We Fight

It is the 21st Century, which
welcomes the wise words of the people
who raise their voices and proclaim that
they are correct, for they are the loudest,
although not articulating exactly through words
the reason of their boisterous tone. But note
that the screams of uneducated blabber
are only the result of the decade,
since now the only way to be noticed in the peaking
population is by causing a ruckus through sound.
No one looks at silence anymore with glistening eyes,
yet rather with scorn, for the silent life passes
without a wink from any passer-by.
So instead they throw in profanities,
fuck and shit, to show the reason they should be considered
the victor with stunning erudition beyond the capacity of
any other normal twenty first century drone.
For now the competition is not to logically deduce,
but to creatively incorporate the vulgarity of our society.
The world has changed, as inevitably it will, from
free flowing eloquence to violent screaming idiocy.
And the only way to survive the badgering,
is to be able to reciprocate.
The 21st century embraces the noise, rupturing ear drums,
pounding malediction and sly manipulation of sound,
entwined within every generation.

Póg mo Thóin

Sorry I am not your perfect model walking down the street
wind tossing my hair slightly over to the side with
paparazzi snapping photos of me the entire time screaming
¨Perfect! Perfect! One more,¨ with their eyes caressing my
toned muscular physique up and down. I cannot even play the part of
half-witted pretty boy while dressed up in an expensive tuxedo,
nor bathing suit while dripping wet.
I am not even allowed to their exclusive meetings where
they sit around a table of mirrors talking about how to become
even more of a masterpiece of walking beauty. I broke the mirrors
as soon as I slammed the door behind me. And forever they have held
that grudge against me. ¨Do not take his picture!¨ a yell from
the sky would announce, ¨He is not worthy.¨
I do not know if I am truly upset when the rain pours on me
and I sit there like a sad wet homeless dog wallowing in my
own self-pity. My bony limbs jutting out like a bare tree, stripped
of its colorful autumn leaves. I am barren, as the models parade
one by one behind each other as to not blind the public with
a horizontal row of allurement.
Oh the shame I bring myself with the inability to walk like an Adonis,
and my only quality of an intelligent conversation.

I have no reason to make sense

I have no reason to make sense
just as much as a monkey has reason
to throw his shit all over the place.
Do I need to explain myself like a
hippo on roller skates?
Or can the public finally accept the idea
that perhaps the saltines I ate last night
have engulfed my entire intestines?
Does every little aspect of living on Planet X
need to coincide with something in the normal realm?
I only question the questions of questioning
because the answers of answering seem to answer themselves,
so please. When I see the clock is midnight
and you ask me to come in five minutes
expect me at one in the afternoon.
Because the sun sets differently in my house,
since the sparrows flew backwards in the summer.

I have no need to rhyme

I have no need to rhyme,
for I am in prime time for
dirt and grime to simply
sublime with the sound of a
chime.

There is not reason at all,
for me to recall or squall
Crawl or climb a tall wall,
in order to enthrall or stall a
brawl.

You see for my style is new,
without screw or glue,
a true blue clue to who?
My overdue debut and please, do not
misconstrue

that the words I choose
are simply to abuse, confuse or infuse
my right to refuse the bruise and blues hues
of our views and overrun ourselves with
shoes.

I told you I have no need to rhyme
For the words I mime climb to the prime
and stop on a dime.