Hereafter

So this freakin’ dead guy keeps trying to control my brain

And I don’t understand a word he is saying

But I know exactly

What he wants

What he means and worse yet

What he wants me to do.

I just laugh

Because how do you say no to a dead guy?

It’s not like he is going to listen to you (or me!)

He’s certainly not going to do what I want

Since he obviously has the upper hand here,

Or maybe the lower hand if he is underground

In which case I would have the upper hand.

This would mean that I could possibly control

The dead guy.

But why would I want to do that?

It’s not as if I need the dearly departed to

Do my dirty work.

I’m not afraid of getting my hands mucked up

Since it is usually my words

That get me into trouble

I can’t rely upon some dead dude to undo

My words if he can’t talk.

It would be great if he could type, then maybe he could

Convince the offended that it was only a bad joke

Or a good joke gone bad

Either way, the more that I try to explain this to

The sulking spirit,

He starts to look more pale than usual for the lifeless.

Mr. Less-Than-Living no longer seems interested in controlling my mind

And a tad bit more confused than ever

(Poor soul!)

Perhaps I should nap

So he can rest in peace…

Torrent

Ducking the verbal misogynist shrapnel that is barraging our ears

We observe him blatantly shoveling his own grave

As we all smile and dispel our disgust

Because he hates enough for the rest of us

Spurns God, spurns atheists,

Hates women, hates dogs,

Detests men who are not real men

Loathes men who like men

Hates right wingers, hates left wingers,

Despises all wings: angelic, demonic and Buffalo

He is revolted that women vote (the worst turn in American History!)

He wouldn’t marry that famous heiress, despite her money

Because she, like all women, will eventually ask questions???

(Lucky you, Paris!)

Everything is a problem, everyone is wrong

Skewering any remaining dignity,

He brags a best friend in his dented pick-up truck

Caused by too many late night lampposts and ditches

Not his fault, of course! Damn ditches - they’ll get you every time!

As we all look around for those men who used to be his friends

We find that even their shadows have long deserted him and his hatred.

bus stop prophet

crestfallen and can hardly stand it

molten man-child

toothpick man-child

stakes his claim and pulls

pulls and tears

topped with a loss

he told me so

he told all about the end

the end is coming,

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

the end is coming rather quickly

if you have some friends or loved ones

some family or perhaps your agent and bookie

maybe your pusher or pimp

you should quickly say goodbye to them

for the end is coming quickly

it is picking up speed,

and the end is coming quickly

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

all that we had built

all that we had achieved as a race

all the hatred, all the fear

it is coming to an end rather quickly

if you have some affairs to get in order

you should do that now

sell any chickens you may have acquired

sell your stocks

sell all the stocks

sell the stocks

in which you keep the village witch

bound in the stocks

slap the palms of her hands

and the soles of her feet

with ticker tape

(no one keeps ticker tape anymore)

but the witch deserves a good slapping

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

crestfallen and can hardly stand it

as the loss is just too great

but the end of everything is coming quickly

did you see that witch drive away in the little car

the witch and the warlock too

put them both in the stocks

for they are responsible

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

the end is coming quickly

and you must all be prepared to leave

so take a look around at this place

one last time

look at the things you love

look at the things you hate

look at that small piece of debris that was tossed from the moving car on 7^th avenue

it is all going away

until it is entirely forgotten

and in millions

and millions

and millions

and millions of years

no one will remember the stocks or the debris or the ticker tape

and the witch in her little car

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

it is just a puff of wind

a cloud of dust

and a memory of things that maybe weren't there

wearing

and wary

a wishful loving warning

but tell your bookie, for he wants to know

so says the molten man-child

toothpick man-child

McCrank

screwey makes a bladderdash

as the crankmouth king holds court

with a mothermint and hotpie

making fishmouth lines and faces like death

sugarplum nectar and sugarplum rain

sugarblood hotdish and sugarblood rain

and the hotpie hotdish steams and heats and burns 

and burns away to dust

as the crankmouth king watches screwy make his bladderdash

crankmouth bile all over tile floor

masks the bigmac odor and the supersized eyes

yellow bile and golden arches

fire up the crankmouth king

“gimme that! gimme that!”

grab for the cup and the little tiny bag

crankmouth king with a hoopoe smile

suck that mothermint hotpie, crankmouth king

(tonight, tonight, tonight)

crankmouth king lies with his cheek in bile

(and just a little blood, my sweet)

(the blood is only there for color)

screwey made his bladderdash and never washed up

his hands had smears and his trousers leaked

sloshysweet walk back down the hill

("no bus tokens, you f**k!")

(he shouted that, you know)

(shouted it to all who cared to hear)

screwey made his bladderdash

for a holed-up hope and hotpie dream

crankmouth king makes an oh-so elegant corpse

Left Bank

Sold out Sadie

Selling paintings

Washed up on a beach

Washed out dress

Washed out socks in the bathtub

Stinky socks, stinky life, stinking drunk

Socks in a bathtub making her leave

Her solidified paint and petrified lover

Selling out her gallery to a kitchen sink

In the basement for a drink

In the life of a baron

Who holds no land or title,

Just more barren bathtubs and sinks

Selling out and selling drinks

Quasi life, half-life, never strife, kill the wife

Selling out sailors

Stealing from bankers

Selling out tellers and

Closeting her boss for cocktails in cellars.

Stellar cellars, I might add.

Leaving the barren for an oil baron

Sealing his fate, stealing his plunder,

Ever reigning

Eyes are raining in the trail of desolate conspirators left behind

No more paintings, no more strife

No more money, no more wife,

Just a washed up dress on an oily beach

With sunglasses and a fresh drink.

Connections Part Two

When I saw my crow friend today,

I told him that nice people inquired after his well being.

By the way he looked at me with his head tilted,

I could tell that he was quite taken back

That humans were concerned about him

And now he was surely doing better

Since he was enjoying a substantial meal on the street.

I won’t repeat what he ate

Because we usually don’t relish what crows prefer.

As I sat on the curb, I told him that I heard

About the stunt he pulled

(Done usually by those hyper sparrows or evil geese)

By dropping a message on a moving police car windshield

So that it had to pull over near the delinquent liquor store

Correcting their clock violation,

Keeping at least one person on the straight and narrow last night.

I swear he flashed a contented smile,

Feeling like he did a good deed, preventing litter

And keeping stray greasy junk food off his asphalt platter

So, the crow cawed out a few other crow secrets

Like how crows have a sense of humor and play games

Not video games, of course,

Because those flashy, geeky toys hurt their beaks,

But crow games that involve swooping and gliding,

Not to be confused with swooping and diving

At people who irritate them.

That’s no game, just revenge.

Although I was enjoying our conversation,

I could tell he wanted to go without being rude as

It was a beautiful sunny day

And he just wanted to hang with the crows today,

Soaking up some rays.

He thanked me for everyone’s concern by doing a little sideways jig

Then he winked and made a crow kissy sound as he flew off,

Making me smile all the way home.