I’m cantankerous,
a cattle-shaped tank with custom-made plates
so real they make your wheels look fake
preposterous, I know
but sometimes these rhymes glow like phosphorous
or flow like osmosis between cells that are porous.
So, It’s a chore for the chorus
that’s why we bleed away the stragglers and fondlers
strep throat, straight coat ponderers
and philosophical wanderers
they strip the tips of gold from ink fountains
so they can write shit and call it a brick mountain
and now I’m counting the steps to orgasm
but I’m spinning a dizzy spell and I fell into a chasm.
stopped, dropped and rolled when my destiny was foretold
by wine-soaked gypsies crippled by their history
their memories plagued by parodies of their families
so never once will i feel at ease
in the arms of my enemies
cuz I carry them like knives
scared stiff like submissive wives
singing still stuck on lullabies when no one here would ever even hear their cries
their friends frustrating and fraying at the ends
strung out like old schoolshoe strings
gym-worn, street torn and busted down to bend
by stylistic trends measured in karats and gems
and don’t pretend that I’ve got enough money for a benz
that’s my uncle’s junk and I have no problem being a punk
I know my shit stinks but this brink brings its own funk
I’m no creole monastic monk.
but funnily,
I have a grasp on my most recent collapse
the time when I relapsed into an egotistical addiction
but now! science fiction teaches me everything
how to wonder and ponder and even how to siiiiing
I’ve got these birds chirps changing my hymns
because their melodies remind of Him
who is most on High and although I know it’s the greatest lie
I have no trouble speaking about religious bubbles
pressured and then pricked to pop
where else would emotion derive its motion?
why else would the genius of Icarus
be grounded in his grand fall?
It’s these pall mall conversations
over caffeine and masturbation
that make me sick of the sentimental shit
always fettered with the bit
driven right between my teeth
I need some relief,
because these pyromaniacs they have me in their sights
so I get panic attacks whenever I see a light
even if it’s at the end of a tunnel.
and my funnel vision keeps me in remission
I tend to lose my ambition whenever I need
to plead for your permission
and these statisticians are witnessing hell’s kitchen
caught cooking up a nation of fear
and the ingredients are ill perception,
terrible sense and way too much beer!
there’s no right answers here
only questions
if we only had greater sense
but I can’t count the dollar and cents
‘cuz I need to pay my fucking rent
where’s our parachutes and safety nets?
They’re with the dice and the back alley bets.
we’re waiting on excrement to ferment
in the hopes that we can one day play Rome
take this diamond vehicle covered in dents
to finally find a place called Home.

by Michael Cody Clarke
All Rights Reserved