Morality Park – A.G. Diedericks

Welcome to Morality Park
where sleeping dogs bark
and never lie
Where the fire in our hearts combust the torch of Lady Liberty
With flames that will enlighten
your misconceptions
We are the Arsonists
and tonight,
We will conflagrate the patriarchy!

Do not think us unkind
If you tell us
It’s just inside our mind
We’ll write you
a benevolent epitaph
whilst an empath
runs you a crimson bath

Mad Men tried to contain
the mosaic fragments of our delirium
inside prosaic bottles of lithium;
bereft of clarity
and dressed in normality

Restless sanity
Uncaged anxiety
with legislative amnesty
to fluctuate, and Soar
High, on top of the See-saw

In Morality Park;
There are no grey areas!
Yes, I’m talking to you rapists
You, who said you misread her signals
We’ll hang you by the wrong head
and blame it on a typo
from the judge’s sentence

We, the hypochondriacs
of your fake news
Are your greatest misdiagnosis
Sorry Ramones,
But we’ll no longer be sedated
We are the minority
that will parallel park
on your authority
If you get in our space
We’ll be the “What The FUCK?!”
That will remain on your face


 

A.G. Diedericks is the groundskeeper of Morality Park, where he lures in lost souls. ]

Onward To Your Demise – Kindra M. Austin

Run through the labyrinth

That you created in me

One I now control

Big Government

Beast at your heels

Death in your face

So run run for your life

Onward to your demise

Run through my jungle

Hot and humid

Run through prayers

Run through bullets

Run down hide away

Baby but I will find you

Eventual pieces you will be

Littered upon razed rain forest floor

Wet red and chewed flesh mangled

 


[Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and contributing editor and writer for The Bridge Magazine, as well as a fucking valkyrie Sagittarius. She can be found filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.]

Tumble Weed Blues – David Lohrey

There can be bebop and billowing skirts,
hot pastrami and cold beer, but only if
we’re good.

That’s the catch. We’re weighed down by doubt.
Can all this wonder be had for free? It’s
time to take stock.

All the pretty horses can’t put humpty dumpty
together again. It’s partly a matter of will
power, sure.

It’s mostly a matter of power, pure and simple.
And the will is half-hearted. There’s no
zeal. There’s no roll.

Ketchup, but no mustard. There are eggs, but
Benedict died last June of a stroke. Whoever
said we could have it all, lied.

The billowing skirts were not the first to go, but
the girls get tired of playing. They’ve
been recruited by the army.

Now women carry guns. Our next loss is jazz.
Without the blues, there’s no rhythm. The
country’s lost its beat.

Everyone is out of step. The problem
is not the booze. It’s the money. We’re all
too rich for our own good. We’re unhappy.

Louis Armstrong was elated. Count Basie, giddy.
Think back. You remember. Jazz was rollicking: horns
toot-tooting, the pianist on his feet, the drums exploding.

We’re all miserable. Fattened up for slaughter. Now
we wait for the other shoe to drop, as the centipede
crawls toward the exit.

We know it’s just a matter of time. It can’t go on like this forever.
We’ve become too refined, far too delicate, too fat for
good music.

Anyway…no one has the oomph. It’s all petered out.
We’re out of gas. There’s an energy shortage,
you know.

For the most part, pictures will be enough, for a while,
like those of farmers. Nobody wants to get his hands dirty,
digging in flower beds, plowing, changing diapers.

No one wants to turn potatoes, feed the pigs or geld the stallions.
What is there to celebrate if there are no children?
That’s the question.

If there’s no harvest, what’s the point of drinking? And
now they say there’s no purpose in planting flowers.
The suburbs are obsolete, no pleasure in squirrels.

No need for dogs to bark. No need for evening walks. No
need for games of catch. Eliminate the lawns, they decree,
which are nothing more than symbols of Farmer Brown.

There’ll be nothing to remember, not even the sound of crying babies.
Family life is finished. Dirty floors, mother’s milk, chicken pox
are all a thing of the past.

Now the smell of grass must go. It’s no longer the Age of Aquarius;
it’s the age of exhaustion. We’re entering America’s very own
Cultural Revolution. At the end of the day, they’ll be hell to pay.

It’s the age of recrimination. People stand around pointing fingers,
as the time French women were made to pay for bedding
enemy soldiers. They were driven through the streets, naked.

It’s an age of exculpation. We all want to wash our hands of it.
The only music left is what we demand to see others face.
Otherwise we want silence.


[David Lohrey is the Shadow Lord of brain-seizing, heart-piercing poetry, and a medium for the ether words. He was born on the Hudson River, but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. Also, he’s freakin’ awesome.]


Continue reading “Tumble Weed Blues – David Lohrey”

Nobody Screams – SRP

sick of all of the apologies

i can’t read anymore

of the rhetoric

cause it started to make me sick

guess I’m just another lunatic

start to smoke 

but then i quit

started posing

now I’m bored

I’m too old to give a shit

pretend not to notice

and have a fit

another spineless hypocrite

i don’t know if anyone listens

maybe nobody even listens

i don’t mind if anyone cares

i don’t believe in all the lameness

unsubscribe to all

the bullshit

clean up my act

&learn how to 

smile

just another handshake scene

i get lost in the dream

wish it was mostly make believe

stabbed in the back

nobody screams


[SRP is a co-creator of Sudden Denouement and driving force in the collective. He is a musician, a writer, and a friend.]

Oscar Wilde Is Back/David Lohrey

At all costs, be nice.

Your job is to make people feel good.

You’re a defender of the status quo.

You agree with Stalin:

everyone should be happy.

The first to stop smiling gets the axe.

The first to stop clapping, disappears.

What’s all this doom and gloom?

The Democrats are the party of good cheer.

The Republicans represent darkness.

Oscar Wilde – were he alive – would be

easy to place; he never had anything nice to say.

We know what he represented. We

don’t need to read his stories.

His books don’t deserve reprinting.

Take them out of circulation. I’ve got it:

let’s distribute the works of a dedicated progressive

instead: Obama’s memoirs along with the yellow pages.

We’ll make them mandatory reading, like

Slaughter-House Five for incoming freshmen.

We’ll not only not read Oscar Wilde, we’ll

arrest those who try to keep him in print.

We’ll listen in on their conversations. We’ll

have anyone who looks unhappy picked up,

anyone who’s not delighted, arrested. Progressives

are happy. We’ll make sadness against the law,

beginning with Mr. Wilde, who was a notorious complainer.

He demanded a dialogue when we know

happy people prefer to talk to themselves.

Saul Bellow said that: an unbroken record,

an incantation of jolly thoughts, a forced smile,

or even a perpetual dance fits democracy best.

Wilde dared to ask for open

discussion. He wanted the young

to think and debate; he spoke

like a Sophist; every student of Plato knows there’s

only one truth. Our professors know a thing or two,

beginning with the desire to see Wilde banned.

Let’s drive him off. Hell, we’ll

put him in prison, once we

deprive him of a living. The

editors at Simon & Schuster should

be picked up, too. At least they deserve

to be boycotted and picketed – driven out of business,

for daring to give freedom a greenlight, for

giving that faggot an open mic.

He says he’d be happier in prison anyway, so let’s do

him the favor. We’ll make dialogue against the law,

not just a forbidden custom, like masturbation. We’ll censor

discordant voices. We’ll start with that loudmouth from England.

We’ll get him off television and run reruns of Downton

Abbey for Anglophiles, something wholesome about

heterosexual families, not a vile-mouthed homo spouting trash,

like his hatred of conformity and political correctness.

Who the fuck does this guy think he is?


[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. Also, he’s freakin’ awesome.]

Peaches and Cream-David Lohrey

Many live without love.

Not I, but I do have

sympathy. I understand,

as they say in Alabama.

I get it, as they say in

Philly. Life without love

must be tough. I first heard

that at the Westside Y.

The man who said so was holding

my dick. He tightened

his grip when he spoke.

It made me scream.

 

Life is a shit sandwich.

I don’t agree, but I do

see what you mean.

Life is not always peachy

keen, I agree. Just last month

my cousin had to go to

hospital, complaining

about her stomach. Her

surgery wasn’t a success

so now she shits into a little bag.

She smells. She says now she wants

to kill herself. Who could blame her?

 

I have compassion for her and for

victims like her. I can identify

with their frustrations.

It’s not easy being angry,

directing rage while feeling helpless.

One is torn, yet one is paralyzed.

Revenge is understandable. I get that.

If you had the chance, you’d strike back,

even if it meant committing murder.

 

Sympathy, understanding, and

compassion are related. It’s

all a matter of relating to

misfortune, identifying with

victims, sharing feelings.

Some can do that; others can’t.

I have a talent for living

as others do, a genius

for seeing as others do.

The danger remains that one tires of

suffering. The thrill wears off. Sympathy

turns into pity. One wants privacy.

One hopes, ironically, for abandonment;

one searches for love, not just understanding;

not for patience, but for anger. Don’t

hold your breath. These feelings take time.

 

Can we pull ourselves together?

 

Not if you call the police.

Not if you involve the law.

Not if you head for court.

Think about it. So many problems

now are settled by lawyers.

Who do we sue when we’ve lied?

There’s no one else to blame. We are

talking about self-inflicted wounds.

 

The court of humiliation.

Who is the justice of the peace?

If only the laws were enforced.

How divine to see justice served.

Who can decree tranquility in this chaos?

Who can quiet our longings? I’d like to file

papers against all who have awakened this beast.

 

We’re past negotiating.

There is no ready settlement.

There is no point in holding a meeting.

It’s not that there can be no compromise.

It’s that everything has been compromised.

We are the aggrieved parties.

We’ve sold out. We’re hollowed out.

We’re wiped out. We have nothing to give. 

Now we’re talking dispersal of holdings,

confiscation of property, liquidation of assets.

We’re bankrupt: financially, sure, but much more

importantly, morally. We can’t vouch for ourselves.

We are traveling without a letter of credit.

We’re liable to be detained, searched, and,

in all likelihood, arrested. We could spend the rest

of our lives in prison, left to rot.

We’re lucky not to be tarred and feathered.

Some of us will be shot. They have our guns.


[David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. Also, he’s freakin’ awesome.] 

Sol,ace-Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

It’s the sol, ace.  Big smiles and warm greetings that feel like beatings.  I know they are happy.  I am happy 4 but not 2.  I feel like Coltrane on the nod.  I love the beginnings.  Fae magic and beautiful garb.  Decorations, flowers, music and food.  The Russians are tied to it.  My healthcare is welfare but it costs a pretty penny.  There’s a red velvet carpet and we prance down it like we are being awarded Oscars.  I met a man who runs guns in Chicago.  He smokes Cubans and black clove cigarettes.  There is a warning that echoes in this sanctuary.  It’s the soul, ace.  The bee’s knees.  Craving ICE at the reception as the alcohol seeps out of my skin.  Everyone smells of gasoline and rancid meat.  It makes me malcontent.  If only love stayed this pure and fresh!  You can drink it a few days past the expiration date.  After that though, scars and regrets.  The loss of words.  The lessening of the vocabulary.  The erosion of communication.  The little flower girl is very cute.  My cousin’s daughter is elfin.  My own sweet child is dressed for the stage, a Shakespearean protagonist.  So many loose conversations with mead on the tongue.  A loud and boisterous reception.  They’re all still talking about building this wall.  I’m sure it will be a big, strong wall.  We are all very adept at constructing them.  It has been unnaturally warm but serendipitously, it is a perfect spring day for a wedding.  If only love remained the same as the first day of the rest of your lives.  It’s the sol, ace.  Behind a setting.  Live it as hard as you can when you find it.  The soul, ace.  It all begins to go down eventually.


Olde Punk writes RamJet Poetry