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POEM: Towards a Contaminated Pond

Skin mates Forget the poisoned rain and PCB's. Arm in arm, let's head on past the deserted railway tracks,
Towards a Contaminated Pond

Skin mates

Forget the poisoned rain and PCB’s.

Arm in arm, let’s head on past the deserted railway tracks,

The dripping wires transporting madness.

Hand in hand, let’s wade through soft lily fields

And dance on lush red trumpet creepers

For the wedding lawns have been cut and sterilized,

The golf courses flushed and trimmed

And our bellies are stuffed with seedless watermelon flesh.


Let’s run through open pastures rolling in cloud cover

Resembling exploding faces with ever widening screams,

Sea horses and cosmic orgies,

Dissolving the armies of barbed wire posted signs

Blocking our escape from gulp buster trash

And the constant need for more.


Echo skin mates echo.

You who are the shadows of my youth

Resembling dizzy swaggering pirates

Seeking a plank on a sinking ship

Continually attached like a syringe in a weak vein

A thousand years from now I ask your faces shine

In opaque skies filled with restless whispers

Above lettuce clouds

Crisscrossing a thousand suns.


May your photocopied fingerprints

Travel like bone biblical chaff

Along the elite corridors of greed

Burying an avalanche of profiteering bankers

And moronic war mongers laced in chicken thin skins

Thriving on humanities blisters.


Oh harmless freaks

Floating belly up

Our reflections fear nothing!


After all, the toxins inside this pond

Equal the toxins inside us all.

Or have you grown deaf

To the church bells chiming

How unclean we have always been?


Skin mates

Remember the gas masks

For the ceremony of fire scorches the healthiest lungs

Before sending us sliding into quicksand

Manufactured from bloody classrooms

Draped in caution tape and unending

Weather forecasts.


And yet,

Even though I am limp,

Heavy and heaving,

Waiting for a quick pick me up

To sweep me back into my boots

I write these words for you

Beside this contaminated pond.


You who can barely consume.


You who wear the hard hats.

The dirty aprons and rubber gloves.

The dust masks and bus drivers.

The rubber maid angels and cleanup crews.

The nurses and teachers.

The aliens born on this planet aching to be reborn,

No longer torn or disguised,

Or worse insulted and bombarded by fabricated ailments and wars,

Venom induced cures, resulting in the wasted hours of apathy and bloodshed,

Symbolizing the worst form of treachery.


Skin mates before the ink runs out,

May my pink sticky flesh

Laugh at the raw scratching

As I lay here, open like a wound,

Flaunting my faults, stained with glue,

On a quest for new songs

Found in an oil stained turtle shell

Placed against my loved one’s fragile ear.

Woods Pond


The Edge Is Free To Read.

But Not To Produce.

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