The Books

The Books

Rockers have a chord book
Rappers have rhyme book
Academics have a text book
Poets have a forest with the silhouette of child looking longingly at an abandoned bird's nest as she clutches a tattered journal.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

This poem was started last night as a response to bruising my shoulder moshing at a Bad Religion concert.  After the bombing of the Boston Marathon today and a few conversations, the poem grew.  I don't know if it's really a coherent view or idea, but it's what came out.  As usual, this is a first raw draft with no real editing.  Play the song at the bottom while reading if you want.

This Shit

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1.  I am too old for this shit.

Thirty and my joints creek a bit.

Mistreated by a life time of bad diet,

Disused,

Accented by occasional mosh pits,

            Speakers, and

Headphones cranked far past 11.

Before long, my hearing will be gone,

I will have to imagine the power chords.

One night spent letting loose

            Followed by a day searching for

            Occult bruises

            Trying to pop my shoulder.

2.  Then I stop and read the news.

I am getting to old for this shit.

We are too old for this shit.

Humanity should be a grown up by now

We have bruises as a species. 

            Deep scars of history.

I check the instant updates on news feeds

            Waiting for an explanation, a motive.

3.  I am too old for this shit.

I stopped justifying myself long ago.

I still play with Legos and listen to music written for

Pissed off teenagers in the 90s. 

I don’t believe in God, but I believe in people,

            And the fact that most of us would pull

            Perfect strangers out of the rubble.
My morals are based on comic books.

I believe in Earth and global society,

            That clicks along without regard of my greatest acts.

4.  I am too old for this shit.

Who cares who, why, how?

The reaction is the key.

No matter how many fuses are lit, bombs triggered by satellites and cell phone towers.

            There will be people to rebuild it all with,

Sore shoulders, bum knees, leaky guys,

Food allergies, bipolar disorder, and OCD

All that be damned.

I am too old for this pessimistic, disgruntled worldview,

begat by hate and disease on all sides

or the news picking at the fresh scab.

5.  So I turn up the speakers and look for tomorrow.

You’re never too old for tomorrow,

            Until you are,

           
6. And then it doesn’t matter anymore.

Never too old for this shit.  

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD (LONDON PLAGUE PIT)

Stanley Mathew's Response to this news article.  If you're offended, screw off....

 http://www.cnn.com/2013/03/15/world/europe/uk-london-skeletons/index.html?hpt=hp_c1

Bring Out Your Dead

BUILD A NEW RAIL,

Uncover the BLACK DEATH,

They found a Plague Pit,

While digging mass transit,

London’s fucking calling,

The BUBONIC IS BACK. 

An out of work professors says there’s

50000 bodies buried

in what’s now called Farrington.

London’s Burning,

But now we know to blame the rat

And spare the cat.

It’s a motherfucking PLAGUE PIT.

On Friday they found 13,

Dig a little deeper,

Let’s put in an underground mall.

Pull out the bodies…
Call Dr. Who

And Sherlock Holmes

And Starbucks,

The archeologist needs some coffee.

We need entertainment.

Dig em’ up

Dig em’ up

Carbon Date and throw them in the channel,

They’re witches if they fucking sink.

Witch CORPSES In the MOTHERFUCKING PLAGUE PIT.

Bring out the dead.

Election of the new Magus Summum Part 1

I am a little obsessed with the whole pope-picking process.  I am not religious and have never been Catholic... but it all just seems so magical.  I feel like by changing a coupe words and none of the costumes I could be reading and watching some epic high fantasy.  In that spirit and all in fun:

This Just In,

Breaking News!

 

The chimney over the Pristine Chapel is releasing a white smoke into the starry Mediterranean Sky, indicating to the world that a new head wizard has been chosen.  The Chapel is known for its expansive depiction of the Spell of Creation, painted on the Chapel’s ceiling centuries ago by painter and summoner Michelangelo.  Usually it is a gathering place for pilgrims to make offerings and receive enchantments.  For the last 48 hours it has been the world’s most powerful and mysterious polling station.  Over the last several weeks, wizards of the order of Cardinalidae have been arriving at The Veneficus City to elect to a Magus Summum to lead them after the resignation of Magus Summum Dumbledorus XII. 

As many as 10,000,000 wizards, magicians, and powerless humans have descended upon the spellbinding Veneficus City and the ancient dwarven city of Rome in which it is nested.  Each of these pilgrims comes praying to witness both history and the future with one wave of a wand and the chanting of a few choice orsi opus or words of power. 

Soon, the Vox du Cardinalidae, Veneficus Spokeperson Cardinalidae Saltator of France, will step to the Pristine balcony overlooking the throngs gathered in the Veneficus square, cast a voice amplification spell, and announce to the world who the order has chosen to guide their order and lead humanity’s defense against Magus Malficus. 

The question on everyone’s mind is whom will they choose.  Will it be Cardinalidae Periporphyris, the confidant of Summum Dumbledorus?  Maybe they will look outside of Europa and choose someone from the United Norse Territories of Leaf.  Another popular option is Cardinalidae passerine of Southern Africa.  This would be seen as a move towards reform for the wizarding world.  However, the favorite appears to be Cardinalidae Rhodothraupis of Tropicalia.  He defends one of the few parts of the world where a strong faith in magic and old ways is not just present but growing.  Remember, that the Magus Summum could be anyone who believes in magic, however the election of someone outside of the Cadinalidae is exceedingly unlikely.

It is always said that real magic takes time, but it appears the time is coming in mere minutes.

 

Yelling

Screaming doesn't do any good and getting pissed is usually pointless.

To be read to this song

Yelling

The cumulative effect of yelling loudly at rocks stubbed toes flat tires dog shit cat pee rotten fruit spilled milk traffic bad radio limited warranties broken glasses bad coffee overflowing toilets awful drivers damn kids on your lawn to-do lists moles computer virus clutter dishes laundry broken spokes assholes diarrhea pop quizzes bosses faulty internet burnt toast the man taxes republicans skipping records ruined dinner allergies smokers hoboes commercials athlete’s salaries your salary corn syrup Justin Beiber new Saturday Night Live alarm clocks Mondays Wednesdays Sunday nights people crafty people crows attractive people the filing cabinet musicians batteries bad bikers calories skinny jeans money sold out events wasted food wine by the glass mark ups sexism racism classism fraternities hipsters hippies punks bros women men old people young people Christians Atheists Jews Muslims Communists Capitalists the sun rain snow home-ownership renting hot coffee cold coffee mild salsa spilled salsa stained sweaters dirty sheets stale chips head phones that only play in one ear the third world humane society commercials red hot chili pepper songs grammar spelling the education system America Europe math oxford commas me, and you is just a fowl mood, high blood pressure, a twitchy eye, and a ruined day.

I Don't Need Sleep

Revisiting a common theme.  Insomnia.

I don’t need sleep,

I just need to lie in bed,

Staring at the ceiling,

Listening to music all night,

Thinking about possibilities,

risks, the past and every person

I’ve ever accidently wronged.

If sleep is for the weak,

Obsessive reconsideration

of the past present and future

is for the concerned, introspective,

overanalyzing, deep thinkers.

I don’t need sleep,

I need a time machine

And a clinical trial on re-dos,

Make-ups and sneak-peaks.

Tonight you will be visited by

Three ghosts says a

haunting regret holding

a fresh pot of coffee:

Ghosts of Insomnia

Past, Present, Future

When the grey light finally

Comes through the window,

Announcing a rainy

Morning will I roll over

Or step out,

Let the rain soak my hair,

My clothes, and remember this

Is what it means to be alive?

I don’t need sleep,

I need nightly reminders

Of the context.

Switches

This one is about constantly feeling like you should be able to flip a switch and change things, when you should just slowly stumble forward till your eyes adjust and you're out of the dark.  It's not subtle.

Switches

Switches and dimmers line the darkened hall.

Some are old fashion on offs, pull chains hang

            Getting tangled in my hair.

I have four remote dimmer switch controls in

My pocket.  A few of the switches are lit.

I’m sure others are 3-way.

All these switches,

So easy to flip,

But the lights stay off.

Trying to find the right button,

            The right quick switch to hit,

Instead of just stumbling in the dark

Until your eyes adjust

And you make it outside.