Kamikaze Teenage Boy - A High School Massacre

His life was built with a self destruct switch
That's been awakened through constant abuse
Every moment is a cage that's been eating him with rage
Words cannot not delay, what doctors call a phase
When he's sick of being looked as a reject from a zoo
And everyone's compassion is introverted bruised

His role on the stage has been of the fool
A knave played puppet, to everyone's strings
But soon the role will be revoked
And his mission will be provoked
Letting him fly in delusions sweet sorrow
When he wipes the slate clean in the classroom tomorrow

No college, career, or girl time play fun
No mortgage hangovers, or warrior weekends
No plans to make copies with his 23 chromosomes
Before he retires from this office managed planet
A mummified nation drove him into permanent cremation
Its vacation from existence; a date with mass extinction

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Your A Rebel

Tailors make concession faith
In the pocket, with your makeup
Disguise false words of wisdom
From the authors of your stakeout
Zip up trends in fashion friends
For hobbies spelled in manicures
Throwaway tattered doctrines
Regurgitate there vinyl strands
Because you are, what you ware
Bleached and combed with unclothed care

Cool hunting for those cultural memes
In the piranha pools, where desperate hearts beat
The stark canvass, you were born to raid
Nomenclature wealth from a dodged pirate trade
Roam with fishnets punks that sport purple hair
Ride shotgun with Geek sheiks with anime flair
Be a mechanical summarizing anarchist
When you're a philandering philistine motorist
Reject big brother and mom and dad's laboratory

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Amsterdam Brownies

There not my mother's specials
Though they'd give her quite a kicker
It packs a punch when you're a starter
Or an invalid, with Amish liver
Initiates I would administer
Biscuits with a pinch of hash
Than work towards the ganja cake
Which no conscience can pretend to fake
We'll strip the layers of black and white
To transcend colors of a mental flight
A first class ticket to a surrealist dance
Just bite your tongue if you must scream

Because you will be arriving into Eden

Upon the fjords up a river,
Were bicycles, are not much quicker.
Go down the Singel; a charming canal
That flows like champagne inside a well
Spot the antiques from old Orange days

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Connoisseurs of Despair

Sharon tells me she's thrilled
when she sees her skins peeled
From the scrapes of Tommy's fist
bruised from docking with her lip
But she says there always kindred
Infiltrated through her affection
When she gets him cornered down,
Like a housefly on her heel
Counter clockwise in his groin
Which thrills his pupils to counter twitch
On the chessboard colour floor
Where he moans with satisfaction
to be her incandescent whor-

And Even tells me that its heaven
When it's a quarter pass eleven
And little Sara's got him toped,
From an altitude that makes him drop
With her firm technicians grip

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Be My Karla

Ersatz- that's what the average girls are at
Levi jeans on the rack, that multiplies on stack
Without distinction or uniqueness, to fit my peculiarness
Need lady to attire with my love for barbed wire
With a razor sharp elegance, direct with good performance

Need a girl who can handle my arsonist streak
A companion comprehending of my elegant flake
Someone with an edge, who's been close to the ledge
Who's wanted to jump, or push someone off
Without justification, or no pause for hesitation

I wanna girl whose dynamite thrill
Not afraid to bask in screaming
Anytime you kill her dreaming
Who gets kicks in urban cynics,
and beats on fanatical romantics
Pathologically navel gazing inside of her ennui
And engage without recoil the darkness in her nature

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Zombie Feeding Time

He sighs with weight deep in his breath
Marked by unease in his dog collar vests
While dutifully watching the concrete frontier
For the Fords and Escalades that march at the rear
While the infantry marines of dodge caravans
Spew there side doors with kindergarten clans
There's no rest for the weary mobilized at his station
When its times to collect for the fast food nation

It's a zombie feeding time
At the Alamo funhouse ride
Where as guests you may engorge
Your Esophagus on wage slave clerks

They commence like clockwork starving for more
When the sun beams decent, between noon and four
S.U.V. always searching for the nearest parking space
Its unfortunate the handicap wins with first place
Seconds tick as he runs, through the parking lot stalls
Dodging enemy combatants, in their long rental hauls

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Paper Heart

I have a paper heart;
it was made with special care
Crafted from a forge,
where a child’s dreams are stored
It was growing from a garden,
were fairytales are pardoned
Were magic is discounted,
to those adults not tax deducted

It was found by chance on an ashen street
Where it was trampled upon by broken feet
A lonely passenger thrown down to malaise
To a sophist whims down a public orphanage

I picked it up, and felt the belly of flame
Which smudge and grim could not drain
Brushed its bruises, and gave its rips kisses
No wounds could impair its ivory strings

On a screaming city street,

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Bomb In C Minor

There's a minefield set inside my head
Any little push and I think we're all dead
The barrel is loaded through my twisted neurology
Which social miasmas set in motion the trigger
Leading tainted endearments that lead me to linger
A hyacinth aborted, in the killing fields bloomed
caution were you tread, or this roman candle will yield

There's a bomb playing c minor, it's my schizoid sonata
Cracked coronets pick away my head with an axe
The violins scratch impressions on mahogany lines
While the Spanish guitar paints me to a far away time
And nobody hears the pressure point crescendo to the drums
as the bomb goes off for session number 1

Everyday is navigated combating a barbed wire planet
For eyes and subtle sneers, firing the shot penetrating fear
Wounds fragrant the body and make a casualty worn
Without notice to recoil the shrapnel lodges your thoughts
And every scar to the insults engineers a damaged mind

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Bambi's Revenge

canopy of evergreens
a slaughterhouse again
Creeping through bramble
are the body taxman
Black-market peddlers
from Orion’s savage arts
Scoping Winchesters and Remington’s
for easy prey to lay
A loon skywards blue
and a marten on the earth
No Valley or thickets
will curtail these assassins
In buckskin jackets
and Wellingtons well drafted
Freely soaking an emerald
chapel into a bloody supermarket

Assaulted to the massacre
preoccupying his vision
Is the prince of the woods,

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Hangman with the teacher

R_ T_ _E_

It was a Tuesday painted Friday
by wanton act of tragedy
When punctual Mr. Miller, laconically sat
Looking on his wards he silently wept
He sighed with contempt
of a lifetime of regret
Meditating sorrow in his morning Earl Grey tea
Looking through the window
at tears of rain rang from the pang
And the sky was mourning grey

A middle age man he was tall and rather fair
Angular face, with drawn pink cheeks
The formal decorum of accountant attire

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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