CYN Fiend Poems...

THE FURTHERING ADVENTURES OF AN ABSTRACT CONTORTIONIST

By: Shawn Abnoxious ©2012

This...
This is what I have discovered:

My medicine organizer
tells me what day it is.
It's Thursday...
(BIG Fkkn deal)...
(Kill Tomorrow)
This dimensional existence
as/if founded by mistake.
By accident.
Oops...
(Kill Tomorrow)
The prison bars are a bar code.
The prison is everything you see.
I said EVERYTHING...
(Around us)
(Please take note (please))
God is an alien to us
  just as much as we
   are aliens to him...
Contradiction is a weapon.
(Kill Tomorrow)
There's plenty of life right here...
Life to exploit and/or dominate.
USA flags at disaster sites...
They show us (U.S.) its time...
Past T.I.M.E.
...
Time to fight and/or celebrate.
(Kill Tomorrow)
All the machines do their job...
Propaganda in it purest form
does its job...
Appreciation filters through...
Seeps...
The adoring public suckling
on the heifers tit.
Milk it...
Milking IT...
Before IT milks them.
A pre- emptive strike
planned against the accumulated
Nervous Brigade.
(SMASH THEM)
Sleeping is heroic
when sleeping becomes a war.
Meanwhile...
15 headaches later...
Just outside a fortified bunker
stocked with a lifetime worth's
of fucking Doritos....
(Kill Tomorrow)
The 100-Acre Woods
becomes a fancy-dancy...
ANOTHER fancy-dancy strip mall...
Which was, in turn,
tore down
to make way for
an ALL NEW
ALL-DIFFERENT
100 Acres Woods Strip Mall
built in its place.
Obsolescence is a weapon.
(Kill Tomorrow)
Desire lines as veins
twisting thru neighborhoods...
New throughways
for scattering zombie hordes
and value pack bandits feasting
on idle victims of economic martial law.
Economic Martial Law...
Isolating the unwanted.
Keeping them in place...
The ugly working class...
The ones working themselves
to a multi-leveled death...
The ones
that aren't even allowed
a good, decent high
anymore...
Shuffled...
One place to the next
looking for new ways to cheat
the tightening laws and public morals
for the next big way to get
high.
(Kill Tomorrow)
The left ones...
The ones left
to prey upon
blue-light specials
before they prey on you...
Meal-deal dollar menus
are the next highs.
Read the newsletters.
Listen in-between the lines...
Tomorrow is dead.
(Kill Tomorrow)
Act now...
Stab stab stab
(Kill Tomorrow)
Bending to life...
(Kill Tomorrow)
Living to die.
Dying to live.
(Kill Tomorrow)
Life is killing us softly...
Slowly...
(Kill Tomorrow)
Bit by bit...
Morsel by delicious morsel,
in dollar-deal implements...
Kill Tomorrow...
Yesterday is next.
Take a picture...
It'll last longer.

(untitled)

By: Sybilka Storie 2013

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
Robert William Service