Welcome, and thanks for stopping here to read selections of my original poetry and prose. Only half my art is here. As you browse my puppets, words if you will, think of them as empty hulls whose dance and form are only animated in Play through my vocal conveyance of their characters and via my direction of their tone. Lyric to the ears, its whole message soon appears, in thus the conjuring of ancient daemons deep within to combat the evil ones brought up infernal by the Craft of ages can be our stage tonight.

On this blog the theme is AWAKENING and how Revelation is not some story plural in a Book but supposed to be one of yours in this lifetime. Here in verse I share with you my inquiry to which has bonded Muse.
YOUR STORY IS THE STORY. Their horsie four so full of holes they named that way just to have a laugh. Revelation and Creation coincide, they never stopped. A daily occurrence in a Live Show me is true Prophesy which I assure you, smells nothing like a library book, and for which no innocents are ever killed. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you copy it to heart.

Coconut Pinkmeat on Mars

Wet wet wet
everything
crying, it's so weeping wet.
The splatter
of ignorance babbling
is the sound of guttered rain
French drains
Macron-oni, his feather -- a hat & bomb,
Tour Eifell and can't get up
May or not across the Pond
and paid-for Wild card so named.

And the crowd too
F U!
Same.

Splattering splattering
oh what's the mattering
so sloppy in the rain
ignoring pain
gotta flow gotta flow
scroll go go

Splattering splattering
bright teenage brains
bullet out a soldiers' veins
fresh coconut goop pinkmeat plop
on strange brown faraway rock
might well as be
moon rock
Mars rock
Yes war!!!
More!

So long
as it is not mine.

And the pouring on
the puddles of pity
pollen and pretty
swirl splatter on down
to just drowning mud.
Where will the water go?
Same as blood I say.

I seethe through my teeth today!

Vans and bad driving
aiming for the curb oh such conniving
forgetting kids heads in crosshairs
YouTube soldier sneers
target cheers
Shooting ducks
as if they were Sherman tanks.

There, I spit.

But my anger still bursts a vessel
MacTruck beating honking wrestle
urge to pound to dust that which
any flower can so idly pluck
this Day.

Splatter now is drip
and all I'll hear is van.
Absorb, and maybe even sun.

Not so my ancient Heart for this attack.

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