CARRIER SECRETS

I want a strange hibernation
to give our dream back

We'll have an attack
of rapid eye movement
in historical fact

They'll unfurl abominations
on our secrets' private lives
lighting up ceramic visors
of a nondegradeable kind

Unless we wake up on our own
not for an alarm is our history
sewn to the ragged curtains

of the wind, and not without
charm were our chances blown

in the mouths of certain
lingering friends

ECOVOX

Guiding radio signals
gather tribal offspring

emboldened of sinew
to conjure a sorrowful

hostility, ennervating
the wretched.



Inimical miseries
bodily maintain

barren graves, while
lasting searches

wander in circles,
breathing steam in

from coteries scraped off
the grounds of complaint.



A small, deceptive
exhalation implores

a quarrelsome lament,
having dwelt astray

of the riderless noise,
the carrier of vapors.

LITANY OF ACCUSATIONS

Lie to me and this whole nation.
You of the current administration.
Useing us up for its butter.

Churning us all into a lather
by which the fortunate may shave.

When it comes to that I'd rather
keep my mouth shut than add a voice
to a choir of slaves--on the off chance
that a dry spot will cause a nick or cut:

Then I can pray for an infection
From the triple bladed Gillette-slashed
fresh incisions along the rugged jawline
like brand new gills breathing in the inversion
from the trodden downwinders.

So lather up and grab your towels.
Because in the sauna of your karma
all your pores will open up like sores
on the roses of your untended garden
where flowers bloom dead in the darkness
because you poisoned the light.

So relax in the steam of your dreams
while you can, because we who feel
you aren't qualified will not
go down without a fight.

A war of words that means reason.
Not for what you use them for treason.
But to help us get through the changing
of the season.

From the winter of our discontent
the ice will thaw when you've gone
up and went--that's all I got to say
to the leaders of today.
When your time comes up
best step down, you can
keep the change.

Just clear out of town ya hear,
we got work to do. Cleaning up
the mess left by the likes of you.
But wait--hold up, what kind of damage
are we talking?--There's no curing
severed legs that were meant for walking.

No hatching healthy eggs
with tainted rainwater.
For our daughter that we bought her
by the bottle with our very bottom
dollar, well for all our scholars
we have led her to the slaughter!

Caught up in the fodder
of your greed and impatience.
While you lie to me
and this whole nation.
Using us up for its butter
churning us into a lather
with which the fortunate
may shave their tattered beards.

Before the tilted mirror
of their sterile bath cells
they can isolate themselves
in their own closed-circuit Hells
and keep clean and groomed for their
self-appointed judgment of doom.

So we're forming a coalition
with a provision for sedition
creating the conditions for revision.

What about the rest of us these
bastards share a nest with, huh?
Think they'll help us clean up their own mess--
well think again friends,
this is the end of an old cycle.

Run for cover. Better get a bicycle.
There is no TRYcycle.
It's Do or DIEcycle.
Lie to me and you so they can poison the sky
and kill, nice try--Sick sell.

Using us as the customer
for their mustard gas masks
while they make the profits
to fill their wineflasks.

Well we don't need your precautions,
we've regained our resistance to pathogens,
thank your asses very much.
Don't shake my hand--No need to touch.
Just being grateful is enough.

You'll work for us in our deepest vaults.
The Janitors of broken Trust.
Preserving history to show our faults.
You'll be glad to get a fraction
of the minimum wage.

We thought of letting you stay
on a permanent vacation in Guantanamo Bay
but then realized how inhumane
that would be. So between you
and me, you're lucky to be
employed per se.

And if you complain about being treated
like a leper colony--well don't blame me.
We're the ones who set you free.

Now ending this litany
from the collectively used and abused,
I declare and stare defiant
at those who stand before us
unreliant and accused.

HISTORY AS VIEWED BY THE PANOPTICON

The complete eating of burned skin. Ashen toast. 
Can it not warm my pie. I have lost my older 
sufferings. Absolve me of my gratitude. Untie
the swift knots of my prayer, but don't merely re-
peat platitudes: for mimicry I do not care. Environ-
mental disruptor persuades a hungry populace that 
there is no such thing as the environment, and they 
believe it, just as they believe that there can exist 
more than one disruptor. These spun patients slow-
ly develop a bubble spell reality. Their spin doctors 
quickly form encrusted mica shells. All who they've
preyed upon then believe themselves to be a part of 
their innermost circle. This describes how they are 
each lost to the vortex of their own subconscious 
imaginings; while one floats away as iridescent 
soap bubbles flocking sun ward, the others 
gradually incarcerate themselves under-
neath the prestigious carapaces which 
never fail to drown them into the dirt. 
Dirt is very high on the list 
of examination priorities.

—excerpt—(@cup'o'Joe's)

Sorry, I didn't mean to get unruly,
I know you do too,
Get blue that is,
But what you going to do,
Keep spreadin the love I say to you,
And don't bother going after
the Top Dogs here,

Remember to shoot for the User,
Keep it real,
at ground zero, street level,
One user at a time,
Gotta start building up a charge
cuz that spark has got to cross
the gap and leap across the dark

seperating men's minds on the map of existence
because it's not about resistance,
but assistance,
and in this instance,
we need all the help we can get,
So forget about regret and go out and get em,

Tell a stranger in the street
Good Day even though
you just met him,
Look right into their eyes and
melt away the lies,
and with any luck we'll see
each other on the other side,

LitPunk'd

PSYCHO FRENZY MOTOR CITY
JESUS BENDS RIGHT OVER PRETTY
RIGHT BEFORE THE BULLY PASTOR
LINE RIGHT UP DON'T EVEN ASK SIR
THIS COMMUNION HAD IT COMIN'
DROP YOUR PANTS AND TRY TO SUMMON
ENOUGH WOOD TO CRUCIFY HIM
IT'S THE BUSINESS WHICH WE PLY IN
DON'T BLAME THE CLERGY FOR BEING COCKY
IT'S JUST THEIR RITUAL CHRIST BUKKAKE
BESIDES THAT LOOK UPON HIS FACE IS RAPTURE
IT WASN'T EASY FOR US TO CAPTURE
IT'S AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD AT NO COST UPON OUR SERVER
JUST CLICK ON ACCEPT JESUS AS YOUR PERSONAL SCREEN SAVER

QUESTIONS ON TV

by Shaun Lawton



What do I envision for the future?
You mean after we remove all the sutures?
If the surgery sets and the
perjury gets any better,
well even though the jet set gets wetter
over implants doesn't mean we have to dance
@the chance at taking off our pants
@their fake romance.

Over and done before its begun.
I say there is no such thing as the future.
The future is a myth and those who will say
the same of the past are wrong,
because the past clearly happened—
just ask Mom—it's still connected
to us no matter how much we may
avenge ourselves thinking otherwise.

I say despise their use of lies,
because these weak tries of theirs
are simply cover-ups for a foundation
of inflexible thinking.

Deny they can try till they're high as a fly
but they already have revealed their word
is a stable foregone conclusion;
good news, of course, since in reality
we are undergoing a universal
transformative reign of change headed directly
into the previously uncharted unknown.

So I say after we leave them behind
over their weathered grave stones
we can save the rest of time
for our own feathered cadence
on the drum beat of bone.

After the scars set this
is as good as it gets
there is no future
can't you see there's
only now between you and me

because the future we destroy
at every opportunity,
a shed skin
original sin
doing us in
time like a snake
are you awake and
didn't you know
if you don't like the show—
Turn it off.

rage against the latrine

Doin' time without rhyme or reason

Surely is a mad season

Feeling lost at what cost (a holo-one)

If I sound caustic it's cuz we lost it

Fist in the air in the land of the free

Between you and me reigns a cut and dried society

Much worse off than simple hypocrisy

We got outright lies and shameless blasphemy

A fucked up system where the rich can kill for free

And the homeless and poor gotta pay to behave

When an ex-superstar macho prick can slice up his wife

And become an underground cult hero for it nearly overnight

Aw yeah, land of the free

Free to be fucked by the likes of he

Who can pull the strings using dollar bills

And flashing rings with that professional smile

All the while hiding the real nature of the beast

He's a killer at least

Trained to remain calm at the embalming

That's why he was a character actor

If you can't see he attacked her I'm afraid you're mistaken

And these are mistakes that I can't be makin'

So I'll cut myself off from this train of thought

Cuz I know where it's leading

And if you think OJ would make a great candidate

Well you're probably right, it's a great fuel, hate

But you won't find me voting

For a man found toting bloody baggage

From the scene of the crime that he committed

And I don't give a fuck that the glove hadn't fitted

What kind of cop's going to plant kid gloves anyhow

You think you can handle the case in a middle of a race war

You say that's not the issue well it ain't justice neitha

In a political hierarchy the individual has no significanse

So remember in November when you step up for the square dance

It's not who you're voting for that really counts

It's how they got you to be there once

Yes, that's all it takes to seal our fate

Conscientious cooperation

wide awake or quite sedate

BRIGHT PEACOCK ROBOT

A timbered call from a chrome
 face wept up at a new moon
bloated black across the sky
stars underpinned by screams
from an ancient staring with
pupils brighter than pinpoints
 calmly unwinding coil bindings
  

wrenching metal decompressed
both into shining razor fanfares
held wide and slow to the sun
bowed without elegance yet
intensely seizing everyone
to fall direct to their knees
in awe more than fear
of decapitation