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  • Thursday, July 21, 2005


    Crap, Not Poetry!

    Don't look at me! I'm hideous! I'm posting poetry... What wretched impulse drives this? I don't really know. Sometimes I just like to speak in images, attempting to communicate something less linear and dredged from my emotive sources rather than intellectual reasoning. I've tried to limit my poetry to my blog Sullen Oblations at Alien Altars but I'm feeling just perverse enough tonight to put it here. What does it mean? You tell me. Or, as Mr. Natural would say: "Don't mean sh*t!"

    Polis Via Necrovilla

    Shouting bane, collect the white moths
    For cliptych surcease, fraked and clever.
    Cowled Thanatos draws near, seeking the
    White house, a crypt of covert operation.

    Via polis is partaking of the vineyards,
    Sipping fresh vintage not yet decanted.
    Charm shark, do not strain the pulp concealed
    Behind fourth estate doors, old revenants
    Sinter’d and dry, a fine flaw revealed by
    Shaw as he shouts of inheritance and drama
    While sunken in wan candlelight.

    Torrid claims, flanked by golden seals with ribbons
    Showing mock importance, hide this rampant boy.
    (the stuttering mistake inadmission,
    collect signatories by ditto to
    revile traitors and silence contention.)
    The sound of one bozo clapping, an echo chamber
    Support system to the sham state of real fear.

    Last train to a necropolis, where the villa overlooks
    Shadow homes, shuttered amid the ruins.

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