Disposable Society

Annex the boreal
to make a bigger lavatory
Decapitate a Douglass
to use its corpse as toiled paper
As an aerosol aromas,
freshly minted with Pine fragrance
Celebrate a holocaust
depleting the outer permafrost
Flat screen TV's and old P.C.'s,
Reeboks Shoes fulfill our priceless needs

ten thousand years destroyed for redesigned geography
A million years to weep for seeds as mementos of
Our Disposable society

Adios too Jack pines,
make a wave for more mini malls
Halogen lamps improve the sun,
A/C air is better rune

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Babies In A Jar

Mrs. Lewis keeps her trophies
All tucked inside glass jars
their kept as secret prizes
Where prying eyes can’t find

Their won from every summer
Through triumphs for losing
Her first base each trimester
From when she cruised for bruising

They’ll never grow too idle
The birds and bees she poisoned
She knows they’ll never toil
With tears from vicious bullies

Each day she makes a visit
Inside a surreptitious fridge
Where there are angel triplets
Indisposed of there remains

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Only Human in the Light

You are everything I want in neat little package of unquestionable desire…, and everything I am compelled to be repelled for - Love, Sex, Lust Greed, the avarices of the guilty and the human.

On one hand I want to feel your body pulsating vibrantly against me as if you are a completion of unity that I have always wanted to know as the forbidden fruit and synergy of two united beings in mind… spirit… and most of all…… flesh

But then the other hand turns and it hits the nerve like acid rain, and you make me disgusted!

To want you, is an aberration of what I am, to think that I would allow another human being to suck this power out of me! And pierce the heavy armor I have wool myself in to protect myself against the lecherous claws of inhibitions of human skin. I hate, that I'm compelled by animal forces to blind me by the laws of natural selection which never feel natural to myself

Sometimes it feels like it would be easy to kill a billion, and hit a vein to tap the blood like sap from a tree. It feels so pure to always want to hate and destroy and burn, then it is to want to feel the touch of lips for the sake… of a kiss…

Because when I look at you there are two sides of my mind, one is the human compassionate element found in the thirst for love or the closest proximity of love in passion, in those moments I feel like you heal me with your body. That's the human side

The other is pure reptilian and malevolent who sees all forms of intimacy as a threat, and you are a threat to my stability and my integrity, you damage to my bodies equilibrium and most stable reasoning and I want to hide away into the bottom of an endless keep hoping to forget your face which has trapped me in amber with your angelic face of pure sin.

I wish I could have the things that come so easily to others, but the thing of it is… I'm only human in the light.

poem by Kevin Patrick
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Nazi At The Gate Of The Souls Rear Mirror

I bleed a trench coat father me black
With ankle bootstraps to keep my irises pat
My soul mate companion is a cast iron cross
Through deviant creation I am purity in frost

Childhood tears commune the true rites of spring
From the father whose future is planned with a whip
And the teachers, whose rules are not well equipped
To guard the sheep from wolves that dance in the crowds

Play cowboys and Indians but not for much long
The ailments of adulthood will soon be passed on
And mourn for the brother who will not see the sun
Hold him close to escape the ghost you will become

Create our escape in the perfect order that will make
Alone in our minds with a thousand years to define
Tribute to Caesar, who pay spears of his legions
And the 300 Spartans, we'll covey our tribulations

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Happy Birthday Mrs S.G. (but Marina's My Girl)

Upon first glance I was betrothed to your vision
Arrested to your sin of immaculate possession
That adhered to my conscience of a cursed ruby crying
For its mistresses hand for eternal grace and salvation
To be chaste in your arms of quiet endearment
Of no cynical depravations enchant to your amusement

Although you traffic in passion, and sensual tigers
I'll never forsake or condemn your dalliance in the choir
That sings ancient hymens to the odes of Babylon's
Triumphant professions and hedonistic liaisons
You're my Venus Magdalene and Chatterley Godiva
Dressed pure in the filth of the naked heart's desire

And while carnal fervour entrenched me at first
It was your intellect reciprocity that enamoured my heart
Reading Kierkgaards laments of a cold universe
And embracing Sartre's fascination with the essence
That liberated your freedom to invest in Carpe Diem
Scratching a life completely out of pockets serpents Eden

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Yes John I Can Dance

People can laugh
and deride me with ridicule
Blast me in chlorine gas
And think I'm abominably parochial
They can call me a penny
Who can never rise above a dollar
Spring a broken spinning jenny
Shaking ever shifting heddles
But I got two solid feet
Which are never in reverse
Synchronized to always jest
In my private universe
Yes John I can dance

I never participate
Because I don't have a partner
That can operate in relation
To the fluid of my momentum
My astronautic locomotion
Is beyond you normal gravitation

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Martha My Dear

Martha my dear I'm sorry to hear
The bittersweet end of your nations song
once there were legions of delicate wings
And a choir of millions in a vaulted horizon
They lay retired performing a solemn requiem
Embodied in you the guardian of sorrow

A legend in flesh from the moment of birth
Just a moving epitaph and a myth that could breath
Convicted souvinir in a gilded cage for tourist
For the carrions desert, for holiday recollections
Destined to reside as a bittersweet lesson
What you never know to cherish or take refuge in

Is gone before the tone of midnight strock

Martha never heard the calls of spring
Or bathe in the rays of the summertime parade
She reigned as a queen to an endless winter
Entomed on a thrown where the sun casts no warmth

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Just a Statistic

I'm just a statistic
Who's just another number
I need to kill someone
To find myself a doctor

Time's vacuumed my soul
and my conscience is revoked
There's lots of little holes
Where my minds decomposed
And there's scabies in the ceiling
between the cold war hemispheres
while flooding whispers are shrieking
A reproduction of King Lear

There's bars on the dollhouse
Where ship of fools sails
I'm getting looks from a door mouse

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Mitchell Wilson's Gone Today

Nobody heard the pleas of his cries
Especially the once that led him to die
Nobody bothered to keep him in safe
Eroding his faith that there'd be better days

Predisposed by flawed biology
Exposed the rules of constant lambasting
Laughter became his constant torture
The mark of which left him to be colder

When he was 6 he played with kids
But they saw, his Achilles heel
So they built a pyre on his smile
Throwing the coals of a lifetime of trials

Mitchell Wilsons gone today
He left his ghost in the hour's remains
In Photographs and Video footage
Where he's at peace as a pixel memento

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Supermodel Cannibals

Killer in a Kimono, from a New York Fashion friar Indigenous to sued, leather and floral ensemble armor
Looks good in Italian, when cultivating false impressions
style tailor for the courts, in a boho from the Antilles
but underneath’s a pretty savage, decorated with mascara

When you land in the jungles, of the catwalks of Paris
You better get an expert, survival guide at your service
It’s a treacherous environ, full of vicious sophist jaguars
Machetes are insurance for the fauna of fashion liars
And protection for the tribe of petite la femme noirs
She’s Size 1 pancake doll, cooped up licking, supermodel cannibal

Makes a coup in channel when she’s hunting under thirty
Leeching lipstick painted raw, with the odor of strawberries
Runs a cover-up in makeup, behind a tan line from Cannes Can Headhunting is her specialty, hitting one night players with daiquiris Back to her rented maisonette she scopes them raw on a rotisserie

My Fear is the attraction that is the wreak of her pelvis
Limbs caged to mutiny against the weight of gravity
But with innate resilience, she’s abstinent of duress
When she comes off the runway I have to navigate quietly

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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