Eye of the Storm

There's a storm brewing on Christmas Eve,
And I'm walking right into it. God damn it.
I've seen some pretty shitty things in my life,
But nothing beats this. This takes the cake.
I have nothing to be thankful for this Christmas
Except for my life, if you believe religious freaks.
I'm bundled up here in my coat,
Looking like the proverbial ball of Jesus' dandruff,
And I'm freezing my ass off. Just freezing. Yeah.
I'm freezing while millions of others are indoors.
I must be the dumbest son of a bitch alive.
Lovers grin and kiss and fuck and all that stuff,
And what does yours truly have? Nothing.
I have nothing. Thank you, God.
Thank you, you divine mother fucker for depriving me.
There's gotta be something in the world to fill this void.

Then, it occured to me. There's a gun in one of my pockets.
If I don't get frostbitten, I might just reach for it.
There we are. Smith and Wesson. The finest in the land.
A .44 Magnum. It will blow my head clean off.
I sniff of it, taste it with a nice sucking motion.
I might as well get acquainted with it since it will be my finale.
And then, a tear runs down my cheek. Whatever for?
Perhaps I'm more of a coward than I thought.
I can't even bring myself to end this travesty of a life,
And I suppose that I wasted my saliva as well.
I wipe the barrel of the shit from inside my mouth,
And just put the mother fucking gun into my pocket.

From here, who knows where I will go.
I guess I will continue walking on into the eye of the storm.

Let Time Fly By

Another day, more gray.
Tears dammed up behind a great wall,
Behind a seeming iron curtain.
Insults flying at you from every which way,
Even from those who "care" about you.
There's gotta be something, some sort of refuge,
To help get you through this trying time.
There's a magic pillow on your bed, my brother,
That keeps you company so often
When nothing else seems to work.
There's a nice, warm bed, my friend,
To lay your weakened body down upon.
Life's a mighty bitch, I know;
I've seen it's many faces.
Just curl up to your magic pillow, Joe,
And let everything just disappear.

In a world where everything else is sunny,
There's a gray cloud looming over you.
Life is poking fun at you,
Just kicking you in the groin.
Everything's so cold, you know,
Every which way you seem to turn.
You just gotta get away from it all,
And I know just the place to turn.
There's that magic pillow in your room
For you to hide your face and sleep on,
Upon a warm, cozy bed
To lay your weakened body down upon.
Everything is better when you sleep away
All your troubles, all your ills.
Just take my advice, and let time fly by.

A Change

So many days have gone by in my life.
I've never felt satisfied.
I'm a struggling soul in this crazy world,
In a world of apparent success for the majority.
I've cracked the books for five years now,
And I see no end to my plight.
I'm on so much fucking medication now,
So much, I think I could be a sailor.
I don't see any end in sight now.
I don't think this hell will ever end.
I guess I'm a weak man, pitiful man,
Never satisfied with his lot in life.
I always thought as a child I was charmed,
But now, I guess I'm just damned.

All I want, God, is a change.
Is that really too much to ask?
One day of peace for yours truly
Surely isn't too much to ask.
I'll scrub your leather shoes for you,
Or kiss your ass if you so desire.
What do I have to do, Lord,
For a little bit of peace of mind?
A change would be so welcome, God.
Help me. I can't take this anymore.

Stupid Girl

I've driven around town, hit all the bars,
And I've definitely seen the stars,
Or, I believe, more like starlets.
I found this little girl, big rack and all,
With a perky little neat smile
That I thought was so very chic.
I asked her if she wanted a beer,
Which she was all to happy to oblige.
We went on to my house that night,
And broke my old spring mattress.

There was something about this girl
I just didn't comprehend.
So many things in this world
Are better than this little tramp.
She can ride a man all day and night
Without making him feel whole.
Just something about her that ain't right,
And I reach for my weed bowl.
Two plus two just doesn't add up with her,
Not with this stupid girl.

I smoke a blunt and think some more,
But not that cunt, that fucking whore.
I'm an avid reader of Joyce and Thoreau,
While she's worried about cleaning her hole.
I called out to that bitch for some more action,
Because you know, something about her is fun.
I guess I'm destined for hell because of this great sin,
This sin, of taking advantage of this stupid girl, again.
I'm drunk, high, a float in the clouds, flying in the sky.
She's a stupid girl, and she'll fuck me without reply.

Russian Roulette

I look back through the notebooks I've put together,
Of poems, of songs, those kinds of things.
I think of all the fun times with the pen in my hand.
My brain must've been attached to it in some way.
I had so much success, so many successes,
Published poems, yes, they were a plenty.
But it seems to me those times are gone now,
For my brain has ceased to crank out new ideas.
Lord, help me out, assist me on this day,
For I cannot make a living continuing this way.

My poems reflect my moods very clearly.
When I write, I feel so very happy.
It's like I'm a child running through a candy store,
Stealing the sweet stuff I love.
It really is better than sex.
I've struggled to perfect my craft,
Getting better with each additional piece,
But now I've hit a snag. You might say, "Too bad."
I cannot continue on this way without my creativity,
And I think, "Lord, what have I done?"
I guess I wasn't destined for greatness after all.

After all the pain and struggle and agony,
I sit around, despondant, with nothing to say.
It's as if The Creator really hates me.
My mother always told to always work hard,
And I'll get what I want to achieve.
I've worked hard. Writing day and night.
I should be adorned with such gifts.
Instead, I'm rendered a relative redundant,
A disgruntled relic, done nothing for thou lately.
Well, I guess there's only one thing to do.
I'll just pick up my revolver, pick it up and shoot.
Six slots, five of them empty.
That leaves one to lodge in my brain.
Oh well. I guess I'll play a little Russian Roulette.

Failing Type of Guy

I worked so hard, day and night.
Didn't get any rest, and it hurt my sight.
I thought it was enough to get me by,
But apparently, I'm just a failing type of guy.

Sickle and hammer, I worked for the man,
Worked to put gold pieces into the collective pan.
Others I see are getting themselves a piece,
But I'm the failing type of guy, a title that'll increase.

I feel denied. I feel rejected.
What a terrible feeling it is to be dejected.
All they ever told me to do was keep my eyes on the prize,
But I'm the failing type of guy, the prize was too great in size.

I can go home and cry to my mother.
Who else would I see or touch? There is no other.
I suppose it's all I can do to sigh
Because I'm just a failing type of guy.

A Tale of Two Times of Day

For the first two hour forty-five, there was light.
Then, at quarter to the third, there came the gray.
What once was happiness abound
Now was a somber piece of nostalgia,
A relic of a past filled with giggles and grins.
I reminisce to that time where the sun's rays
Showered its life-giving prescence upon we here
On the earth, and we danced. Yes, we danced.
We danced a spiritual dance in a circle with tamborines,
Whooping chants resonating through the air.
We all fell down into the grass,
Long, waving, tall grass, uncut by any Billy Bobs,
And rolled around like silly little children.
And then, the gray clouds came.
They dumped rain on us and ruined our party,
And it was as if Mommy called for her children.
It was so cold so suddenly. So suddenly.
The sun was gone. Just...gone.
And all the kiddies went in doors. To play with toys?
What will I to do with my spare time?
There's a bed with my name on it,
And damn it all if I won't use it.
Nighty-night, everyone. Hope there will be a better day.

The Pig

Bogged down, brain drained,
Not saying another word this day.
I have nothing to answer or to give,
And I can't be thinking straight.
Environmentalist pigs hug trees,
But what's a little land for oil in the heartland
If not a wasted proposition?
Wasted dreamer pigs want to rid the world of gas-powered cars,
Wanting to use technology not yet created,
And for what, you ask? Well, it's just their agenda,
An agenda to get you to pay more at the pump to fund the pigs.
FeminiNazi pigs peruse the streets
With their coathangers held high,
Hollering for an encore from that Bobbitt broad.
A brilliant-yet shiftless black man sits in the ghetto,
Complaining that the pig owes him more,
Not thinking of we, the purse,
Yet, the pig will simply take from us and give it all to him for a vote.
But then leftists never think of the common man.
They'll listen to rock stars high on cocaine.
They'll march out actors and actresses
Who are on the Hollywood Walk of Fame,
And they'll shame the brainless masses into a trance.
And to them, those fellers are immaculate in France.

As for me, you might ask, if you care,
I tend to wear very dark sunglasses
Because I see each day as a sign of better things to come.
I believe in the spirit of the individual,
The power, the mighty power of one,
To overcome the need for the pig,
And I see the day of a brand new horizon.
The pig is not the answer, my friend,
Because the sun, to me, grows brighter with everyday,
The power of the human spirit makes this world spin around.
I don't want to live in the shadow of the pig,
And I don't want some bum to live off my wages.
All I want is to work hard and keep what I earn.
This is America, my friend, whether you like it or not,
And if you don't, well, there's France for you.
I'll be more than happy to simply bid you adieu.
Otherwise, well, I'll just say, "God bless the U.S.A."

El Presidente

El Presidente, commence forth

On your march to victory,

For our country, your countrymen.

Ride your chariot on the streets,

Pulled by white horses,

Laurel wreath around your head.

Victory is yours, victory for keeps,

And the day is yours, El Presidente.

Carpe diem.

El Presidente, the people have spoken,

And they let their voices be heard.

The people have spoken up,

And they spoke up for you.

You've lead your country along the golden path,

And you've used the golden mean.

For that, you've been rewarded the golden key to our hearts.

Use it wisely, El Presidente,

For power must be wielded wisely.

We wouldn't have given it to you had we not faith.