Graveyard Earth
Poem — Phone Call to the Land of the Dead
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I invoke all failed unknown dead writers into me. I’ve got what all ghosts want — a body. Make use of this flesh. Be a good little writer. You hear that, unheard dead? I can leave where you left off. You dead loser. I am living loser. And I take your words, your language, your dead symbols, your archive, your thought-forms. I can wield them. I can make the dead walk. I let cadavers speak. I cannot speak. Through you my words flow. Through me your words flow. Let’s make a pact in flesh & blood.
Private eye in Hollywood Babylon
Forever
Smith Smith vs. the Shadow Robots
Techno deco
Stutterer’s speech disrupts tech
“I’m — sorry — would — you — repeat — that”
Pagan mod
Evil musician paralyzed from the neck down
Delivers performance with sound waves
And enslaves the audience to do his bidding
Old soul
I lay low
Off the digitized streets
I am purveyor of spirits
Hustler of the distilled essence
Supplier of intoxication
Instigator of inebriation
Enabler of immoderation
Middleman to slurred altered states
In underground bars
Subterranean haunts
Hollywood Blvd bowels
Even our ghosts are stars
Saturn has returned
And I’m saving up money to open up a Tiki bar on Mars
I rip spirit from water
Stir in a glass
With sweet rocks
And you are become the possessed
To do the bidding of an old ghost
Older than history
Older than law
Older than Christ
Spirits just want what any ghosts want — a body
I’ve lived lifetimes, kid
Orgasm spasm
Cum is death’s ectoplasm
Isolation nation
Get outta this place
You married a monster from outer space
Death is the last dream
I’ve grown up into somethin’ mean
Childhood summer camp over sacred intergalactic burial ground
Getting lost carries its own sound
When I was little I wanted to be a hearse driver
Now I make tips off mixing the Corpse Reviver
I’ve painted vistas
I’ve lived lifetimes, kid
I’m younger than you ever were and I’m older than you’ll ever be
Last man standing
I’ve seen friends consumed and devoured by the Blob
May forever live the hush-hush dealings of the mob
On this forever America
On this graveyard Earth
Reality is an inside job
