Sullen, but not quite repentant

I’m going to give you another of the Bowling  Alley poems, since you have another week of Another Ace in the Hole coming in Podcast.  This one has gone through many lives and currently lives under the name of “Trailer Park Lullaby”, but I think that might be a little pejorative, a little more than I mean to at least.  It was once (and maybe when it was at it’s best) “Sullen, but not quite repentant” and the reason that I brought it back here was because It’s my battle cry.  This poem is for the dreamers and the hopeful who see no hope; to the romantic and faithful, who are without love.

 

 

Sullen, but not quite repentant

What men do for promise of  Home?

The dogs of factories,

The slaves and drones

That live their lives in bars

Taking hoppy medicine

That drowns reality

Where believing in yourself is a Dream.

Where reality is a

Sore that wont heal.

Where substance takes precedence

and Joy is the difference

between the insane and the abstract

Normality.

Words like Queer, Kike, and Nigger

feel succinct.

That world deranged into

Black and white.

Intelligence means you know pop culture

You win at Trivial Pursuit .

Where life is derision,

Confusion, contamination,

What is solace?  A woman’s touch?

Pedantic fantasies of love and submission?

Where priests are pederasts

and Presidents are puppets.

Where Solace lives in a

Bottle, or a

Pipe, or a

Line on a mirror, or a

Syringe?

What is life

But a series of mistakes?

Leading to an ultimate

Derangement of consistency.

To be laid in a hole, to feel Peace?

The power of the brain is punultimate

only to the passion of the Heart.

To live, to dream, to die,

No more!

The arrows of fortune

Are diligently avoided

And Powerfully Presuaded to

Destroy the weak;

The Deranged powerful

For the truth lay

in the heart and mind.

The power conjoined,

The passion omnipotent,

The opposition like

A lone bowling pin awaiting

Devastation.

Money is money and power is power,

but Hubris is the contagion

that destroys worlds.

Never mind the fragility of personality.

Avarice controls the world and

Destroys passion of the artistic mind

The Glory of civility is a myth.

These are peons who cautiously protect

the King and Queen.
Pawns

In a cosmic chess game of

Power and verisimilitude.

Life is the game  of chance

Will you land on the right square?

Take the right career?

or will there be degredation and repression

in the mines for decimation of the soul?

Belief.

Faith.

Words only the fundamentalists

Hols as Gospel.

But precisely what is needed for Life?

Belief in the intrinsic merit of Desire?

Faith.

And the everlasting hope of Humanity.

The desire to live your dream.

The frenetic evaluation of the soul.

The life of ones own dream.

Belief and faith in the dream.

Happiness is for fanatics

Like Whitman and Thoreau.

Contentedness is for

Realists and dreamers

Who understand that success,

Comes not from a bottle

Not from a mine or factory,

But from the heart,

Faith and belief in your heart.