Posts Tagged ‘inner city’

These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non-designer.

Their mascara running.


Is not America Satanic enough?


Bearing scars,
on infected arms.


Tripped store alarms.


Well-known tricks
that sell their souls quick
for a bag to get off sick.


A land where your existence
can be & is
measured & weighed
to wind up factored
in as an economy.


Do not tell stories
of a dark reality.


The hell with Crowley.


Want it scary?


Journey down into
the heart of darkness,
the INNER city.


Behind every building,
under every bridge,
in every bathroom stall,
are our cities’ deepest pits.


There the dark sits,
the darkness lives.


We need the real Gothic.


Those who burned the body of Percy.


His heart collected,
from the ashes,
of his great funeral fire.


The poet’s heart,
is even more notorious,
for its indifference to flame.


A heart enveloped
in its poem Adonais.


Words which lamented
the untimely death
of a young J. Keats,
& praised his immortal
body of work.


Magnificent lights that never stay with us.


Where are the:
& Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?


she IS dying…


Who here will burn their hand,
taking her heart from the embers of the fire?


Who will wrap her heart in the blood-soaked Constitution?


That shining poem…


Written as testimony,
by those that came before:
that they were here,
that they saw truth,
that they would crawl,
in starved agony,
from underneath the tyranny,
of aristocracy.


A call to rise from our knees.


That shining moment…


We still believed,
even after,
this dark wind of apathy,
swept over the streets,
& destroyed our cities.


Now is the time…


We can finally breathe.

Now is the time…


For us to speak.


For us to dream.


Now is the time…


We must die to live again.



©2012 ZENspeak9 publications un/incorporated

Spreads across the streets
A disease of the concrete

It’s the polluted air we breathe
These dark confessions we speak

It’s the messiah of poverty
Bleeding hearts that don’t bleed

Gives new day to believe
Helps liars steal honestly

It’s an addict’s only recovery
An alcoholic’s moment of clarity

Animates the poor poetically
Sets fire under tragedy

What slums think when they dream
Convicted rhymes of the hard times

& we all know what they mean
Makes the blind see street signs

Reveal ignorance realize
Words of a lost world in a city

It’s a divine comedy…

Picking up the pieces to a tattered existence.

Torn apart by the American dream.

There are days that even the pen feels abstract.

Where to go?

What to write?

I used to do drugs; until the drugs started doing me.

But I believe that suffering helped maintain a link to a certain breed of humanity.

No matter how insignificant or self-inflicted that suffering may be.

And when we know,

  we have a duty,

  to teach what we know,

  to those that do not know.

Keep writing…

Keep dreaming…

Keep believing that there is more to life than the big payday.

Prophetic doom-


wishful thinking…


The absolute influence…

The powerful spontaneity of self-manifestation.

Find artistic merit amid this dank and daft existence.

The great experiment of chemical combustion has failed us.

Signs of light emerging,

through the end of the tunnel-vision of commercial reality

Scratching and clawing…

Hanging on, tooth and nail…

Reliable predictability of misery.

Blank walls…

Empty stares…

Assembled bricks…

Back to the wall…

Too high to see over…

Resilience in the face of artistic adversity.

Mirrored reflections of my past psyches.

It is not, what it is

You’ll never change what it is

If we did what it is we want/

Bet these guys would stop touching kids

This world makes you feel crazy

Like you’re the only one seeing this

There’s a homeless man down the street

He got no insurance; he’s real sick

Whistling while we walk by

Oughta/ give him a roundhouse kick

& it’s only getting colder

Even though the ice is getting thin

Live a life but are we living?

Heart atrophy & we’re all in

Bought the fear; just hoping for change

We all know something needs to flip

As the story/s getting older

Anticipate apocalypse

I will be what I am

No one person owns

A fail-safe identity

Write on that tape

Over your mouth

Continue to laugh

Till the truth comes out

Can keep riding this bus

But it ain’t changing its route

Don’t play a part

We never were any more

©2012 (zenspeak9 publications un/incorporated)

sketch by Eric David Lough

There is a law being considered to force people to purchase bicycle insurance if they want to ride a bike.

No shit.

What is that you say? It will never happen? Well, I remember when people said the same thing about automobile insurance.

What a wonderful idea.

Let us tax those poor bastards that can’t afford to drive. Then, they will have no way to get to work, have no choice but to sign up for the food stamp program, and then we can blame them for crashing the American economy, while the CEOs of the top banks sneak out the back door with sacks full of billions in cash.

The poor are being taxed to death.

The government takes thirty percent of every book I sell.

They take nineteen percent of every paycheck.

We got sales tax.

Forced to buy car insurance.

Come 2016, we’ll be forced to buy health insurance.

Everything we do is a potential fine.

Now bicycle insurance?

Are you fucking kidding me?

What’s next? A tax for breathing? Watch out for that carbon tax. Careful what you exhale.

Why not sleeping? What if while I was sleeping I started sleepwalking? And while I was sleepwalking, I hurt somebody else?

This is getting ridiculous.

I don’t understand why I have to pay into a system that I’m obviously not a part of in any way. I’ve had an abscess tooth for over eight months that I can’t get pulled. They tell me I’ll have to work until I’m nearly eighty to collect social security, if it’ll even be around then. They take my entire income tax. I’m treated like public enemy-number one by the law enforcement I help pay for.

There has to be a way to opt out of this system.

I love my city and I every day I watch a little more of it burn away.

It’s said the world is a stage and I’m but an actor in a play.

I want a new disguise.

Tired of these tired-old lies.

But I am really happy for these guys.

A real show of hands.

Finding a way to profit under any type of circumstance.

And all the jobs this suffering creates.

Yeah… it’s great.

But people are dying here.

Bombarded with mongered fear.

With no clear destination.

But that is what happens when you let yourself be taxed without representation.

We nodded off at the wheel.

We missed out on the new deal.

We got kicked in the gut.

But now we’re waking up.

Little by little returning to grace.

It took us awhile to develop a different style of syntax to articulate this new kind of treachery being perpetrated upon the human race.

Thieves nailed next to Jesus.

They got us.

Slaves in a machine.

We’ve been sold our own dreams.


Enjoy it for it won’t happen again.

Everyday a few more thieves are raised from the dead.