Poetry

Naïve Fantasy

Rhyming thoughts I sell,
A counterfeit-Christian’s spell.
Tossed into the mouth of a well.
Swallowing the key to my shell.
I’m a magician’s infidel.

God spewed reality’s matter, gifting us words to preach the chemistry of cosmic chatter.
Sent into motion the propulsion of time, mellow mockery is a heathen’s escape, autonomy’s tower invites you to climb.
Money is energy dedicated to ambition; sloth inspires greed without permission.
Addicted to infinity, riches raining from open blisters, igniting the doubt of divinity, good and evil divided by half-sisters.
Feelings are not truth; scripted spontaneity delights the youth.
Lust is a must to sow your seed, pray for a miracle, passion breaks virginity’s creed.
Baking flesh in a mother’s womb, contracts your fun, to fuel its doom.
Eyes wander coughing gullible gawk, at the desires we cherish, to the lies we squawk.
Wisdom crushes delights with knowledge, steering sheep into the belly of a false idol’s college.
Satan rapes our sanity’s appeal, baptized by fire, sin preaches hell’s healing feel.
Fidelity shaken by horny shivers, God is my heart, but perversion delivers.
Married to God, delivered to Satan, narrow doors cast light, into plantations slaves straighten.
Perfection is the debt of fallible man, to find joy fears…accountable clans.
Accept yourself to the finest degree, doubt damns glamour’s glee.
Attracted to applause, people sin with ignorant awes.
God is cake I cannot refuse; Jesus was the Jew’s short fuse.
Let’s agree to decree, Satan’s brown sugar is a naïve fantasy.

Hello fellow.

Working Class (Scottish Shanty)

Freedom falls with the rise of fear, narratives debunking what patriots’ cheer.

Trewth has died, so raise your glass, the war is won, starvation en masse.

On the back of the wor-king class. The back of the wor-king class. The back of the wor-king class.

Wealthy few, whisper a clue, to do as they say, to beat China’s flu.

Feckless-dung, sparkling-cinder, unlikeliest messiah, preaches God’s Good is Tinder.

Trewth has died, so raise your glass, the war is won, on

On the back of the work-ing class. The back of the work-ing class. The back of the work-ing class.

Baby’s-meat, scraped from my cleat, boil the car-cass, fah-thers must eat.

Fah-thers fail, families for sale, fah-thers starving, hunger’s betrayal.

Fah-ther, fah-ther, what shall I brew, pickled liver, or baby heart stew?

Fat and fed, anguish has fled, generous father, fill my mouth with his bread.

Trewth has died, the war is won, jump out of your seat.

The elite eating baby meat, elite eating baby meat, elite eating baby meat.

The Teat of a Pharaoh

Sleep is a treat into the mind’s marrow.
Darkness snuffs a barking sparrow.
Slippery teeth ravage the sane, petting your void, circling the drain.
Words…beg me to rhyme, boredom ages like wine.
Time is a crime, snorting a dime.
Sleep is the teat of a pharaoh.