Need /Corrosion

I hear the roar of the voice of need
Roaring bellies like old machine
Satiety and gasoline
To burn your machines down

You hear the roar of the voice of need
To contemplate the poisoned seed
Sowing fire with your machines
I burn your machines down

In the morass of the polity
You suppress
Get dirty, get undressed
Get fat and get obsessed
Here’s absolution
Here come the rest

We’ve got the wreckage
Rot and rust
We hold detritus
Of broken trust

Your corrosion
My nutrition
You and he and she

I hear the roar of the voice of need
Bio fuel and combustion greed
Obsolete and it smokes; it bleeds!
As your machines burn down



I’m smoking cigarettes again. I have quit for periods. But I enjoy smoking. Nat Sherman Classic Menthol. They taste like spice and earth. Turkish coffee, Indian tea, French absinthe.

I smoke them at the window. She smokes one or two a day. I never could fathom that. For me, one is either in or out. Smoking or not. “Take a position!” I rant after a few drinks. “Not necessarily mine. Any position. Have an ethos!”

We drank Tuesday night. We don’t drink unless humanity remains in a dismal state. We drink every night. I fell asleep early. By 11:30. Black, intoxicated sleep. Nights like that, the nightmares don’t come until shortly before dawn. Later I would realize that she had no more than two glasses of weak white wine. For her that doesn’t even register.

I will never be certain of what I heard first, if it was not one horrific cacophony. I’ve tried. Nothing. Did one sound wake me; the next, coming almost simultaneously, shock me into consciousness? Somewhere, deep within the almost banal nightmare reality, two screeching screams and a sickening slap of flesh on unyielding brick.

Do you know how you know when your sky has fallen before it is resolved in your mind? I’m not sure I’ve ever known it with such immediacy. How long does it take raw terror to be processed by the biocomputer in the unbroken skull? Less time than it takes for me to spring from my bed, sprint some twelve feet to the window and stare down at my shattered star.

Lying there, unmoving, silent, flat on her back… I knew she was dead. Her world, our world, my world. Extinguished, like one of her tall, narrow jar candles with Catholic saints screen printed on it. She fell from the fucking window eleven meters at least no she didn’t she isn’t moving she did so dive out after her be with her now she’s gone we’re gone everything is gone and I will not cannot endure one more moment without her-

My legs move independent of my mind. Later, neighbors would tell me I was shouting, “no fuck no this is not real!” No pleas or prayers. Denying. Three floors down. Many stairs. Each one proclaiming, ” no one could survive this. Wake up! Fall asleep! This is happening!” It takes seconds to get to her. It took lifetimes to find her. Where is the blood she fell she didn’t fall out the window she is sitting up something else the last door was locked she was on the fire escape she is okay she is not okay-

I beg, ” what happened?!” I cry. I hold her. She is not saying much. She tries to stand. She wants to go home. Sirens now. Lights. Neighbors. Pigs. More pigs than paramedics. More pigs than people. Lazy, obstinate. Accusing. Murderers projecting. “My love?”

She rides off in a shrill chariot. I can’t go with. Surrounded by beasts in blue. Pushing. What is your name her name do you have ID why not were you drinking are you high why did you do it what did you do did you do something you did something. Evil eyes. Hate violence kill. Their world, not ours. Their fantasies. If she dies in hospital I will die in prison.

Somehow they leave. I dress and drive to where she is. Somehow she lives. Suffering incomprehensible pain. Somehow she is going to walk again, live again dream again. Somehow.


Disdain the company of the many and low
Armored your chariot that moves you to and fro
Liveried driver hearkens to your beck and yo
Fortress to fortress; in security you go

Is it so?

Valets, grooms, porters and stewards
Feign fascination with your words
Panegyrics of your allure
Furtive whispers – what are they for?

There is more

Conspiracy is about you now
Machines of treachery; plots abound
Disguises discarded, masks are down
Humbled before those who scraped and bowed

This is how

Homage to the intrigues of the oppressed
Who tides your filth is who knows you best
Who knows when you’re safe and when you are not
Who ties up your tie in to a garrote

Tie up the lot!

The Meal

Glassine blue staff of life
Dinner served with apathy
Aper’tif degradation
Binge it ‘fore it atrophies
Taste it raw, does it not
Satiate the malady?
Austerity’s out of vogue
Gorge upon narcotic feast

Fashion us a setting fine
Station us alchemically
Presentation is the thrust
Assuage our dependency
Rare enough if this is done
Burnt side of the cutlery
Optimize absorption tract
Consummate receptively

Unto Me

My visage, deceptively,
Mirroring gluttony
Desire for me
Behind your greed
Gaze upon, the shining one,
Salvation born of night
Denied the light
I walk beside

Leave off of all your crying
Cease of the prayers said in weakness
Whisper no promises – you will lie!

Holy iconography
Stained by the lips of your kiss
Betrays your wish
To hide from this
Ascended from ecstasies
Embracing all mankind
Untamed alive

Pointless all your denying
Futile all of your protests
Look unto me and live your life

Do you grow weary of crying?
Atrophied heart of restriction
Look unto me and live your life

Your See

Violent color and desperation
Brush strokes like murder and knife on canvas
Exposing midnight and blood vermillion
Wounded through blue and the juices spilling

Beauty, brutal, has shaken me
Pretty things I don’t want to see
Beauty, brutal, invading me
Your pretty doesn’t come with please

You march them out wrought in ghastly mustard
Haunting the scene with sinister urges
Create the nightmares that scare the light
You paint the faces that horrify

Beauty, brutal, has shaken me
Pretty things I don’t want to see
Beauty, brutal, invading me
Your pretty doesn’t come with please

This Man’s Life

The Marshall Project wrote about Mr. Taurus Buchanan in 2016, on the eve of the Supreme Court decision ordering states to review the life sentences of those who were thrown away by the system as juveniles. While the Supreme Court uttered some platitudes about the immorality of condemning children for their natural lives (and the ineffectual liberals at the Marshall Project spoke a bit more), the true evil of these sentences has, predictably, not been examined by the mainstream media.

At the time of the Marshall Project’s piece on Mr. Buchanan there were almost 2500 people serving life sentences for crimes committed as juveniles, sometimes as young as 13. Unsurprisingly, our home state of Pennsylvania is the leader in this tendency. This year, a judge in Reading, Pennsylvania (the poorest city in the nation) had the moral courage to tell a lifer convicted as a juvenile that he “is a different man than the one I sentenced to life” some 30 years ago and ordered him to serve another three years before being eligible for parole. Of course parole is far from guaranteed in Pennsylvania, quite possibly one of the most brutal states in the union. Not that the case would have been back in front of that well-known fascist if not for the Supreme Court decision, but I suppose we must accept this judge’s platitudes, as we do those of the Supreme Court and the Marshall Project.

Mr. Buchanan was finally released last Tuesday. He is now 42. He spent almost 25 years in prison (a fraction of the natural life sentence he fully expected to serve) for a single punch thrown in a fight when he was 16 years old.

Some of us are old enough to remember the “superpredators” of political “scientist” (the only thing scientific about that field is the title) John DiIulio Jr. The idea was that there were going to be great masses of children from urban areas murdering, raping, robbing, etc. with impunity; we needed to lock them up forever. DiIulio asserted that these kids could not be rehabilitated “once they have crossed the prison gates” in a “scholarly journal.”

This is the thinking at the heart of the Establishment. Make no mistake – Mrs. Clinton et al have no problem with this type of thinking. November is coming, yes. For those of us still allowed to vote, we should consider the long record of betrayal by the moderate right wing of the Republicrats (that championed by Clinton and her coterie). They are not at all opposed to locking up our family, friends, neighbors and children for life.