I am afraid that I might hurt you when I carry you
That these hands – tired, calloused, and clumsy
Might not know how to hold a gift as precious as you
Son, I wish I could show you the beauty of the world
Sneak out of the house after dinner, away from your mother
And watch fireflies while listening to the chorus of crickets at night
I wish I could answer all your questions and sate your heart’s wonder
Catch a dew as it rises and trace its path as it falls again as rain
I want you to open your eyes
See a much brighter world; not like mine which is perpetrated by my silly fears
I wish God would give you great hands
One that would be so powerful that it would not be afraid to hold a basketball or a bicycle
But one that is gentle that it would hold mine and not let go as I grow older
How I wish, as you grow older, to give all of these to you
But son, how can I teach you of courage and valor
When inside your father’s chest beats a heart of a fearful dog; cowing in terror
You deserve someone who has a heart of a lion; brave and strong like a true champion
Still, I see you as possible
I need to see your smile to dispel my many terrors
I need to see you get up when you stumble so that I may let go of my failures and always move forward
I need to see you sleep so I may sleep
Need to see you cry so that I too can cry
I want you to like me
To see me
To see me now, in moments like this
Your father stays awake, gazing at your sleeping face
Fumbling as he reaches down to carry you
Being ever so gentle so that you might not wake
I am still afraid that I might hurt you as I carry you
But I need to feel the warmth of your skin
Like my breath needs air to live for
*10:18:08.23:30

Loyalty makes a loser out of me
Deciding that the overriding emotion
Should rule my reason
Allowing the cowing to familial bonds
I am stuck in a sour situation
Facing no hope for improvement
Leaving this life with no secret delusion
The confusion of right and wrong
Stains my last shirt
It hurts because I am stuck in a blender
A ****** of identity
Between my father figure and me
Wanting and doing something better for myself
Would make a traitorous liar out of me
The guilt would devour me hour by hour
The freedom would empower me
Give me time to build a better me
So how do I decide

The Reds won by turning capitalism and democracy against us The frenzied shortsighted pursuit of individualism enraptured by its own grandiosity Obese in arrogance and false piety Among our weakest links the myth of liberty in the guise of protection from our own From My Cold Dead Hands they will eulogize the depths of our hypocrisies tucked into the gaping cracks of a marbled column tombstone that reads We the People a hollow echo from a dead philosophers guilded mirror reflecting delusions of equality while his window glimpsed the reality of People bound as chattle An era of monsters championed as heritage by a devolved theater of gross absurdity enraptured by a sycophantic maelstrom swirling a wretched mass of vitriolic grievance creeping its facists tendrils through our halls our homes and our hearts So much bluster about essential freedoms now a **** in the wind from a constituency of the ignorant dead eyed before the altar of Exceptionalism A manifestion of the truly unexceptional by a bizarre cult of personality devoid of that very essence Whiny and bloated convinced its oily opulence is somehow self evident justification for its own cavernous gluttony Heavy the privileged jowels spew hatred and lies slathered in corruption shouted as truth through the arcanity of scripture among those who would not know the forest from the trees from the rot in their minds as long as it says so on the TV vomiting endless propaganda of imagined shadow forces flooding the country with fictionalized caramel colored criminals Willingly blind barrelling into a fog of twisted fantasy failing to realize that the narcos envisioned pale by comparison of heinous intention or deed to the very real NARCs embraced Lockstep and jackboot heel in toe behind a tide of Nationalism that is anything but A contrived patriotism cannibalizing its own mythology whittling the bones of history to alternate facts devoured by fat children as so much sugary cereal bored reading the Constitution from the back of a whitewashed cardboard box ******* about a return to values and integrity they never possessed with their fingers crossed Cowing to the blackened whims of spineless parasitic wraiths picking at the shades of fallen titans Packs of roving dipshits trumpeting ideals their grandfathers died to eradicate Prancing about sporting the finest camo and tac gear in a perverse sashay Their measure of civic duty reduced to how much red white and blue crowds their shitstained boxers dowsed in cheap beer and sad rivulets of encrusted ***** trickled in a shame for which they have yet to fully account or atone Fools leading the foolish to oblivion are we God bless the USA for surely no creature under heaven would

At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four
                                                                     Molly opens her door
and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand
                                                                                        Isn't it grand
                                                                 to be remembered this way?
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children
Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented *****
The well known literate degenerates
long to have  their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles
whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling
                     How do they walk with her sausages
                                  and inner organs  of beasts and fowls?
their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show
                Well **** your ****! With a flame-grilled
                                                                       samuel
                                                                                 becket burger
                                                                             and a side order
                                                                       of oscar wilde fries

"warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes.
Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments.
Armpits oniony sweat .
Fishgluey slime.
Feel!
Press!
Crushed!
Sulphur dung of lions
Young!  Young!

                 In the petri-
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Dish
spitoon culture
           the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati
                                      hold a party
                  
                "I'm a tiny tiny thing
                     Ever flying in the spring
                       Round and round a ringaring
                                                  Long ago I was king
                                        Now I do this kind of thing
                                     On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!"
                                                    Bing!

Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review
Was talking to ME……..        about yew
What do yew think of that aesthetic crew?
                                  The opal hush poets?
                                   The master mystiks?
The wanz thit
       *** to me
          in the sma' oors
               o the mournin'
                    tae ask aboot
                       plains o consciousness?

They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses!

In Dublin's fine city
Where the wine bars are pretty
You can't find an ashtray
You must smoke alone.

                                                                                  Isn't it grand
                                                               To be remembered this way
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?

I ponder where I’m going
Always looking but never showing
Up to where I need to go I keep blowing
My chances of finding it are plateauing
I need to get there without owing
My life savings can’t keep growing
If I keep lowering my blade for mowing
My destination will never be visited allowing
The past demons to keep vowing
To stop me from peacefully bestowing
My final destination is cowing