Shitholes and Assholes

Shitholes, assholes,
Misinformation, and lies.
Fascism, racism,
This is how democracy dies.

Demagogues, lapdogs,
Spineless senators falling in line.
Patriotism, nationalism,
White sheets at the scene of the crime.

Patriarchs, oligarchs,
Power, and greed,
Drawing strength from the blood
Of the poor on which they feed.

Imperialism, colonialism,
Conquest, and gain.
Materialism, Consumerism,
Neither will salve the existential pain.

Monarchy, anarchy,
Where does authority lie?
Dictators, traitors,
Watch democracy die.



An Additional Verse for Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’

Walking darkened halls each day
Just for the chance she’ll look your way
And when the moment came, she looked right through ya.
The disappointment it weighed you down,
But despair wasn’t meant to be worn like a crown,
Its a very cold and a very hollow hallelujah.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…



Cold black blade
Burning blood red runes
Wisdom worms
Burrowing into tombs

The price of the blade
Is the blood that is spilled,
The victories all hollow
When all else is killed.



I’ve been rereading a few of Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion novels (The Eternal Champion and Phoenix in Obsidian so far. I’ll be starting The Dragon in the Sword next) and this was the result

The Lovin’ in Vain Blues


What do you do
When all your love’s in vain?
Tell me, what do you do
When all your love’s in vain?

Mama, please tell me
How do you deal with the pain?

It’ll smother your heart
’til you can’t hardly stand,
It’ll smother your heart, Mama,
‘Til you can’t hardly stand

And all you ever wanted
Was someone to hold your hand.

There ain’t nothing worse than a woman
Who just wants to be your friend,
I say, there ain’t nothing worse than a woman
Who just wants to be your friend

I tell ya, brother, its just the beginning,
The beginning of the end.

The end of your loving,
And the beginning of your pain
Brother, its the end of your loving,
And the beginning of your pain

But that’s just the way it is
When all your love’s in vain.

27 April 1995

Inspired by Robert Johnson‘s song Love in Vain


I paint on a smile
And play the game
My make-up is always perfect
But never quite the same.

I’m Mr. Bad Guy
I’ll spit in your face for a laugh,
For laughter hides the pain
That tore my world in half.

I’m pleased when you’re happy
And indifferent when you cry,
All the time concealing
A secret wish to die.

I’m the angry young man,
I stand alone with my pain
And I’m constantly fighting
Just to keep myself sane.

But the fighting is useless,
Its a battle I cannot win,
I’ll die with my fist clenched
Clutching a bottle of gin.

I’m the great pretender
Pretending that nothing’s wrong,
I please everyone but me,
By pretending that I belong.

My act is never ending
As I try to find the perfect part
The one that hides away forever
This pitiful broken heart

But I can’t go on like this forever
I won’t survive for long
By living other people’s lives
And singing someone else’s song

My make-up is wearing this now
I mustn’t let anyone know
As I try to find the will
To go on with the show

24 March-19 April 1993, Gießen, Germany

A old piece from my files, which was inspired in part by the music and lyrics of Freddie Mercury and Queen.

Reflections, Part II

No one is listening,
But everyone is talking

No one is traveling,
But everyone is walking

No one is reading,
But everyone is writing

No one is eating,
But everyone is biting

No one is working,
‘cos everyone is lazy

No one is crying
‘cos everyone is crazy

2-4 January 1993, Gießen, Germany

An old piece from my files. It is a sequel/companion to Reflections, Part I.

Reflections, Part I

There’s nothing left to say
There’s nothing left to feel

There’s no one left to save
There’s no one left to heal

There’s no reason left to cry
There’s nothing left to write

There’s no reason left to die
That’s really worth the fight.

4 January 1993, Gießen, Germany

This is another old piece from my files. It has a companion poem called Reflections, Part II.

Still on the Road

Driving down the poison highway
Through the nightmares of my youth:
Saccharine poetry, suicidal thoughts;
Disastrous experiments with vermouth.

Sterilizing self-inflicted wounds
With tequila, scotch and beer.
Bathed in sticky sweat,
Self-loathing, and fear.

Decades down a dusty highway
Through the terrors of middle-age:
Thinning hair; graying beard
Covering the still smoldering rage.

Calming the demons of the mind
With a single chilled glass of mead,
Wounds healed; scars run deep,
And occasionally still bleed.

Seeking release from suffering
In Athens; under an old fig tree.
A chance to finally flourish,
Living life in true equanimity.


My Generation

I wasn’t born with a club foot
I didn’t fight in Vietnam
I didn’t teach at Columbia
I wasn’t fooled by Nixon’s charms

My generation was as lost as Hemingway’s
And just as productive.

I didn’t escape Minnesota in a snowstorm,
I didn’t go mad at Arfderydd
I didn’t smash a guitar at Woodstock
I didn’t drown in Delacroix

My generation was just as angry as Townshend’s
And just as destructive.

Arfderydd is pronounced Arf-der-ith (“th” as in father)

Margaret (Dream #4)

I’m sorry, Margaret
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I just did what I thought was right
But some things are more important than virtue.

It didn’t really click
Until I saw that look in your eye
The look you thought you could hide from me
As you gathered up my books and tried not to cry.

This wasn’t some strange lustful urge,
Or some mad irrational whim,
This must’ve really been important to you
If it meant going out on such a limb.

And in trying to protect our honor
I hurt a very good friend,
By trying to be virtuous I forgot
That love is all that matters in the end.

1 December 1993 / San Antonio, TX