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Accelerated Evolution

Like Some Sort of Burnt Norton

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Again, sorry I'm late on this. Also I honestly don't mind brutal criticism, so bring it on.


God never lied to me,

though he often left out details for my own protection

The Profit never led me astray

But he never quite managed to point me in the right direction

And Buddha never done me wrong

Though I was never quite able to find perfection

So now where do I turn, where do I go

When the winter blows and buries my house in snow?

Can the salvation of man be so apropos

And can man trade his idols in a clever quid pro quo

And save himself instead; a mighty gift to bestow

On such an undeserving creature as man.

(Has there been greater Justice since this world began?)



It is not hedonism I hate,

but hedonism without the touch.

Man and woman should

eat and

drink and


fornicate and love.

Yes love!

For we can not touch God and God

can not touch us, so

we must touch each other

and hold each others face

and gaze into the eyes, and

unashamedly love



I can't handle this sex;

this sexuality.

It's too much.

When I touch her

The physicality of it is too much;

The emotionality too much.

It leaves me burned out and gulping.

But I'm good at it and I know it.

I put my whole self into it.

My whole self save a corner of my mind;

The corner where I scream and writhe.

Would I be better off gelded?

Would I shoot straiter then,

would my aim be true?

Would the seeds that I plant bear fruit?

Would I be able to sleep then;

soundly in my strait bed?

Would my head be emptied of doubt?

But what do I doubt about?



Am I Abel,

or am I Cain?

Do I watch the flock,

or do I reap the grain?

Am I destined to be favored

or doomed to be shamed?

Is it already set in stone,

or can I choose to conqure sin?

Is my strength from without

of is it born from within?

Was it really me who murdered

my beloved brother; twin




This Cosmopolitan Love

Where no one comes to play

Unbeaten; unbroke

A trail of bodies

Reaches back behind us all

Ten miles long and going strong

And everyone has their walls

Which I know I could break

If I could get out from behind my own

But I can't take that chance

That chance gets me hurt

That chance leaves me face down

Crying in the dirt



I cut off all my hair last night on a whim.

or maybe it wasn't.

maybe it was subconscious and sub par.

Sigmund Freud I don't believe you!

why do you have to make everything less beautiful?

why should sex get old and stale and worn-out?

it's all animal, thats why.

I'm no better then a beast

well I'm sick of being told what I am and am not

I am whatever I say I am

the man I am and want to become

Your religion of science is bunk!

it holds no power over me now.

I will evolve as I see fit

Natural Selection be damned!

Relativity be damned!

its all beautifully relative to me

a Cosmic Brannigan

not some goddamn Big Bang


VII - Icarus Plunged

With unchecked, reckless force,

he hit the clear blue water.

The crisp coolness of the sea;

sharply contrasted the heat of the sun.

It solidified the wax.

It took his breath away.

He tried to swim;

the ruined remains of wings squandered his efforts.

Vainly he kicked and clawed at the water.

The world seemed to swell;


He blinked.

Everything was clear.

How cruel of the gods,

to grant him this moment of absolute realization,

right before the end.

A realization, which let him see that

there could only be one prayer worth saying.

Only one prayer that would give him escape.

He surrendered.

Opened his mouth;

his throat.

And for the second time

in his sad short life,

he was free.


To America, With Love

I was an American

Back when America was proud

When neighbors were neighbors

And sons buried their fathers

Thats not how it is now

I was an American

But probably not again

Wandering the nights and the infinite spaces

Searching for something that needs to be found

I was an America

Now blacklisted

Now bombed

Once drugged

Once found

I was an American

A poet; A man

A person who somehow found the will to stand

But thats all gone for now,

though it might well return with a change in the wind

I was an America

But I'm not that now

I'm so lost, so gone

Maybe out there there's a song

That will bring me back home

And let me sleep for a night

But I haven't found it yet

And I don't think I might.


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While I do enjoy feedback in any form, I was kind of hoping for something a little more constructive... :unsure:

Thank you very much though guys.

I actually do have some constructive stuff to say about this piece, but I'm about to go to work. I'll post it later tonight. It'll probably be pretty long tho.

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A couple other ones I had laying around.


A subtle shift of languid light

Slips lazily through the curtains;

Red tinted but bloodless.

It rebounds off

The old grandfather clock

And ancient vase

That stand in the corner

As silent sentinels

Who watch over me

With gazes of contempt

As I lie lifeless on the floor.



Watery graves, far away from shores;

The Patriot praises, the sailor deplores.

The Widow hides letters in secret dresser drawers,

And curses her heart; another casuality of the war's.

She makes her way dockside, past the rigging and oars.

She stands on the planks where her lover's ship moors,

And to that desolate and empty sea she scurrilously implores,

"Give back to me the dead!" but the ocean only roars.



My rivers are dammed up

Jammed up

Straining to break free

And she won't take

and he won't take

and I won't take me as me

But what then?

When the levies break

and my world becomes the sea

What then my friend?

Can I continue to be?


To America, With Love (P.S.)

Ms. America sing to me, your sweet sickly song

Ms. America scream at me, whenever I am wrong.

Ms. America ask of me, to die for higher cause.

Ms. America chastise me for breaking fickle laws.

Ms. America watch over me, as I lie in my bed

Ms. America spy on me, and steal the thoughts from out my head.

Ms. America, oh maiden fair

Who has no single fault

Your sons and daughters stand proud for you

Your sins they must exult.

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You've broken my wall, broken my dam

I am who I am and I don't give a good god damn

Your poems speak to me

louder than the devil ridin up my spine

with a bottle of bourbon and words more poisonous

I say, more poisonous than strychnine

I read them earlier

but couldn't comprehend

needed to fix my brain

needed to mend

the self I couldn't see

and now i've found the wealth, it was me

Inspiration truly rises from the inner

the outer disappears, vomits, gets thinner

So thank you for the truth

it's more than enough proof

that we're on paths, that we will rise up, become the winner.

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  • 2 months later...

A song I wrote a couple days ago. I'll have a recording up once I get a chance.

To become Prometheus Unbound

Tumble down Caucasus to the ground

Brush yourself off and have a few drinks

Well what do you know right now; what do you think?

"Was it worth it to you?", we'll ask with aplomb

"Was it wort it to you to give us the bomb?"

Oh... Prometheus Unbound, what have you found?

Would you do it again; would you weather the pain

Would you even keep me around?

Or would you take back all of the black weary days you had to spend down

Oh... Prometheus Unbound

Look around Prometheus Unbound

You're renowned Prometheus Unbound

The world ends; there isn't a sound

Well thanks for nothing Prometheus Unbound

Well I know all of your gifts where broke from the start

And that one branch of fire doesn't set us apart

Oh... Prometheus Unbound, what have you found?

As your cities sink in the sea; crumble down, down to the ground

Would you take back all of the black weary days you had to spend down

Oh... Prometheus Unbound

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  • 4 weeks later...
  • 8 months later...

I was tooling around with this over a bluesy riff I wrote last week. Meh, but its better than just sitting idle.

I guess we all just want to ride that wave. Right on.

I guess we all just want to play the game; hope I'm wrong.

Sooner or later we're gonna all lose...

Sooner or later we're all pay our dues...

Seven & Seven, now we're getting pretty close

Our glass half empty, lets now raise them up and toast

We might as well just live it up while we can...

Lets all act surprised when the shit hits the fan...

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I met God face to face and offered him a cigarette,

asked him to please sit down, if maybe he would like to chat.

And so he sat and for a while we talked of this and that

Until the moon crept 'top the treeline, I remember it was fat,

And a moonbeam struck his eye, and he looked about to cry.

I can no longer weep, I supposed that's why I'm not divine.

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  • 4 weeks later...
  • 5 months later...

Sorry in advance.


These days

I'm living out of vending machines.

(getting my calories for the change)

Cause who has the money for a meal?

And who has the time for a talk;

who has the sense to speak to me true?

These days

Who's doing all the asking? Who stalwart enough to speak?

I haven't heard an answer

but the hunger has made me weak

And my stomach's snarl 's distracting,

to say the very least.

So these days

I'm sustained by hope and cigarettes,

and the snack sized heal of my shoe.

The promise of so many tomorrows

that I don't know what I would do

with all those drawn out days.

Probably just waste them away.


What say you rotting ginsberg?

What wisdom do you pass from beyond the grave?

Now that you are joined with the infinite and the worms

what truths have you learned?

From your place beyond this universe;

what truths?

What was it like to become part of god?

My brothers and I are all failures.

Chewed up and spat out, but still alive.

Perhaps better to have died.

We wander around these too clean streets

dreaming only of filth,

and all our songs are filth

but we sing them still.

All of my sisters are liars

They know a tune that they will not sing

Everyone of their faces is smiles,

but they're drowning their pillows in tears

rotting ginsberg you failed to mention all of this.

Every road ends eventually and leaves you only beat.

What do you do when there are no roads left I wonder?

When your thumb is worn out; there's no traffic for days.

The bucket that held all my dreams has a leak,

I can not recall when they all trickled out;

And all the wells have gone dry.

My digits grow cold

and my hands can not hold.

Rotting ginsberg I hope we never meet.


I'm sick

I've got that god complex;

got it bad.

Trying to form people in mine own image.

Just beggin for a blank slate.

Begging for a lump of fresh, fleshy clay

To let my hands and egos have their way,

At sixes and sevens with my rearing.

But the hazard is in the hearing,

Its always in the hearing.

Every word muddled more than the last

SO why tie a man to the mast?

Each one was mad before they caught

a single note.

Living by the rote

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Been thinking of putting together a collection entitled "Songs From Our Utopian Future"

This is the first piece.

The Start at the End

Looking back on this,

our 21st Century,

our third millennium,

our second long day.

Its hard to remember how

no one seemed to know

the direction we where headed,

stuck on the same old ideals as the last

5,000 years!!

as we where.

No one seemed to recognize,

as we took everything we had

and stuffed it into a box

and gave it to everyone,

(New Low Price! Free!)

what the masses would do with the masses

of knowledge we so humbly laid at their feet.

"Knowledge is Power"

that's what they use to say.

So the smartest thing we ever did

was give it all away.

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