of empty promises that graves fulfill again,

War is the sport of tired kings and age-old presidents.

The Unity of Soil and The Man

Between Normandy shores and sands of Iran

I witness the union between soil and the man

A creature of marriage; from dirt split with figure

the hybridized form of sediment and rigor.

Leather-like lungs line a basket of cages

A chronicle of skin bound in vellum thin pages

your body of work on sienna brown strata

A mummified hero? or geology martyr?

A blood that once flowed marks a still graven bed

The stains of your life dyed a dried Carmine red

Your steel that once killed turns a dull dappled rust

The earth clothes your eyes in blind shades of dust.

That milky dull lens observes opalescence

and carrion flies that flee to your presence

Your incisor smile swerves down at the corners

A sadness unseen by long distance mourners

So were you my brother or were you my daughter?

My friend in defeat? or enemy in slaughter?

Your image erodes to a plain of unknown

Transforming through nature, this man to the stone.