Devil

Give me a wooden clown;
n i'll curve u a dead sparrow.
Or give me a rose;
kissed by lust coated lips,
n watch me dance on it's ashes.
Oh! how I love;
when ur lucky dice flips.

Your mighty God; sold u "life";
I wrapped it in embroidered "vice",
Sure, I settled for the right price.
Blame me for the vices Oh Man!
But please answer my questions;
if u can...

When will I own the broadest smile;
of a starving clown?
Tell me what price u pay;
for the tears of a child for his dead sparrow?
What joy u get in the ashes of ur brother's hope?
Sure I gave u lust;but could u; O Man please please
tell me the recipy of a "2 cent hooker" n a
full time mother? Or where may I gamble;
for ur famous mask named "Pope"?

The devil has landed;
in need of answers....

BALLAD TO A NEWBORN

Dream dream..dream my child;
Of polished tongues.."tie"d necks;
Of manic streets and their tainted tents.
Covenant of corpses..youth too mild.

Learn learn..learn my child;
The poet is a fool..the singer a lier.
Lifes' a prison..Heavens' a lie;
The grass is red..where angels dare not fly.

Walk walk..walk my child;
Ain't no drifters paradise..
Walk into the obvious..or monotone as I say.
Or into your desires..for then, "live" you may.

Beware beware..beware my child;
Of urban sting..when hypocrites sing.
Of judgmental coats and their naked ego.
Smile and let leave..for its you,my "unlabeled" king.

Hold hold..hold my child;
The antique book of innocence,
Dipped in the quicksand of souls.
Twist the words in between..then never crawl; but roll.

Fill fill..fill my child;
Your heart..and, your mind with vengeance..
Avenge your birth..Your mutilated choice;
To be born..or left dead.

TO A (soon to be) HUNG POET

Plowman of his own field of

Gray; recondite words his

Sword for the prey. His lustful

pen makes a certain Venus stray.

With her deliquesced bosom, I fear

He might play.

O poet! In ink your weapon

Dip you may, in vengeance

I dip mine. Bleed her purple,

Or a foul word say; I'll drag

A poet like ye, for the

Epitaph for ye own shrine.

O poet! The tocsin of ye death,

Is loudly rung. Your doll is ma

Lady, beware poet, beware.

Scratch her an inch, the

Maple on ye flagitious field

Will bear ye body; neatly hung.