#bobdylan?

Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,

Dya know your name,

Is being used by family wrecking whores?

To postulate that they they’re smart,

To showcase they have a grand plan,

Perhaps for the greater good,

Perhaps, to vet more phalluses,

But I don’t think it will take,

A weatherman to tell,

Which way their pussies are blown.

Torn

Uppers and downers,

Calmers and sleepers,

All gone from the cabinet,

No herbs, no chemicals,

One day rolled into another,

And another, blanketed by fog.

Tears have run dry,

There is no home.

Heartache and heart attack,

Can’t tell the difference.

Pain runs through the veins,

Blood dries through the rains.

Only wish, someone takes the knee,

When the last breathe dies.

Rage Against the Mechanic

Oh rage, take a deep breath.

Say ooooh, say aaaah,

Now exhale.

Close your eyes,

Do you see that lies?

Free your mind,

Do you have the spine?

Fold your legs,

Do you see the mess?

Purse your lips,

Do you hear the wisp?

Free your soul.

Do you see an asshole?

Raise your arms,

Do you smell the sweaty palms?

Do some harm,

Did you raise an alarm?

Open your ears,

Did the boogeyman sneer?

Make some noise,

Do you hear your voice?

Get yourself a hug,

From that menacing bug;

Have you gone away yet?

Oh rage, give me room on this stage.

Water

In the water we waded,

The starved and I,

We held hands and we hated,

The look in each other’s eyes.

Promises we made,

To better our bribes.

The shoal of fishes swam by,

Laughing at our sly.

The night lights were unforgiving,

The water was warm and wet.

The cockroaches were tittering,

The sand crept between the legs.

Together we promised,

To make hay while sun shines.

Who knew, the sun was clouded,

By blood in the fiery sky!

Like a pillar,

That can blink.

But cannot move.

Goes around the focus,

But never in focus.

Take me over,

Guitars and cymbals.

I have love to give.

I know not where.

My head spins,

I jive.

The mother and children,

They wait.

To sleep and forget.

The agony.

Clouds in sky,

Clouds in mind,

Rain in blue.

Thirty four years,

And four years.

Intertwined.

The love, for two men.

Dotted by tears and smiles.

Happy and sad,

Part of life.

If death comes by,

I am camera ready.

That skin

Yes, it’s the same colour. 

Time machine,

Whirred back,

Naivete reigned. 

Stars in the eyes. 

Blurred and clear, 

The heart was a harp,

The steps, frozen in the muck.

Bait, hook and fish,

Reeled in without a wiggle. 

Dragged on for minutes and hours. 

Weeks and months and years and decades. 

Signs, dreams, signs and dreams,

A cynic grew, like a fruitless tree. 

Thanks to that skin. 

That skin..

That skin makes mine crawl. 

I wanted everything and now,

I want nothing. Except that skin..

 

Prose to poetry- trying…

Kindergarten teachers,

You are the ones,

That FBI and Interpol should recruit,

For interrogating criminal minds!

You deal with snotty monsters,

With the innocuous rants;

All fifteen of them loaded,

With sugar-coated bombs.

You kiss the boo-boos away,

You hug them when they throw up,

You sing to them, and read to them,

Like a mom and dad would dream of.

You make them dance,

You make them prance;

At your voice, they form a queue,

At your command, they are a view!

These four-year olds are tough,

As tough as they can be.

And therefore I say,

You should handle the guilty. 

You wield a power unfathomable,

That no parent ever can.

For loving and hardening at the same time,

Seems very very tough.

Those charged guilty,

Of unimaginable crimes,

Aren’t they the same as,

A child acting up as a prime?

The child is innocent,

The grown-up is not,

But you, as a teacher,

Can notice the point!

 

** A BIG SHOUTOUT to all the TEACHERS.. You people are doing the most noble work in the world! (Started out as a prose and ended up with this, four beers down.. LOL)