Spanish Eyes

Seville in 43”, was a Bethlam celebration
To a great welcoming of a golden jubulation
Born was the saint of passion, of teenage
For in her haunted image cast the prayers for my Madonna

On Burning July day, the sun converted gold From limestone in the cliffs, and the sediments of the road As a present to the Roma Girl, a seraphim crested wonder And haunt me with her reflection, as frightening as thunder

Spanish Eyes, Spanish Eyes your living art stole my mind With your dark incandescence and sacred chalice eminence
Casts a portrait of divinity to be emblazed for all eternity

Hypnotizing vampire, that's what I took and understood
But I saw you as a girl, broken painfully to womanhood Awaken to lusts cancer, by the works of Marquis de Sade
Though where you lived I understand even love was fair trade But this was counterfeit, to your to your espionage nature As a love starved women, seeking comfort from the torture Of a mutilating world, that severely cuts the pure of good
(But I love you for the wounds you marinate onto my body)

Spanish Eyes, Spanish Eyes, sting me hard with acacia arrows Everything’s a vapor cloud, and your impression becomes narrow Raven locks I wish to touch, and make them swirl around my face

A lonely Lisbon Highway, was where you had your final role

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Jesus doesn’t love me anymore

Mommy and daddy want an S&M night
So they threw me on the street just to get the game right
While sailing on the sidewalk, pimps counselled employment
That I contrived excuses, not feeling the jobs enrichment
“Maybe later” they said “When you want a couches ointment”
I shrugged and cried saying “Jesus doesn’t love me anymore”

So I went to my girlfriend but she disowned me on the terrace
She said our relations were on extended hiatus
As she escorted her new beau to chide me with shame
It was Principle Miller squirming obloquy my name Saying “boy don’t you know how to keep this woman tame”
“Oh” I screamed “Jesus doesn’t love me anymore”

With the blues in my shoes I went to play with my crew
Down at the youth club for a little game of football
But they gave me the boot because of poor tenure
Scott whistled too me that I flew like manure
“Butt brownie stone legs, for playing too much Halo”
“What’s the use” whined “Jesus doesn’t love me anymore”

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Rupert Murdoch

Bravo Rudi
You are the fat cat of plagues
The down under Baron
For the information dark age
Tantalizing us with your scandals
Building heroes to defame
Selling Margaret and Dear Tony
Filling orders for Mr. Cheney
Schooled in the art of the modern prince
Your Rosebuds cunning apartheid

You Build and destroy lords with your pen
Scratch a career with an errant end nib
You're the Emperor charlatan
Of keeping the truth out of focus
A xenophobic preacher
Guarding discriminating locusts
Owing more to the laundry
of the check line aristocracy

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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The sweet fortune of a gift

When I've sat in the private stadium
At the front row bleachers of pessimistic desolation
That clings to me like a Sunday Church Vest
Tying knots in my insides with tenebrous hesitation
I place an ornament of your saints visage
For salvations renewal in an arrow from a lighthouse
Piercing the worms making homes in my shadows
That you cleanse sanctifying fatigued sailors woos
In the tidal cornucopia on life's battlefields.
Purifying the danger when your presents is near

And in the retreat where silent desperation sat
as a banquet of introspections cholesterol
fêted with solvent nihilistic carbohydrates
sedating the systolic hypertension that protruded
anxiety as cranium indigestion
the simple cork of the fatal cylinder is the very reflection of you
that decreases the tension for fixed alleviation
your my handy pepto-bismal that quickens my cathartic diuretic
Sweating the resentment for cool satisfaction

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Never Again Will Roses Be Given, To You Who Are So Undeserving

Warranties expired on the test of my good tolerance
Now I'm ready to collar you for a trip down the market
Sick and rabid you, bite with ferocity spilling words from a witches cauldron
You’re a Double crossing, triple agent liar, ideal remady for a soviet solution

Do you realize a sinuous infection, is by definition, synonymous
with your cold soldiered manipulation, of a callous politician
Yes I would rather contract a tumor the size of your mouth
than to listen to yours which exfoliates a waste of breath

I was once inoculated by your crystal vanity
But now I see it as a homeless recital play
A deprived charade, a pantomime rag, a monkey’s empty box of tricks
Never again will roses be given, to you who are so undeserving

Just a veil of poison that coats my ears in wasp stings
A tongue swept in hemlock ripples, frothing with green ocean scum Feeding rapids of azalea kisses red tide infections corrupt bottleneck dolphins
To reciprocate these gifs Ill give you dolomite for the candles on your birthday cake

Washed out Xerox machine, copy more grief than a cottonmouth snake

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Our Leaders Are Not Our Nation

Toast tyranny a wager at the checkmark in the box
With cryola ideology simpatico to your thoughts
Compromise your belief with a representative of choice
In a year they'll impeach a bipartisan platform

When the tally is in it will make your head spin
Crush your faith to a pulp, Thomas Paines be engulfed
Your realities a minority dog food for the majority
So commune to the bars in your fishbowls for debating

For our leaders are not our nations
They strip mine the facts for elation
Our leaders are not our nation
They all toast their own egos fornication

Take a page out from Hinkley, apply a gun to the vote
Register complains sitting outside of Sussex drive
Watch out for the cameras and the guards in the cars
Don't fault a Fawkes pass if you want the blues loose

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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I ‘m A Numberist

I am a numberist, not the establishment of orthodoxy
The principal of relativity and standard of common truth.
Tabulated from exponents of testimonial values
God is Archimedes and the trinity is equilateral
The principles of reality are manifold exponential
My order is of the physical, I am not transcendental

Quadratic equations are the bible of the physical
Its truth can be fear and its pain is our medicinal
Like observing the value of a train that’s oscillating
Or screams of a clown whose heart is palpitating
Far into the east among the singing dunes of Taklimakan
While yonder far in sleepless waves of the blue Solomon

all these things are reveled into their fixed multitudes
The certainty of destiny is just a random category

Einstein is my Jesus with the better degree
He discovered the principles of mass and energy
That duality of particles is the transit of orientation

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Get It Up

Silence spans the canyons gulf
Between our hearts born disconcert
The hours conjugate the minutes
As reticence grovels our reproaches
Lies retreat through the French windows
Across the brick of Flemish bonds
As two pigeons stair their Interest
Cooing as their rapacious femurs
To observe the mirror of primate counterparts
Remotely connected in physical detachment
Between the stale sating sheets of pheromone odour
Sweating evaporation of delicate furor
She looks obsequiously at you with lightning speed
An annoyed smirk from a spoiled queen
Just as your breath implodes as your fingers twirl
The Excrement of passion is your autistic hell

All because the snake is crippled
And the king has lost the scepter

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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What's There To Defecate On The T.V. Tonight?

Inoculate existence to the pleasures of the screen
Preying heed at the altar in the service the settee
Enrichment to the popcorn in sterilized excitement
Taste the artificial flavor that butters your confinement

Drift in the sea of static electro phosphate discharge
Catching the cheap thrills for dancing with the stars
Watch your altered cerebellum supernovas serotonin
For that macabre fetish when Criminal Minds is on

You know you'll find excitement in another rerun
A life of two dimensions in Sony stereo speakers
Pull a sitcom or a drama imitating your connections
Until all that's left of us is hologram seductions

What's there to see on HD TV?
Just the bread and circus of enlightened society
Click Switch, Click Switch, and Click switch
Static eyes disolve pupils dilate and twitch

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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To my mother (a forgotten Martyr)

To My Mother a forgotten Martyr
Neither listed in a textbook,
or in the passing of a scripture
But the model of parental virtue
A saintly jewel of unyielding endearment
Who binds the spell of a child's love
Through Crafting a soul from the mold of her hands

Your deeds are multi folded
A Jill of trades of myriad talents-
Diplomat to teenage rage
Physician to a child's tears
And warrior of dirty diapers

Yours is a resume of impeccable qualities
A polyglot from minervas school -
Teacher, provider and moral compass guide
You exceed your occupation with amazing degree
And for that your certified with honored praise
If I had all the fortune from the world for you

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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