Sunday hallucinations

I walk these streets

lined with maples

where the mighty oak should reign

From windows gaping I am assailed

by bourgeois houseplants

External trappings look the same

These constants ignored

I am the variable

but am I still sane?

Or some spare fruit

of solemn contemplation

 

Orwell’s ghost

The voices heard in the dark

are mocking, mostly laughter

Orwell chortles from the grave

Whos laughing now?

Under any banner

Big Brother all the same

No obligation to listen

nonetheless

tells what you don’t want to hear

I will not be silenced

Die Gedanke sind immer frei

 

The Team

a poem from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

 

She don’t look like┬áPocahontas

Her ego blots out the Sun

She well and truly wants us

to believe that she’s the one

The crazy one, Larry David’s foil

running out of things to promise

Raise the cry, no blood for oil

I guess we’ll all be eating hummus

Then there’s skater-boy (don’t get me started)

that emasculated male

Took the stage and only farted

Watch his polling numbers sail

And Kamala, well she’s Kamala

Get it done without a hitch

She’ll deliver Shangri-La

She’s Willie’s little bitch

But they’ll all feel the wrath of CONG

the guy with blood in his eye

They say he just does not belong

that Creepy Old Neighbor Guy

Yes old dogs can learn new tricks

Theres a new slogan to be seen

The failing campaign has found a fix

Brother, can you spare some green?

A change of bedding

We witness elemental shift

without premeditation

Random acts less brilliantine

Cause and effect

Their purpose unknown

A furnace spent on final fury

while air fills the vacuum

Like new sheets

descending cool

There is still water

flowing underground

David Byrne swims against the current

This time between

Same as it ever was

Austin 82

Mid summer, sun retires late

across the courtyard

Shadows crept into the eve

Lights out, on the floor

we watched through the bottom pane

Only television flickers

The Braves on TBS

The Fixx on the stereo

Moonrise on crank whores

Stand or fall

They queued for that peanut butter

Stand or fall

Communion from a needle

Red lips and eye liner

a parade of sad clowns

They only had one way out

and in the morning gone

Yet every night the same

 

Familiarity

Forty years on now

Can see Friday’s lights from here

Return to scene of the crime

Boulevards unchanged

untainted by the shadows of years

and still bathe in afternoon’s

waning light

Bricks hold no memories

only echoes, then vanished

Familiarity donned

like old slippers

Do not lament forgotten years

Done and gone

Fixed for all time

against the mutable spirit