Table of Contents


General No More

They don't smell poisoned

but their words give them away;

About six feet tall,

Covered in hand-hammered silver,

General Semyazah rocks

In the quiet of his bunker,

Collected killers

Instead of baseball cards;

Slaved souls bound

In the comforts 

Of their mental restraints.

Slicing through bars

With the Black Blade,

I circle him

So half the time

He's talking to empty air

His lips do a little micro-twitch

While I nurse out a nic-fit.

I'd strangle the Pope for a smoke

If jean pocket money 

Got too close to empty

The cigarette crave

Was now in control;

A wave of bullets 

Blast fist-size chunks

Giving him a name-change

To General No More.


Giant Phil

Coming at us,

One shade less than furious,

Buckshot hurricane

Of angered wasps.

They make us shake

Like Japanese schoolgirls 

At a zombie flick.

Undercover bacon in the crowd;

Skidding to a hard stop,

We pocket our felonies;

Too dangerous to keep around.

The crew shows a lot of teeth

Sawing commands,

Razor-like,

Impersonating Sam Spade

For competition points.

"Evening, Phil!" 

Even when too high to stand still,

He wins this race 

With a boxer's strength

And award-winning dancer's grace.

We only needed one giant

To send them all buzzing 

Back to their hives

Where they belonged.


Girls' Night Out

One hundred and sixty-five pre-Adamite men

Couldn't prevent her willed designs

To make the rounds

In heavy,

Indignant jewelry;

Pulling along

Her ginger-haired accomplice;

A female counterpart

To the male's strategic wing man.

Her dancing hair-do, 

A deliberate fraud,

Announced her appearance 

Before she could do so herself.

Earlier,

It was to be

The coffee-colored occult essentials

She wisely chose to dress in.

A common choice

Picked for her casual night of sin,

A bee-line

For the reservation

Made at her dear poet's resort;

A place

That promised to be clean

Of all unsavory,

Oil rigging paws,

And a secret well-kept

From the cheating bankers' winks

And spiked drinks.

A guaranteed rendezvous

With a specific form 

Who defied those boring sexual norms

And became

That night's answer 

To the attending satiation;

Unmarred

By pre-visioned;

Sterling,

Accuracy.

With the agreed-upon secret knock,

Used by her ginger-haired protector 

From an unwanted public revelation

Of her

Particular hedonistic bent.




God Can't Save The Queen

With arched eyebrow 

And poisoned look

The following event

The Scribe described...

Evening had painted the sky purple;

An army of Super Tramps

Have stripped the Queen bare.

Her Royal tresses,

Now bedraggled and unkempt;

Her cheeks,

Tear-stained and raw.

Physical charm 

Met with steel ambition,

Ommitting unpardonable sin

For the enviable win.

This was the culprit

For such radical switch;

Leaving the slide

And switching to glide...

Free now,

These electric trons;

From that atomic orbital grip.

Consumed 

With loyalty to the throne

And no more place 

To call their home,

Consumed, 

Now, these shortest straws,

In furnace's belly

And fire's jaws.

These soldiers of fortune

Turned tail,

Scampering off

To land

Of milk and honey

And bevy 

Of Bud's wiser girls...