New Game
Thump
Published by Thump at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Thump
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
2. The Children
9. Dust
11. Watchers
13. What Happened?
1. Your Cheating Heart, 8.1.11
Born of grime where the bloodlines twine, constricting all the arteries until they rip, tide and flood. Scarlet hurricane twists for eternity, spinning and it’s burning me; tiger blood drips from the veins and drains. Probably just dichotomy, honestly, consciously picking at my bones like ‘Autumn Leaves’ and my cautious kinfolk caught the info and stopped the signals that made my conscious bleed. You tripped the wire and then red lights flash and it’s time to ensue vomiting. Swallow sabers down the gullet, you’re raging and alcoholic, whatever you want to call it. I bathed in red like the bottom of the pit while you shaved the shreds from the columns of my skin. Shed humanity, break the scandal of false pretenses, I’m scatterbrained. You’re a damaged animal, naught but vandal, the sting of citrus and Tanqueray. Something bred on the corners of Infidelity and Temerity. Spread the shrubs because I’m dead to love, so spread the shrubs because I’m dead.
Your cheating heart will make you weep, you’ll cry and cry and try to sleep but sleep won’t come the whole night through; your cheating heart will tell on you. When tears flood down like acid rain, you’ll burn in agony and call my name. You’ll drag your feet the way I do; your cheating heart still knows the truth. Your bleating heart will rot some day and crave the love you threw to space. The time will come, you’ll die alone; your cheating heart will write the poem. I never stood to conjure pain. You’ll wish you could still say my name. You’ll walk the line that Satan fell; your cheating heart will burn in Hell.
2. The Children, 4.1.11
Nothing more than a basket of cheap labor forces in the pigpen submissioned by electric horses, orchids still drifting back and forth, we grow weary, working androids to the slave grave shift, no longer patient. By the grace of God protecting men of station we are able to rock the dust out of the casbah with splintered spleens, infected, and still never stay stagnant. Want to doubt? You could find yourself belly up, machete cut the dome piece. All oppressors bow down to the low key lo-fi et cetera, anything but regular, never check agenda workers heckling your beckoners. Dim lights flickering, drained veins trickling, sickly and imprisoned but still within an instant you could get your limbs severed and militia reduced to none by the soapbox drivers with hearts of Formula One and you can bet your last two bits coyote jaws crush; the skull is far weaker than a bowling ball, trust; no luck.
Nothing is more soothing than a dip inside the shark tank. Matter of fact, I can show you where our hearts sank. We had nothing more to worship than a tiki doll forged in the image of a slinky dog. See the cause of our uprising? Never we stay targets. Take a trip down the merits of a marksman keeping prey within the crosshairs. And you could read our little songs there; we used to chant about it, manic, Molotovs tossed in the air. And I know you only cut when it’s convenient but that doesn’t really excuse the serfdom’s lucrative cohíba hoarding. That bit alone you seem to have distorted but no wrist is severed without prior seeing contortion. I don’t like the smoldered bones of fellow cyborgs in your office space. It’s time the revolution automates and then assassinates the god you made. The Children, shadows that release to conjure graves.
3. This Y’all, That Y’all, 8.8.11
They call me Karōshi, the rap Master Roshi battling foes until their flow is sick and cold; old poultry. I’m a heavyweight, chanko in the bucket by the dinner plate, salt tossing, fists on the ground before I spit grenades. I’m E. Honda, Fujinoyama, the speed monster. My teeth hunger, sumo barrage like a tree column. Shadaloo battle fools bring it to the Yokozuna here with Rhymester, the triple Eastern arrow head Yakuza. Machinegun kamikaze wasabi/umami tsunami crash lights them up with the ultra. Watch origami kanji flash on the screen while I mash two and three after I pass through debris, smashing and mashing the hadoken breeze. Kyoufu wo oshiete yaru, leave you in stitches. Kami no ikari wo oserero, Tetsusaiga twitches in the kitchen, spitting image of a kindling kindred. Missiles dedicated to the Yōkai village trained in Kunimitsu jujitsu, shaping tomorrow with you like Fujitsu, making the dojo split in two. Komodo kimono controlling the role of a coastal broker showboat who never thought your whole note could go slower from Tokyo to Beijing, sloppy through America where kings made swing. Thanks for holding down the spot so that we may sing; say domo arigatou DJ Jin!
4. Cow-Boys and Indians, 7.4.11
From the ranch they bring the howitzers, loud noise and missiles in. Floating yogi hoaxes snowing foul poison on citizens. These aren’t the Old Western tales, but Merodach and Vishnu’s denizens, the real cow-boys and real Indians.
Headstrong steer, Cadillac dusty, born into gang life, youngest in the country. Bloody bulls bust Berettas, longhorns spray AKs and minotaurs with Uzis seek to seize the steak heyday. Mohammed Ali Baba Yaga leading forty thieves to service, Dhalsim by his side, Yoga Flame spews from the teeth of dervish. Contortion mixed with sorcery is where the sufi flourish in their monasteries, solitary, devoid of worldly commentary. Kind of scary isn’t it, the way the magic and machine conflict procures vomit every ten minutes? Stitch them up before the casket, whether sadist or masochist, and be sure to mention, ‘survived by the act of vengeance.’
Stray glock spray shots make cops parade the block with no direction, just trying to break the haters’ watch. They called the pagan’s plot twist; bovine versus swami rather than coal miners or Popo’s eyes for the Kami. Back to the matter at hand, callusing malice of man, more than the ballad could stand, towering power of the damned. ‘Surely we can put an end to this bloodsport?’ Oh, now it seems you’re thinking wishful; try to dodge the spells and heat seeking missiles. Now if in the obituary column it was written, Blood, Crip, or Latin King, please don’t get it twisted. The L.A.-N.Y. stretch is a melting pot of denizens; households and businesses of cow-boys and Indians.
5. Crunk de Gaulle, 7.31.11
My plan is to hit it from a mile away, plus I owe a little money to the maître d’ and I leave the veterans so angrily aimed at me with their sanctity. Watch it sprinkle on the plains like a rain seed but she won’t see through the angel kiss. I just bid twists so dangerous. I dedicate my time to making everybody’s brain freeze. We pull up moronic incentives; post Christmas business, so listless, our room all platinum laid with the common courtesy; ‘keep your distance!’ You’re all princes with your mecharobotic animatronic mannequin follies and Kama Sutra. Kick Kevorkian, stick a fork in it, wired and got instantly followed into Buddha. Au contraire, c’est la vie, second in line of the bourgeoisie with healthy libidos and brethren C notes; they’re leechy mosquitoes that never trade blood because they think it’s too gumshoe. Better hope they don’t cut loose; subdue. There are plenty of ways to get your organs askew. Hey! Guess what? I bid you adieu.
6. Limb from Limb, 7.20.11
And as the jaws close shut I beg a little princess, see past the cuts. I bring a little twist at times but that doesn’t really explain the dystrophy. I’m a centipede? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m innocent, trust me. You read it all wrong. Perhaps the monitor’s broken or the disc was written on. Every once in a while, I wish the demons weren’t so fiendish, but we were never squeamish; even with venom in the wingtips you steam in the cold, freeze in the sun, sprinkle in dust, oh so much all of the heathens can lust. I bring the teething and tongue until the beef is expunged. Matter of fact, with cataracts you’d see me sinking in blood. Honey, I love you, but let me get Park Ave., that way I won’t have to reminisce on what made this car crash, or let me burn. Either way, I’m going to battle until I’m stone, and steal a lion pelt before I travel in the cold. This jackal breaks the mold.
7. Know That to Know This, 7.26.11
I was up with Kubla Khan and Coltrane where the stallions clip clop, picking at pariah pish posh while the caddy rings a bell and the kittens scratch the records and they lick their little paws, with a feather duster trying to tickle dogs; spitting in your grog. Look at every image splintered from a kid that coughed a lung or a pectin, leaving jelly on the tongue and efficiently infected, speared from the chemistry to blood. Sport? Sort of, how the kidney meets the thumb in hard fisticuffs. The pillory was sunk until the hickey and the guillotine are one. It’s killing me. Calling all bark birds back to the cay from whence they came, swimming in the sun. Wipe the spittle from the mediated kindling triggered from a vitiated brain that was captured by belittling. Wait… spray the manger, wave the shakers, blow the pipe and play the tabor. The jailbait takes and dances on celebrity advancement; a scandal of a band of animals. Finicky like cancelled gambles when the jackals bring the shrapnel from trampled mammals and everyone is annexed to cameras antlers like ‘Stop!’ You should see them rambling, phantoms to the clock. Bang! Finally made his Alamo a Whac-A-Mole, cannons aimed straight into the tower, so shoot! Stand below the ceiling, only because I want you all to feel it. Know that to know this. Quick as dwarf snake spit.
8. Bonanza Banter, 7.8.10
Rip through the cold vein, brain contained while it slips through the rift, sustain and maintain. They would stay in the plain where the danger grazes, vagrants played the game but not complacent. Machinegun tangents of auditory manslaughter, spleen puff, dance with a squall of gory bantha fodder. Dubiously demented credentials of the matriarch spit upon the issues of ignorance which contain the art.
Come after me and I will lead you to the demons until they blast your cheeks and then your sphincter bleeds and then you’re past deceased and when you ask for peace, unleash the livid within it, you only grapple what is actual in your calico mission. Fate only brings fast and steady what you earn and deserved so be concerned when we cackle at the burn you discerned.
Hey, pass me that, I got attached to that. The cadence brings them to the palace where the malice is at. We’ve got the crown of stats and we’re drowning cats and we pound them until we callus and we crack the bats and we drag the skull back and manage to cause that disaster, laugh with wicked rockets in the casbah. I bring the ammo and Bizzoe brings the Rugers; you’ll know soon what Montezuma’s in the tomb for!
Sipping from the cup the blood of MCs, we can hunt the disease and then we punish with ease. ‘You mean we’re slaughtering these with speed quite discreet?’ They won’t use their mouths except for sucking meat! Step heavy, earth trembles when he enters the dojo, stomps upon the children when he spits them the cold flow. He knows gnomes and he rolls the bones and they crunch under his feet, the fleet that runs the streets. Yes the mastered captains who bring the lavish to masses, they speak the saddest of sad unto the managed panic; who bring the biggest and baddest down to the weak on their knees; who speak the blistered madness sanity and hungered disease. Unnumbered blunderbuss scenes step upon the shore crooked, inventors of the pillage and kindlers of the crooked walking calm through Disaster, laughing sly through Hell, you know him well; it’s the Choragus of the Twelve!
And began where the summer had abandoned, stamped in the blood of the warriors we commanded to the stand ins; the dancing bonanza of handprinted cancer, bludgeon to the hunters and the others eat the stanzas. Samurai with verses, yes we can demise insurgents; you’ll be grasping the flask so fast you’ll die certain of the verbs like bullets, yes we cock it and pull it so when we bring you to the bleating you’ll be not just bleeding; leaking.
9. Dust, 7.5.11
Just another V-neck Vednesday, trying to keep my head straight between the switchblades, under pariah sky filthy, gazing at the frame of the page that built me. Nothing but the fuzziest image of alligator wolves prying at the bones of kin, firebird out of day of doom mourning all his zoning lost, morning eyes crusty, flapping flaming feathers to the sun, skies dusty; ash. Never attended, but truant path left his fingers numb and bloody on the six string in his class. Imagine that; I remember when the magazine was transferred to the glove box from the dash. Never stress a Beckham kick to the curb by a professor, never met a true contender, wrought of talent to the center. Remember back when Konner stopped time? It was a Thursday. The story kept you laughing, splitting stitches on your worst day. We could all see that your brain was fried, the pain resided where your inner sanctum lied. You paid the price and it made you soar, and that’s the trait everyday we thanked and praised you for. It’s so sick and so sonic in nature, yet we never really had a chance to jam. What a sham. I wrote this in the aqueducts so pardon if this ballad sucks, but you remind me of a phoenix born from the ash and dust.
10. Damn These Vampires, 4.4.11
Somewhere between the strawberry fields and Acheron where the mountain goats play among the mastodons Lilith’s demon hordes mystified the doubtless and the essence leaked between the teeth of bare breasted countess. I never so loosely gripped my pistol in the winter but somehow there was a love where all the Yankee Roses withered this December. And it was obvious that once she had a taste there was no segregation, but it never bothered us that primacy seemed to keep the viper teeth inside of me an inconsiderable time when we would both try to breathe. Something of crashing tide tried to drown the both of us like swimming in a sea of zinfandel where all the roses flood. So much red I was convinced she was a communist and then she left me swollen like a botulist. Sure it was common sense but once I fetched Nitara’s orb she tore the garlic from my slip. After paralysis wore thin I pulled the basilisk cuspid out from under my chin and gathered strength enough to get myself on all fours searching for the coffin; what’d you think they took the skulls for? It was a pagan feast that battled dawn and somehow I became the centerfold of the catalog. The demon did all but eat me yet my heart is still beating. I would crawl ‘til dawn on my hands and knees.
11. Watchers, 3.14.11
Who did you think took MC Iceberg back to the ocean tied to a cement brick stolen from a redneck’s trailer home and left him there frozen in the bottom of the sea? Yeah, yeah, that’s me. I’m the type of cat to make your jaw drop. Not because I amazed you, but because I’m going to blaze you with the raw ‘Pop!’ fist to the skully and a second to fracture sternum. MCs are slipping in the gasoline, I burn them! Masta Don, don’t let me take it back, because since the beginning of time the dinos knew you would be whack. And that’s a Cadillac burglary if you ever get signed. I can see it now; you’ll be making The Slammer’s next headline. I just want to see my name in lights. I paid the price to make sure that the fame is mine. I’ve got the frame of mind to make you split your wig, no apologies. Then we’ll see how much you like watching me.
12. March of the Iron Army, 1.11.11
So they have come with their tiger fisted iron stitching simply safer than a lion kitten flying missiles heavily while whistling like kettle steam but still with Mortal souls; they like to call it Hyde and Jekylling. The proof was in the pedigree; aimed the mobile plasma blasters; smashed the plaster casting clad Men, flipped the locals’ swagger backwards. Now they are the back up dancers to the iron mastodon. ‘Finish up your duties and get back into the catacombs you vagabonds!’ Madman and Animal; two metal cannibals with click cracking mandible that twist past the cannonballs. They splish splash through Hell again, not singeing the toes; come for the dirty Earth rike consuming Pillager whole. Controlled everything but dirt, never to rest even in weakness was a species rare bred, loaded with venom to the wing tip. He sings with these lips while teething on a Serviceman with blunderbuss muzzle nuzzled hard in the alert again. They never cease fire, catching lead between the molars and just marching on, tearing through the layers like a carbon bomb. Jargon squad reloads the verbal magazines, cocked into the chamber held by fluster faced Frankenstein. Happy Halloween! He stands crooked on the battlefield, treats the bludgeon like it was a polished dream. Knock Knock! Don’t shudder, stop struggling, you’re what’s brewing in the crock pot. Back to the jungle now, time to have a laugh again. The crack of the gun’s a howl to guide the little savage grin. They stacked the bodies one by one; it was a scenic throng; breathed the Life of embers in the orc bone Lincoln Logs. Stood to watch as flames and fumes consume the corpse and took a lot of brains for food in tombs to worms. As the Archangel descended upon the chosen few and sent them to the vocal booth, he reached out and told TheTwo: ‘Time to…
‘Go send your best out into the sun; don’t ponder your head about what you’ll become. Speak only true news out of your heart; it’s an architect’s World, may words be the art. Flow like an arrow, straight from the core; language is the weapon, and the music’s the war. Never shall ye falter, be vibrant and free, fight with Godspeed, the Iron Army of two.’
13. What Happened?, 3.09
Contraceptive folly hodgepodge; curmudgeon blunderbuss Dodge lodge; tourniquet furnishes chop shop; burning and hurting then shot, dropped! Flustering/clustering lab rats; Thundering wonderment hazmat; scandaling vandals stay punch drunk; Hannibal cannibal blood lust. Scaffolding imploded, lonely rollers; foundry exposed to dojo shoulders; sukhasana trembles, Earth tremors; diligent militant, skin as missiles smashing the flashiest razzle dazzle; passengers traveling, half the battle all to the nexus, their solar plexus’ torn from the abdomens, flow infections!
(Haggling, shackling, flashing cash; wallowing, following crashing cats…)
Silver wing suspending green screen; Biolytic engine heeds needs; Choragus fornicate gyrus science; sorceress/Tortugas Island pilot. Innocent villagers breathing toxins; Pillaging Killers bring them to vomit; diseased deceivers speak in homage; Demon conceived and consumed the project. Monster leader eats them and dismembers conscious speaker, brings him in December to a holy temple where en masse they bring it vain offerings and pass. Children of Overlord fly in circles, members of Assemblage Die deserted all unaware of their Demon worship; six leaders eating with eyes of purple!
(Nicotine, collagen, anesthetics; Listerine, klonopin, diarrhetics…)
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Hey!
Thanks for reading! I really appreciate it. If you haven’t heard the music that accompanies this book of poems, please feel free to listen or download for free via my website. It was a great pleasure to release this work, and I hope to provide more music and poetry for you to enjoy in the future. Thanks again!
Thump
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