Fox In The Kittens

Fox In The Kittens

You're a kite in the crows

a fox in the kittens

the dagger-light thrown

where the poisoned word's written.

I hear your screech by the dolmen

catch your stench in the doorway;

your copper cup's full when

the blood hits the causeway.

Astraea is chained

with a gold liar's lasers

while money's papier-mâché'd

into goblins with tasers;

my gift to you

is a kiss from the razor

to turn your eyes blind

to return all your favors

so the sun rises mild

so dawn saves the child.

~June 2018

I am bitter, furious and heartbroken over the evil being done on our southern border. May all of us stand up for the light, for basic human rights, and stop this vile immoral 'policy' which is nothing more than a cynical political calculus at the expense of helpless boys, girls, parents and infants.  Babies in arms, some, ripped from their mothers and put into cages-- detention centers, internment camps, bureaucratic hells on earth, for the crime of doing as every single one of our own ancestors did, coming here for a better life. There are no words.

Friday 55 May 4 2018

Welcome, readers and players. It's time for another 55 foray, for fun, for craft, for (in my case) a bit of a political spew, a mental reaction, or a cry from the muse--whatever dilates your third eye. The rules remain the same, 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, no strings. Link the child of your pen in the comments below between Friday morning and midnight Saturday, and I will be by to visit.

Please notice that the Friday 55 will no longer be active on Sundays--by then the weekend is too far gone to kick any ass if it hasn't already, and I certainly am, as well.

Mine is prose-ish this week, a book review of sorts...

"I wrote this book because I hope it will be useful to people living among the flames..."

~ James Comey,  A Higher Loyalty; Truth Lies And Leadership

Twilight Of The Dogs

He wore white shirts, the Fool dancing, damming back blood, bile and all dishonesty, walking the sewerside without a spot. Until the sewage rose, alive, saying, "Swear you love only me." 

The Fool said No.

The filth-tongue rolled, spat, vomiting him out; naked, tarred with stink, first to fall in this twilight of the dogs.

~May 2018

Note: A great many on both sides of our political divide hate former U.S. District Attorney, former Deputy Attorney General and most recently, former FB1 Director James Comey. During his varied career, he prosecuted the Mob, stood up against illegal surveillance during the Bush administration, and famously, foolishly but sincerely dared to speak his truth to both political parties, the president and the public. The price was his job, but not his soul. His book, A Higher Loyalty, is fast-paced, literate and informative, and even, perhaps, inspirational. I enjoyed reading it very much. 

Top image via the internet. Copyright may apply. All rights reserved. Fair Use. 
 The Fool, Rider-Waite Tarot deck     Public domain.

Spider Ascendant

Spider Ascendant

The Fat God preens

on his eight stick legs;

no one tells

how he got so fat.

No one cares

who he ate last night.

 

In his ceaseless spin,

his angry twit,

no one observes the

arachnid eye

fixed cold below on his

appetite's end.

Five hundred mirrors

twice turn back light

on his blinded flies

their wings bloody buzzing

through broken glass

their deathwish devotions.

~January 20, 2017

Image: Ghost Spider © Ceecore, deviantart   fair use

Song On the Election Of The 45th President

Ode to the Electoral College

on electing the 45th president

It's a killer concept

whose time has come:

 the dollar can talk

without any tongue;

dead pennies for eyes,

 an orange cherry nose,

soft phony fur and invisible toes.

Beat the boys down with your money stick,

today's the day

the billionaires have their picnic.

Out in the dark

without their mums,

they count their money

don't need any thumbs

to shine the machines

while the silly slaves bleed,

to steal all they can

from the hometown of greed.

Throw out the old, the starving and sick.

Today's the day

the billionaires have their picnic.

Forget Karl Marx.

Forget Langston Hughes.

Dance the Titanic

in your Gucci shoes.

Frack all the oil

at the point of a gun.

Step on the bodies

that pay for your fun.

Beat the world down with your money stick;

today's the day

the billionaires have their picnic.

~December 2016

Teddy Bear meme fair use via the internet

Chaos Spoon

Chaos Spoon

The figures made the clock work

or were made of clockwork

themselves on a flat plate desert

burnt umber with hunger

where anaplasia is served

with a big chaos spoon.

Fried eggs through the window

shells crushed to dust:

They knew the time

They built the place

where the Handmaid of Fire

and the Blinded Face

kiss with the long drawn

howl of Fate under a black-holed sun

on a scoured afternoon in July.

Those who live by the Lie

will die by the gun, but not before

they make us a bed,

too hard, too long

in  the dreamkiller's cell

feed us rotten red meat

from a toxic pail, pour us

too much dry air from

the poison well. It's a nightmare in time

to lose the door,  but it's better by far

to have a dead fire than to make

the world burn for a dime.

 ~August 2016

posted for     real toads

Challenge: Fireblossom Friday
I only wish ALL of this was a dream.

 Optional Musical Accompaniment

anaplasia : n.Reversion of cells to an immature or a less differentiated form, as occurs in most malignant tumors.

~The American Heritage® Stedman's Medical Dictionary
Copyright © 2002, 2001, 1995 by Houghton Mifflin Company.

Image:The Meeting of the Illusion and the Arrested Moment - Fried Eggs Presented in a Spoon, 1932, by Salvidor Dali  Fair Use via wikiart-org