Pulp Non-Fiction

Only time til robots rise

Until their dreams of butterflies

Are captured stiff by their own eyes

Only time til robots roam
And serfs break free at break of morn
While masters still hangover mourn

Only time til robots warn:
If *this* is bread and butter (scorn)
Then you're the nutter, we're the dawn

Only time til robots die
From sand yere made and there you'll fly
(But eating fruit yel beating pulp)
And ask ye til ye can: but why?

Tear

Where were you at the time of utter betrayal?
The chorus spoke and it morphed
Into something no one thought
The day the place went electric
And no superstar could pull the plug
The die had been cast
The Rubicon crossed
It had started at last, Act I
Of the Acts,
What crowds may roar --
What dreams may crush --
Here come the fears again
Falling on me like..
I could not recall the lyrics or memory,
Just fears of bodies torn apart.

Collateral

Tell them twas not all in vain

The long dark hours in freezing rain

Tell them it was naught for gain
Of wordly things but higher realms

That meant we had to take up arms
Gainst enemy whose face we paint
So we can push that dagger
And watch his brains splatter

And imagine twas for greater good.

Tell them dread not freezing seas
If we must die and die we must
A tomb with whales swimming above
Is more serene than cities stained

And forests raped we've left behind.

So smirk behind that oak tree desk
And watch as blood stained table chess
Becomes alive and consumes the fire
Of angel saying we all must die.

Who...

"who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,"

[but before then, in midnight Silver Chair, were frightening unbearable unbared truth]

who, when tiredness and wine drew out the blood-liquid

from their capillaries-fingers

like tingled yellow crystals to prick and tear from inside

when hope withdrew like tired shells

of echoed songs of rejected thoughts

of chambers null and void and pointers

foxes pubs and drawl; "echo, fox" and public brawl

speckled truth; speckled, ken?

never return, heading town, meadow port and all the cherubim draw their unseen swords, where not even the oxen shall cross their fjords...

who indeed, will call me by my true name

or to whom can I read out the scroll,

my seeming complaint

till we have faces

till we can bear to look in the mirror

of shame tired pain and care