THE DISMISSAL
dontrupp 2006
Broken glass rains down on eggshell carpets rolled out for the arrival.
“Welcome to the precipice”, reads the banner.
Lava
laps at the shores of emotion,
combustive and volatile as gasoline and sparks;
a powder- keg abode for rent, just waiting to explode. . .
pyrotechnic extravaganza. . . 'Light of Light'. . . dynamite bonanza.
Chemical clouds blur your vision and burn inside your brain, corrosive, like acid.
Caustic
ointment sears broken skin. . . smoke chokes throats. . .
words rot and drown, caught on barbs of disillusion.
Internal cesspool reeks stink. . . screams boil and bubble in the soup…
toxic gas for atmosphere poisons every breath…
…at
the gate I wait. I wave 'till you’re out of
sight,
in a blur of tears
my
heart breaks and,
alone,
I die.
CLOCK
dontrupp 2008
Time,
dressed to kill in masterful disguise, stumbles now. . .
like a Jester, accomplished trickster, master of trickery,
he dodges my requests effortlessly.
So cruel and spiteful. . . no mercy is shown to me.
He hands out sleepy heroin, when speed is what I need!
Get out, you lout. Stop fooling me. Go away, get lost;
fuck-off with all your pranks!!
You’re a dirty rat, brim-full with malice, quite nasty, rude, and obnoxious.
Take
your leave, please.
I do not need your
meddling. . .
I
yearn for a just a simple tick and tock. . .
8-BALL-GAME
dontrupp 2008
Hapless wait of crumby crackers; crushing weight of expectation.
Empty cocaine eyes reflect blackened, dirty souls.
Twitch in spastic syncopation. . .
Pipes, pushed in hope of wringing one more ringer, lay spent…
sentenced to silence.
Angst clogs the atmosphere,
too thick to cut, too thin to buoy sagging, sullen spirits. . .
urgent, ringing phone. . . incessant, electronic, digital chime.
Time mimes itself, idling silently on the shelf,
in a box,
with aquarium tubes-
with vinegared spikes-
with tangled tourniquets;
Pandora’s paraphernalia. . .
pathetic pandemonium. . .
“Rock around the clock” box.
FROG-PINK BLUES
dontrupp 2012
Trapped.
Sequestered.
Cloistered.
Imprisoned; lips pursed tight.
Heretical seal camouflages doubts quiver-quavering betrayal;
Treasonous tremble pressed thin, flat.
Steam-rolled
defiance.
Embryonic words bottleneck. . . emotional barbs snag sentimental soliloquy;
Haphazard, vocal ragout.
Choking capitulation festers.
Deep- throat, candy- coated pacifier; sticky sucker- punch sends seismic shock waves-
Rocketing, relentless reverberation is magnified by hand-wrung, cotton, neckband noose.
Impromptu innovation or, pathetic, macho display from cowardly lover?
Throat slitter bully-rage pounds and throbs, through and through.
Broken breath; strangulation.
Bursting, oxygen-deprived vessels, near collapse, explode in blackening brain.
Veins bend in supplication; merciless grip of terror!
Silence breaks; pink frog shrieks urgent plea.
frantic
begging. . .
impassioned order; stop! Thwart! end!
demise postponed. . . left
to die some other day!
Blood chases tears. . .
red eye stream.
APPLE PIE BLUES
dontrupp 2006
stony face of suburban neo-virgin; expression temporarily
frozen in ‘a-parent’ paralysis, slowly, reluctantly returns. . . tainted
memories.
regret rivers
conspicuously around silver, iris eyes, , , red-rimmed.
defeat flagellates in apprehensive supplication.
dignity spirals in crazy free-fall, bracing
for the crash.
inevitability shrugs
sagging, stubbornly stoic shoulders, barely bearing the weight of ten thousand
broken promises- dreams dashed.
determination
grimly grips mercury-studded teeth.
crush
of pain signals another round of impatient waiting.
angst mocks integrity; cynicism and doubt
unite. . . explosive eruption. . . fiery
inferno of contempt:
acidic cesspool;
emotional sewer.
rats play cheery board
games. oblivious to the shit of above, discussing
the merits of chronic copulation (free sex); 'the way of rodents'!
countless
robotic housewives remove deep-dish apple pies from kitchen ovens scoured clean
with the grease of their own elbows.
horny,
snot-nosed children conspire to touch each others genitals-
"a look for a
lick”.
the stunned stare on your face is
priceless!
fear and trepidation make you
anal- sex is pervasive.
palsy melts, shoulders
lift, tired grey eyes flash cold, cobalt blue.
alas, another sunday evaporates into the mists of self-imposed drudgery. . .
slutty, pregnant girls worship
rock-hard boy-cock.
With skirts raised, pretty-pink panties ripped aside, a weak and wimpy
“no” snags in raspy, ravaged throats!
Naivety
abounds. . . blissful ignorance blocks cognition. . .
smugly aggressive metro-boys fuck
each other over and over again.
Blind
resignation guides the way of the mod suburbanites. . .
baker-women wipe up residual
flour and discard the useless peel.
terror’s
grip accompanies overwhelming sadness and tired fingers tremble,
as collective
tears flood the ‘burbs in soggy regret.
countless, meaningless lives flailed.
apathetic angst wonders, is this
the only way, is that really all there
is?
the timers buzz releases golden
pastries from their cozy furnace. . .
a dollop of cream? a slice of cheddar, perhaps?
LAMBS OF GOD
dontrupp
2006
GUTS, VOMITOUS WITH SWALLOWED PRIDE,
CHURNED TO SOUR, PUTRID LOATHING,
EXPLODE.
PROJECTILE PUKE FOULS THE MORNING.
NAKED AND EXPOSED,
LAID OUT, LIKE AN OFFERING; 'GIFT TO A GOD'
.
MALICE AND SPITE SOIL THE SOUL’S OMNIPOTENCE. . .
VULNERABLE TARGET; EASY FOR THE PICKING.
SCAPE-GOAT THE STATUS- QUO.
CONDEMNATION STINGS FLESH BLISTERED FROM THE BRANDING. . .
SELF-RIGHTEOUS JUDGEMENT RIPS MEAT FROM BONE. . .
"EAT THIS IN REMEMBERANCE OF ME",
CHOKE ON YOUR SINS- YOUR BIRTH ' WRONGS'.
MY TRANSGRESSIONS CATCH ON YOUR TONGUE, BARBED AND
WAGGING WITH LOATHING AND DISGUST.
VICTORY IS YOURS-
BITTERNESS, LIKE GALANUM, DISTORTS SATISFIED SMIRKS SHAMELESSLY.
”BLESSED ARE THE MILDLY MEEK.”
THE
GREEN EYE OF THE YELLOW GOD
JOHN MILTON HAYES
There's a one-eyed
yellow idol to the North of Kathmandu
There's a little marble cross below the town
There's a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew
And the yellow god forever gazes down.
He was known as 'Mad Carew' by the subs at Kathmandu
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks
And the colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong
The fact that she loved him was plain to all
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a Ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew
They met next day as he dismissed a squad
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little yellow god.
On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.
He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn
And a gash across his temple dripping red
He was patched up right away, and he slept throughout the day
And the colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and
asked if they could send his tunic through
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod
He bade her search the pocket saying, “That's from Mad Carew”
And she found the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height on that still and tropic night
She thought of him and hastened to his room
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune stealing softly through the gloom.
His door was open wide, with the silver moonlight shining through
The place was wet and slippery where she trod
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the North of Kathmandu
There's a little marble cross below the town
There's a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew
And the yellow god forever gazes down.
THE
PIGTAIL OF LI-FANG-FU
Sax Rohmer and T.W. Thurban 1919
They speak of a dead man's vengeance;
They whisper a deed of hell
Neath the Mosque of Mohammed Ali.
And this is the thing they tell.
In a deep and a midnight gully,
By the street where the goldsmiths are,
'Neath the Mosque of Mohammed Ali,
At the back of the Scent Bazaar.
Was the House of a Hundred Raptures,
The tomb of a thousand sighs;
Where the sleepers lay in that living death
Which the opium-smoker dies.
At the House of a Hundred Raptures,
Where the reek of the joss-stick rose
From the knees of the golden idol
To the tip of his gilded nose.
Through the billowing oily vapour,
The smoke of the black chandu,
There a lantern green cast a serpent sheen
On the pigtail of Li-Fang-Fu.
There was Ramsa Lal of Bhiwani,
Who could smoke more than any three,
A pair of Kashmiri dancing girls
And Ameer Khan Motee;
And there was a grey-haired soldier too,
The wreck of a splendid man;
When the place was still I've heard mounted drill
Being muttered by 'Captain Dan'.
Then, one night as I lay a-dreaming,
There was shuddering, frenzied screams;
But the smoke had a spell upon me;
I was chained to that couch of dreams.
All my strength, all my will had left me,
Because of the black chandu,
And upon the floor, by the close-barred door,
Lay the daughter of Li-Fang-Fu.
'Twas the first time I ever saw her,
But often I dream of her now;
For she was as sweet as a lotus,
With the grace of a willow bough.
The daintiest ivory maiden
That ever a man called fair,
And I saw blood drip where Li-Fang-Fu's whip
Had tattered her shoulders bare!
I fought for the power to curse him
And never a word would come!
To reach him... to kill him!...
But opium had stricken me helpless - dumb.
He lashed her again and again,
Until she uttered a moaning prayer,
And as he whipped so the red blood dripped
From those ivory shoulders bare.
When crash!... went the window behind me,
And in leapt a grey-haired man,
As he tore the whip from that devil's grip,
I knew him... 'twas Captain Dan!
Ne'er a word spoke he, but remorseless, grim,
His brow with anger black.
He lashed and lashed till the shirt was slashed
From the Chinaman's writhing back.
And when in his grasp the whip broke short,
He cut with a long keen knife,
The pigtail, for which a Chinaman
Would barter his gold, his life.
He cut the pig-tail from Li-Fang-Fu.
And this is the thing they tell
By the Mosque of Mohammed Ali
For it led to a deed of hellIn his terrible icy passion,
Captain Dan that pig-tail plied,
And with it he thrashed the Chinaman,
Until any but he had died
Until Li-Fang-Fu dropped limply down
Too feeble, it seemed, to stand.
But swift to arise, with death in his eyes -
And the long keen knife in his hand!
Like fiends of an opium vision
They closed in a fight for life,
And nearer the breast of the Captain crept
The blade of the gleaming knife.
Then a shot! a groan - and a wisp of smoke.
I swooned and knew no more
Save that Li-Fang-Fu lay silent and still
In a red pool near the door.
But never shall I remember how
That curtain of sleep was drawn
And I woke, 'mid a deathly silence,
In the darkness before the dawn.
There was blood on the golden idol!
My God! that dream was true!
For there, like a slumbering serpent,
Lay the pigtail of Li-Fang-Fu.
From the House of a Hundred Raptures
I crept ere the news should spread
That the Devil's due had claimed Li-Fang-Fu,
And that Li-Fang-Fu was dead.
'Twas the end of that Indian summer,
When Fate - or the ancient ties
Drew my steps again to the gully,
To the Tomb of a Thousand Sighs;
And the door of the house was open!
All the blood in my heart grew cold.
For within sat the golden idol,
And he leered as he leered of old!
And I thought that his eyes were moving
In a sinister vile grimace
When suddenly, there at his feet I saw
A staring and well-known face!
With the shriek of a soul in torment,
I turned like a frenzied man,
Falling back from the spot where the moonlight poured
Down upon 'Captain Dan'!
He was dead, and in death was fearful;
With features of ghastly hue
And snakelike around his throat was wound...
The pigtail of Li-Fang-Fu!...
GENIE
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
He is affection and the present moment because he has thrown open the house to the snow foam of winter and to the noises of summer—he who purified drinking water and food—who is the enchantment fleeing places and the superhuman delight of resting places.—He is affection and future, the strength and love which we, erect in rage and boredom, see pass by in the sky of storms and the flags of ecstasy.
He is love, perfect and reinvented measure, miraculous, unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine loved for its qualities of fate. We have all known the terror of his concession and ours: delight in our health, power of our faculties, selfish affection and passion for him,—he who loves us because his life is infinity…
And we recall him and he sets forth…And if Adoration moves, rings, his Promise, rings: "Down with these superstitions, these other bodies, these couples and ages. This is the time which has gone under!"
He will not go away, he will not come down again from some heaven, he will not redeem the anger of women, the laughter of men, or all that sin: for it is done now, since he is and since he is loved.
His breathing, his heads, his racing's; the terrifying swiftness of form and action when they are perfect.
Fertility of the mind and vastness of the world!
His body! the dreamed-of liberation, the collapse of grace joined with new violence!
All that he sees! all the ancient kneelings and the penalties canceled as he passes by.
His day! the abolition of all noisy and restless suffering within more intense music.
His step! migrations more tremendous than early invasions.
O He and I! pride more benevolent than lost charity.
O world!—and the limpid song of new woe!
He knew us all and loved us, may we, this winter night, from cape to cape, from the noisy pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from vision to vision, our strength and our feelings tired, hail him and see him and send him away, and under tides and on the summit of snow deserts follow his eyes— his breathing— his body— his day.
Twenty-Twelve: Prophetic, Prolific, Profiteering.
Cerise Trupp 2012
Inaugural Balls swear into Office the luminary one percent;
A love child, immaculately conceived by Rothschild-Rockefeller pedigree.
Doppelgangers with doctorates in spin,
Weave screens of smoky ‘transparency’ while,
Chemtrails settle in the wake of a new world order.
A “Brave New World” ¹ spawns a “Nineteen Eighty-Four-[esque]” ² one-world-government—
Bilderberg!
God saved the Queen (and all her men);
Our “Childhood’s End,” ³ is“Future Shock[ed]” ⁴ by “Prometheus Rising.” ⁵
The Illuminati air their secrets: it’s the Battle of 1812 meets the Zombie Apocalypse.
The Emergency Broadcasting System pleads the fifth and
FEMA’s camps imprison unwilling freedom.
Free-will is assassinated by ‘idling hands’ a.k.a. the CIA.
Martial law reigns sovereign anarchy, while chaos runs wild along ‘open borders’,
Keeping “our lands glorious and free.”⁶ The Taliban and Al Qaeda fraternize with“America the Beautiful.” ⁷
The Department of Homeland Security stars in the Marquis De Sade’s “120 Days of Sodom”...
The Media Moguls gives it “2 Thumbs Up, Way Up!” ⁸
Time Magazine writes, “[Their] Earth-shattering civil liberties are applauded.”
“Diplomatic fatwa...the IMF uses the Bill of Rights to sop justice from
The American Constitution’s cloaca…prodigious!” states the UN, NATO, W.T.O.,and WHO.
¹ Aldous Huxley, A Brave New World(London: Chatto & Windus, 1931)
² George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (London: Secker & Warburg, 1949)
³ Arthur C. Clark, Childhood’s End (New York: Ballantine Books, 1953)
⁴ Alvin Tofler, Future Shock (New York: Random House, 1970)
⁵ Robert Anton Wilson, Prometheus Rising (Las Vegas: New Falcon Publications,1983)
⁶ Robert Stanley Weir, O Canada, 1908
⁷ Katherine Lee Bates, America the Beautiful, 1895
⁸ Siskel & Ebert At the Movies, 2000