DE JA CHANTS

Money as the ultimate drug
Control as substance abuse
Addiction as a daily ritual
Religion as something you choose
Health as the latest fashion
Repetition as a disease
Welcome to the 21st Century
Oh, as if we haven't been here, please.

Control as the ultimate substance
Money as drug abuse
Religion a weekly addiction
A ritual as something you choose
Repetition as fashion
The latest health as disease
Welcome to a century that has never been seen
Not in the mind of anyone's dream.

POEM

something falls
lucid and white
gnarled and ejected
and soon turns black
and lands on its feet
yearning and shrieking
clawing inwardly for its
buried lost heartwhite point
eliminated within packed folds
of dark muscle constricting
around a new heart,
a new heart
a new home

FORGERY

The angel surgeon bent down
once and injected a precise
dose of metal through our skin.
Spear tips heaved,
artillery swivelled,
and a phone call was made.

PRIMEVAL

The general public
has been crucified
on the morning news

It was on a Tuesday
and very few bothered
to sing the blues

Cardinal treacheries awaited
in pacifist nations and
Castrated generals saluted
to shadow puppet ministrations.

Institutions who formerly avowed
active humanitarian support
had their principles degenerated
so slowly over time the economy

like the encrustation of salt
in a tropical island community,
they ruined it for me, spoonfed
moderates choking on their status-quos.

Who knows what follows
in the likes of their shoes?
Could it be each step into
their professed dream-

-a crumbled dusting in
the wake of their true path-
What is a true step anyhow,
what about across a star?

From one orbit to the next
of planet leaping stones
or one cluster of suns to
another, an intersolar brother

unfound wanted crystal
dreamed-of, precisely
imagined, a stellar chain

of nucleotides connected
through transience.

In waking awariness
unsuspecting each
other's presences

while the dense
distance breathes

in and out among
the scattered light

trails of the
suicide stars

SWALLOW THE SUN

here goes a fine dark scary
n=sinister, type grade amb
i aren't poetry the surface
reflectors are. i mean your
eyes. the camera lens. you