meek corona wins
climate change’s pyramids
gravity still works
©bg 2019
writing 2019
bargain bin wine
living on toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
down on the ground
it’s hard, dark and cold
the gold doesn’t shine
pass the penthouse monuments
to where the street beggars mine
the cities clogged arteries
where they’re
living on toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
street preacher coughs and splutters
tis better to give your debt
to whores on crack
than give it to evangelicals
to save your petri dish souls
from the hangman’s sack
after you’ve subsisted
on dysfunctional last suppers
of toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
its cold ,dark and hard
telling time living in the sundials shadow
drawing up dreams from an oil well
riding a unicycle with a rusted chain
hardly gives a performing puppet
a chance to be a real human
while living on toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
seeing stitching scars on zombies faces
from faith been sown across their eyes
politicians get society’s to trust fall
another generation will march to war
for peace or to save the world
politicians will turn their crusades
politicians will turn their crusaders
into an empty blood bath
in Blood Baths we raindog paddle
subsisting on toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
find their lies chiseled on tombstones
the hard ,dark and cold stone chips
feeding the starving homeless pigeons
in the park where they fornicating flock
to their saviours monumental stone feet
to hear the politician sing honey songs
for change in exchange for their ultimate sacrifices
battleships swarm to their sirens ROCK
to find their hard earned change
just paid for another doomsday
MUSICAL INTERLUDE
marooned on the rock
where the song changes scales
not the empty soulless notes
the survivors do come to learn
while they’re leftovers subsisting
on toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
burnt toast and bargain bin wine
©bg 2019
When the guns reported live
I played my broken ten guitars
Underneath
A dark cobweb star
Still hoping all will see a thousand stars
High up in a trees crow nest
Underneath
Clouds that promise thunder
I played my broken ten guitars
Underneath
A dark cobweb star
Still hoping all will see a thousand stars
He was born with arms made for hugging
But he exchanged them for cold metal arms
Then he went out mad to do some slugging
And the world sore how hate speech harms
When the guns reported back
Hate hate hate hate
When the guns reported back
Hate hate hate hate
and children’s bodies piled up high
and children’s bodies piled up high
The bullets lead with no loving questions
to fifty children they gave the kiss of death
Don’t blame us for this one man’s aggressions
Say politicians with the same foul breath
As the guns reporting back
Hate hate hate hate
as the guns reporting back
Hate hate hate hate
while children’s bodies pile up high
while children’s bodies pile up high
I still play my broken ten guitars
Underneath
A dark cobweb star
Still hoping all will see a thousand stars
High up in a trees crows nest
Underneath
Clouds that promise thunder
I still play my ten broken guitars
Still hoping all will see a thousand stars
©bg 2019
hey folks the ten guitars lyrics by Engelbert Humperdinck that i refer to in my poem are highlighted in green.
the polka dotted blind quail
when i had just been born
the blind quail he did speak to me
crowning my bald soft head
he told me i was to be free
he told me i was to be free
In that room where the babies wail
I was taught the wisdom
Of
the polka dotted blind quail
Of
the polka dotted blind quail
I wondered free for many a year
With a polka dotted blind quail
Brooding on my feathered soft head
so on the bleed he could be fed
All the world’s sad unending tales
All the world’s sad unending tales
I walked until my tongue was
a dried stump
Till i lay down on the banks of a river
Where diminished moon shadows
came to jump
Where diminished moon shadows
came to jump
I woke and the polka dotted blind quail
From my cursed bald head had sailed
And The wind that had left me cold and pale
Had left my bones also veiled
Had left my bones also veiled
In that room where the babies wail
I was taught the wisdom
Of
the polka dotted blind quail
Of
the polka dotted blind quail
©bg 2019
Analogue and analog
Daddy bought me a black dog
Sent the mongrel to me in the mail
Should of shot him down on the farm
Or let me know
that dam black dog was chain mail
Guess my heart let him of the chain
Guess that dog wolfed down my heart
Thought that black dog would bury it safe
But i can feel
my heart burn every time that dog does fart
Yeah
daddy had a big black dog
Dredged up from the black bog
Yeah
Me and him would drink that black grog
choking back the hairs of that black dog
Yeah while
Listing to our futures dark monologue
Yeah while
Staring into the abyss ,rocking on a log
Daddy brought me a big black hearse
Sent the meat wagon over with a chauffeur
Should of filled it up before the horses left
Or let me know
My salvation we needed to defer
Guess i’m the stake that holds the chain
Guess i’m eclipsed by that black hole
Thought i could throw that hammer back
But i can feel
The caving in of my butthole
Yeah
daddy had a big black dog
Dredged up from the black bog
Yeah
Me and him would drink that black grog
choking back the hairs of that black dog
Yeah while
Listing to our futures dark monologue
Yeah while
Staring into the abyss ,rocking on a log
Daddy bought some land for me
Sent the title through the mail
he Should off known my life’s in flames
Or let me know
Not to drink an atomic cocktail
Guess the cross didn’t fall far from the tree
Guess darkness will soon fall over the land
Thought i’d just hang around for one more shadow
But i can see
The writing on the wishing wells walls off sand
Yeah
daddy had a big black dog
Dredged up from the black bog
Yeah
Me and him would drink that black grog
choking back the hairs of that black dog
Yeah while
Listing to our futures dark monologue
Yeah while
Staring into the abyss ,rocking on a log
Seeing our fates in Analogue and analog
©bg 2019
an epilogue haiku
man,dust in the wind
burnt through sand like black gold fuel
behind glass towers
©bg 2019
Telegrams from a little world called Malice
Dear
beloved
indigent
Nobodaddy
let’s have a séance,
to hear the emptiness
of what you have to proffer
beyond your christmas coloured lights
fried by prophets befouled stale pissed words
ablaze in darkroom bloody drunk wine .STOP.
masquerading as an apostles ghost
I’m a witness at the creation ball
where the first belle eve was skewered
with a spare barbecue rib
under a glass ceiling
where cuckold titans
viciously judge
eves METOO
moment.
STOP.
my
eyes close,
images
of flowery
pop psychologist
taking constipated
dumps in my brooding vortex
use my particle memories
as clumping odourless cat litter
yet my raindog spirit sees paw prints. STOP.
as a tourist i dared to follow slaves
down alleyways paved in lost sandals
into lost troubadours caverns
where i imbibe rum libre’s
on a little planet
known as Malice
orbiting
glory.
STOP.
nights
after
my last wake
when my vision
beholds Mary’ Blues
i smoke dem stale old
Camel cigarette butts
behind telegraph cross-shaped poles
where my second escape goes unseen
cause i’m just another salt pillar. STOP.
i went to the underground Colosseum
where i watched a nativity play.
the cast were sexless mannequins.
skipping mary’s METOO scene
to her cuckold husbands
son being born
fictile.
STOP.
there’s
a train
to the coast,
the tickets cost
thirty years give or take
but I saved for my own
undisclosed deliverance
to Elysium’s potter fields
where i’ll lie in a delirium
till dawn when i’ll rise to walk naked. STOP.
i
picked up
a black stone
whose eyes were closed
whose tongue would not speak
above the spring Martyr’s tree
i dropped the rock on it’s head
the rock turned white hot as it fell
smashing like a rotten cuckoo’s egg
foul water cleansed the martyr’s sin .STOP.
brethrens need sistrens to swallow their seed
to spawn circumcised zombie poxed hordes
to drag the mountain through pillars
where virgin sistrens await
their fates METOO moment
neath their pavilion
in paradise
enslaved.
STOP.
I,
and i
use loosely
a ego term
of self endearment,
to send you telegrams
my divine Nobodaddy
as your androcentric scriptures
caused this METOO apocalypse storm
during which all fathers should be judged.STOP
©bg 2012/2019
Dear Readers,
I first wrote this poem in 2010/2011 and published the poem on my Banishedman blog in 2011 in a different form and wording in some parts but not what i was saying, that sadly remains the same today.
I began rewriting this poem in 2018 but as you all know or dodn’t ,i’ve been rather side tracked with haiku’s and a novel which never seems to get closer to being finished.
This is my view of where the androcentric culture came from , from which the Metoo movement arose in response to the androcentric tyranny via the suffragette movement , then as womens liberation ,to the Metoo movement of today.
Kindest regards bg
“viva la Evolucion”
