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  • Colonel of Truth
    by MrDaMan on November 19, 2009 at 12:51 PM
    486 Views - 1 Comment


    Colonel of Truth

    by MrDaMan

    Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

     

    The Colonel of Truth was upbraided by the General of Malaise today for rubbing the privates the wrong way.

     

    And the shadow looms dark upon fancy.

    An extinguished lark, a dying flickering illumination,

    a once bright aura, dimmed grim… moaning internally.

     

     Come now melancholy embrace the gloom,

    feed upon the cold black… writhe in anguish

    and seep into depression, endure the pain.

     

    Deep within the core there is a hunger for dissatisfaction,

    for surely if ever satisfied, it will be the end.

    Light will once again darken wretched desperation.

     

    A soul rises burning and sets burning,

    so cold… its heat is black ice.

    A fuel of the fire that enlightens.

     

    Warm is the heart that beats and is strengthened

    by such contradiction, joy is elation that consumes pain. The insatiable spirit… and its divided allegiance that is life.

     

    "But the ladies sir! They, they, they…"

     "Come this way… Colonel, we must manage to side step offensive maneuvers and defend our privates."

     

     


  • Let the Fur Fly
    by MrDaMan on November 15, 2009 at 6:02 PM
    499 Views - 1 Comment

    Let the Fur Fly by MrDaMan Virgil R Hall II (Randy) It?s the dog eat dog raw meat exposed by tooth and claw the salty taste of blood in the street of nerves frayed and raw let the fur fly incendiary tongues on the salt lick of open wounds with fire in the belly and shattered pieces of soul splintered radicalism feeding the habit conforming to rock?n roll It?s the dog eat dog raw meat exposed by tooth and claw fire in the belly shattered pieces of soul incendiary tongues lashing at the salt lick of open wounds and minds torn between heaven and hell let the fur fly peace is not the keeper judged irrelevant by the pack all debts are paid to the flesh to the ego?s choice to the pain arriving too late for comfort it?s the seed of the master biting the hand that feeds let the fur fly Lickin our wounds on dogday afternoons incendiary tongues lashing at the salt lick of open cuts? and minds torn between heaven and hell Fire in the belly, shattered pieces of soul splintered radicalism conforming to rock?n roll let the fur fly

  • Peeping Poet
    by MrDaMan on November 10, 2009 at 3:24 AM
    519 Views - 1 Comment


    Peeping Poet

    by MrDaMan

    Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)


    With an empathic eye,

    looking within or without.

    A fairly wordy entity for some one

    who doesn’t talk much.


    There is a fire in the spirit,

    sometimes only an ember,

    sometimes a raging inferno,

    but it always burns.


    A mind wrapped in a dirty raincoat,

    whipped open in sensual excitement.

    Flashing the soul in inspiration,

    exposing humanity to… humanity.


    Entreating insanity to explain itself.

    Daring the ordinary to illuminate

    the boredom of the mundane.

    In camera shutterbug repartee.


    Slathered in liquorice Absinthe hallucination.

    Cuddling up to desperate depressive disillusion.

    And making the great escape an entertainment.

    Dowsing the fire with Ice only to find it burns too.


    Knocking on deaths door and running away,

    laughing hysterically as the grim reaper

    stomps on a fiery paper bag of dog shit.

    Shouting all the while, "You’ll never get me alive!"


    Somewhere in the neighborhood of humanity,

    sneaking up and creaking the floor boards

    on the spirit’s porch. Peeking through windows

    of soul seeking the extra ordinary.

     Skulks a Peeping Poet.


    (July 2008) One of my first pieces that made me go WOW! This is FUN!

  • The Trouble With Trouble
    by MrDaMan on November 7, 2009 at 5:15 AM
    436 Views - 1 Comment


    The Trouble With Trouble

    by MrDaMan

    Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)


    It’s just too much trouble

    to be troubled, a contradiction in

    troubling times, and it troubles me.


    Just look at all the trouble,

    and the trouble it troubles.

    Troubling isn’t it?


    I just knew it when the trouble started,

    that the trouble would trouble troubles,

    and NOW we’re really in trouble.


    The trouble is so troubling

    that I took the time to trouble

    over our troubles, and that…


    Troubled the troubles of our troubles.

    So quickly I troubled not to trouble

    and found myself non-troubling troubles.


    And this lead to troubles just lying about

    in a troubling fashion. Troubles here,

    troubles there, troubles, troubles everywhere.


    I just couldn’t be troubled with it!

    So I troubled all of my troubles into

    one big pile of trouble… And there it sits…


    It’s just too much trouble

    to be troubled, a contradiction in

    troubling times, and it troubles me.


  • Example of Visual Poetry
    by MrDaMan on November 3, 2009 at 1:43 PM
    459 Views - 2 Comments

    I just wanted to share this over here at WM perhaps as inspiration or for entertainment. I LOVE mixing visuals and audio with poetry and only hope someday to get something as good as this little cut from Across the Universe. A GREAT movie btw.

  • No Right to Complain
    by MrDaMan on October 26, 2009 at 4:48 PM
    466 Views - 2 Comments

    No Right to Complain by MrDaMan Virgil R. Hall II (Randy) No right to complain, my hearts a grenade and someone?s pulled the pin. My body has rushed in to cover its, explosions? it thumps so wildly against my breast. That man has no shoes! That man has no FEET! My boots are worn but sturdy. I?ll try to bleed quietly. Some men live under a roof of sun and stars, and some joker contends that chaos is fair. My ceiling rains dust of plaster that swirls in sun beams, it blankets my keyboard warmly as a child shivers. There is no time for tears, though the windows of my soul leak constantly? a salt of wounded love. Oh how greedy, this guilt of vain desire? The blood upon my hands? and I want MORE! Survival of compromise, of relative obscenity. Silver spoons dance on gilded manicures, and a fly walks across a distended belly bloated. Bleeding quietly, screaming love in whispers. It ain?t the money? yes it is. It is the comfort of your pain that discomforts my duality. My envies comparison of Darwin and God. Of the numbed living and the breathing dead. No right to complain, my hearts a grenade and someone?s pulled the pin. My body has rushed in to cover its, explosions? it thumps so wildly against my breast.

  • Civilized Demon
    by MrDaMan on October 26, 2009 at 2:48 PM
    546 Views - 1 Comment

    Civilized Demon by MrDaMan Virgil R. Hall II (Randy) Grotesque, hideous and homely, yet with top hat and cane, not unhandsome. Gruffly ordering dichotomy tea, slurping mischievously, whilst eyeing sidewalk souls, side step the curb, by his caf? table. Black cat haughty! Saunters ?No! With predators confidence! Feline indifference, strolls casually by his chair. This is a real cat?s meow! Gnarled, pustulant finger, drawn from a milks saucer, offered innocently. Here kitty, kitty! Curious fur, and whiskers twitch, to lap oozing green sustenance. A beautiful April morning, today I?m civilized, tomorrow?. You?re LUNCH!

  • Feed the Beast
    by MrDaMan on October 26, 2009 at 2:43 PM
    532 Views - 1 Comment

    Feed the Beast

    by MrDaman

    Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

     

    Ankle deep in blood, gristle and bone. Shovel in hand, slogging through Lucifer’s mosh pit, it’s a good… what? Night? Day? In this hell in what ever God forsaken existence, there’s just time, unending, infinitive… time.

     

    The blood must flow, humanity hasn’t a clue about the true nature of good and evil, the nature of the beast, and its hunger. The shovel is a spoon that feeds the beast, the insatiable bitch, her mouth a toothy cunt shredding the intercourse of mankind, tearing the flesh and pulverizing the bone.

     

    "Thomas, Thomas… Wake up! You’re having a bad dream."

     

    Slick with sleep sweat, Thomas opens his eyes to see the bedside clock, its almost four in the morning. Grinning he swings his feet over the edge of the mattress.  

     

    His wife is annoyed again; "Thomas looks at these sheets, they’re soaked!"

     

    "Baby," Thomas replies; "that’s nightmare cream. The life juice that someday will pay our rent, just be thankful and wash’em."

     

    Up and out of bed, off to the bathroom to drain the morning wood, splash some water on his face and wipe the Sandman’s boogers out of his eyes. Thomas is feeling good.

     

    Grabbing a Pepsi out of the fridge and playfully swinging a foot at the house cat.

     

    "Wanna play kick the kitty?"

     

    Bandit being a feline of personality swings a paw but misses his blunt attack on purpose. She knows who feeds her and is a gracious kitten.

     

    Thomas heads for his home office to log on to his computer, check the e-mail, catch up on current events and news on his favorite blogs then maybe his muse will want to write.  

     

    Not quite ready to bring up his writing program yet, he looks back over the news. Wars, natural disasters and senseless unexplained violence. Hell will be busy today, but then hell is busy everyday. There isn’t much good news reported, Heaven can wait, it’s blood and circuses that feeds the beast of the reading public. Insatiable bastards.

     

    Clicking on the writing program Thomas wonders in thought. What will it be this morning? A light or dark theme for his muse? Poetry? Perhaps a short story? Setting his font on Times New Roman 18pt font for easy reading/writing he stares at a blank white screen.

     

    Reaching for the keyboard, his fingers hunt and peck, soon they are flying over the keys, a popcorn clacking, it’s a poem.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Not so Lucid

    by Thomas Brandt

     

    Are you dreaming?

    Prancing puppies on a freshly mowed lawn,

    kittens battling and pouncing at butterflies?

     

    The rehab lodge is a hypnotic comfort isn't it?

    Still dreaming?

     

    The mud bath tubs are a wonderful experience aren't they?

    Air buffeting skin a delightful sensation,

    anticipating the warm mud flow

    of the mud poured from behind your head,

    encircling your neck, then coursing down

    and over your breasts.

     

    *BLOOD*

     

    It's warm and a soothing,

    easing troubles.

     

    *BLOOD*

     

    What? It's sticky and thinner than mud?

    You must be awakening dear.

     

    *GURGLE*

     

    Look at that smile!

    From ear to ear!

    Now don't try to talk, you'll ruin the effect.

    Remembering you this way will be so precious

    as I walk the walk on death row..

     

    Close your eyes dear,

    go back to sleep,

    that's it.

     

    Breathe deep,

    and exhale...

     

    Your last kiss,

    is mine.

    Looking down at his ashtray full of cigarette butts, unsatisfied with his first effort of the morning. He dumps the ashtrays contents into the waste basket and lights another coffin nail. Another insatiable bastard, this beast must be fed constantly. Killing himself for cool.

     

    Staring at a blank screen again, munching on a strawberry  poptart, mind at idle, drifting in thought, his wife snuggled safely in the bedroom. A darkness, first just a shadow in peripheral vision, growing stronger fading his senses to black.

     

    The machinery is simple, metal tines interlock and winding together. Feed the bodies into this maw and they get ground up and spit out the other end. First it was the growling and clunking resonance of the machine that broke his slumber but it was the splatter of blood and gristle on his face that fully awakened him.

     

    "You having nightmares Tommy boy?"

     

    The demon reached down a plucked an eyeball out of the muck as he spoke and popped it into his mouth, slurping the tendrils of nerve endings like spaghetti pasta.

     

    "Break times over shit for brains. Lucifer’s bitch is hungry, grab your shovel and go feed that cunt or I’ll personally feed on your intestines."

     

    Grinning Thomas swings his shovel. His hand deftly on the handle forcing the blade to the demons throat pinning it to the machines metal back plate. Applying pressure with no malice or anger but with pleasure, he could feel the neck bone crunch in two. Sliding the blade side to side with the confidence of experience the demons leathery skin is fully severed. Its head popped off and Thomas batted it into the hopper with a smooth motion.

    As the demons body glopped into the muck you could hear its head bouncing around on the metal tines.

     

    "Look at you now demon!"  Thomas exclaims, "Groveling at my feet and you with no head, I should pull it out of the hopper and feel the warmth of your brains squishing between my toes."

     

    Thomas is fully smiling now and refreshed, sometimes its the littlest things that provides the soul the nourishment it needs.

     

    "THOMAS!"

     

    From the very gore of existence and in every cavern of Hell every demon and lost soul could hear the master when he speaks. Insatiable bastard.

     

    "Yes master." Thomas replies.

     

    "You are a barely tolerable servant Thomas, I allowed you a moment of precious time to feed your beast. My bitch is hungry. NOW FEED MINE!"

     

    It was just a fraction of a moment, the teeniest little bit of daymare. The beast within Thomas was fed, and it was good, nearly satisfying. A little taste of Heaven is better than none at all. But reality must be acknowledged, Thomas is in hell, satisfaction is a fantasy.

     

    With vigor and renewed spirit, Thomas picks up his shovel and slogs through the blood and gore, to the insatiable bitch that she is. He will feed the beast, so his beast will be fed.

     

    Lucifer knows the appetite of man … the insatiable bastards.  

     

     


  • Soul Wrapper
    by MrDaMan on October 25, 2009 at 11:26 AM
    485 Views - 3 Comments

    Soul Wrapper by MrDaMan Virgil R. Hall II (Randy) Wrapped words, Wrapped words, Wrapped words. around candy canes cooked with care, simmered delicately in sugar and sometimes bitter spice. Hey little girl want some candy? some candy? Wrapped words, Wrapped words, Wrapped words. in flashy gift paper with tongue tied bows expressing vanity. As loud as the color RED? torn from the pages of life, declaring? look at me, hear me crinkle. hear me crinkle Wrapped words, Wrapped words, Wrapped words. around the heart. Wrapped around the soul, wrapped around the spirit. Wrapped around the soul, wrapped around the spirit. Wrapped around the soul, wrapped around the spirit. Wrapped words, Wrapped words, Wrapped words. Around the heart, around the spirit, around the soul. Around the heart, around the spirit, around the soul Around the heart, around the spirit, around the soul I am a poet and I wrap souls in words. souls in words souls in words I am a poet and I wrap souls in words. souls in words souls in words Wrapped words, Wrapped words, Wrapped words. Just another wrapper, all wrapped up tight. I am a poet and I wrap souls in words. souls in words souls in words

  • Rise Above the Natural
    by MrDaMan on October 24, 2009 at 10:05 PM
    482 Views - 6 Comments


    Rise Above the Natural

    by MrDaMan

    Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

     

    There is something in the clouds of thought born upon the wings of angels. The weight of time that is the density of life, ruffling the feathers arched and laboring, spiraling in the currents and gravity of soul. Lifting questions of meaning from the face of existence? Why am I?

     

    Of God?s and Devil?s, of angels and demons. The conceptual grace of heaven and the insistent duality of pain in hell. This war upon sentience and the philosophical seed, giving birth and death to vast universes of incomprehension

    spanning novas and neutrons? A reaching conceptuality.

     

    Children of nature, bastards of time, disciplined by pleasure and pain. Crying woefully, laughing hysterically and waging peace against the ever present war of mortality.

    Spirits of liquid star dust run amok, swirling sentience nearing a boiling point in their own minds? a la natural.

     

    Life?s gasp, a breath inhaling time and excreting dust, fingers grasping sand and building spiritual beaches for footprints washed away by oceans of nothingness. All alone in infinite black surrounded by sparks of infinite light, the tears of humanity beckon, shining brilliant blue.

    To rise above the natural.

     

     



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