Flowing Down Green River

Out in that Washington wood she took a swim,
Flowing Down Green River
So pale, so lovely splashing in that cold, cold water,
Flowing Down Green River
Bad John gone away,
Flowing Down Green River
Cooling, soothing, glassy eyes shining up,
Flowing Down Green River
Icy flesh, kissed by the one true god of this mortal world
Flowing Down Green River
Icy flesh, the same as the many sisters before
Flowing Down Green River
Shallow waters give way to scraggy daggers
Flowing Down Green River
Beauty dashed swiftly upon the rocks
Flowing Down Green River
Mangled, more dead than it was before. gone, torn, nameless
Flowing Down Green River

Old Bunyan

Belligerent old ghoul,
Munching mindlessly on books made of driftwood
Legislating away all the shiny ivory of something new
Gormlessly ripping, tearing up the most upsetting art

Belligerent old ghoul,
Prowling, hopping, hairy sod leaping to-and-fro
Keeping all the skinny, little, pathetic urchins marching in old fascistic step
Keeping up the glitz and glamor of an old, decrepit facade
Tirelessly trying to polish a 30-year-old pile of rock and brick

A Writer’s Hell

You open your eyes as the feeling of a blazing gust hits your face.
You stand in a desolate forest, trapped in constant twilight.
The trees, long dead, sway with the gales, their dead branches mockingly beckon you to walk this path, the only path you have.
There are others walking this sinner’s trek. Broken beauties with their tears froze to the face. The gluttons whose protruding fat causes pain when moved. And then there’s you and your kin.
This realm, this area of despair, is something that is not to unfamiliar for you.

You know of this hollowness, this sickness, this abandon.
The hole in your soul that you’ve attempted to fill, with all your sex, your sarcasm, your poetry.
All the plaster you put in, and the rot festered still.
Now, you’ve fallen into your tattered soul to find this.
All of it, all your pretty words couldn’t fill the void where anything good would go.
And now, you’re here.
Languish now with your kin. Your fellow artists and poets. In a hell with no words, only sorrow.

Your fingers burn, those wasted words sting you
Your ambitions come to none, thrashed against the mental rocks of society
All the characters you could’ve brought life to, aborted by the infanticidal beast of proper society
To make kind and merry with them, you squandered the gifts given, more content with the mundanity of real life
Splashing in that opium of complacence, you craft became dull, your art empty.

You made yourself miserable, and now you’re here.
Languish now, dear artist, stew in enhanced mediocrity
Suffer, like you suffered in life
Empty, unfulfilled, forever hungry but never feeding yourself
Starve, isn’t that what you wanted in life?