there are screams next door
it is only the television
people being tortured and exploited
I do not hear them
I have turned down the sound
I do not see them
because I am
sleeping right now
don’t try to disturb me
mix me up or unnerve me
you don’t deserve me
I am sleeping right now
I take drugs
drink dope
they help keep me
dreaming
so I can cope
don’t disturb me
I’m sleeping
this dream is all
that I dare
to show you I care
Look, look, look
I got the spot
right in my hand
so tell me I’m dead
I’ve been out looking
for the place that grooves
all I wanna know
is this the spot?
Can it be caught like a disease
or is it something you just know
you know, you know it goes like this
“This, this, this is the spot.”
I’m holding it in my hand
I got it from a man who
stepped out of the dark
he told me where to look
this is the spot he said
and I was dead
got rocks in the head
I’m fine, field find,
bought out the spread
got a mine, dig my mind
strike for the motherlode
break through to mental
overload, tear off the roof
and blast me back home
rocks in my head, rocks in my head
keep telling me I’m better off dead
lost in the mine without a light
feeling fine, rocks are all right
gonna get me some TNT
create some meaningful memories
rocks keep bursting out of me
nothing I can do, they’re a part of me
rocks in the head, rocks in yours too
don’t ask me — I don’t know why
rocks in the head, what can you do
gonna have a party, let those rocks fly
rocks in the head, what can you do
rocks in the head gonna break on through
lots of ‘xploding ‘xplaining going round
rocks in the head they make that sound
bring down the ceiling
bring down the sky
rocks in my head, I don’t ask why
bust those rocks and let ‘em fly
I am the monkey
on the chain
the organ
the grinder
I dance
grotesque parody
of my drive
to please
and
do what
pleases
<this ends my tenth book Punk Pomes — Coming Soon — Winter>
Old woman died
left a 180 bags of clothes
oh yeah, dontcha wanta know
whose clothes are those?
someone who paid through the nose
someone who went without clothes
endless spools of thread
dyed red
who owns them now
do you suppose
The knife stands by
so easy to deploy
you have a choice
misery — or comply
don’t ask your friends
what they think
the answer is made
before you blink
do not tell me
you want to cry
and do not
ask me why
the knife is easy
and reason so displeasing
quick tell me
the reason
why you should be
employed
I’m an organizer
and there’s nothing I like better
than organizing;
so start marching,
you’re recruits
in an Army —
an Army of Mine.
We’ll organize the beggars
to dance in the streets
the tin cup of pennies
to keep the beat.
We’ll teach the housewives
to keep everything neat
and arm paramilitary
to turn up the heat.
Shake, Rattle, Battle,
nothing better than a fight
to keep what’s mine
and make everything right.
Like a good fighter
I leave nothing to chance
poke you in the eye
kick you in the pants;
I control the reports
what is said
you probably believe
what you just read —
and that’s a tribute to
ORGANIZATION
Weapons only represent
orders you must follow
NOW
Tighten your belts
tighter
tighter
tighter.
p.s.
Let’s clean machetes, gas cans, hammers
in Rwanda,
in Baghdad,
in Tibet,
in beautiful and historic Myanmar.
Peterborough Poets 