Sugar and Poison
Perfumed fragrant with delight
Activates my southern plane
Though I most prefer propane
The wealthy stench of metallic flames
Caressing my nostrils inhaling cancerous dames
Trading jasmine for oleander; and apple pie for asbestos
Vixens in nylons that juggle horns with their halos
Denigrate my dignity to achieve my greatest insecurity
All Behind locked doors, were virtues lost in sentiment
I’ll be acting tough, only if you play me rough
Discard the pleasantries and the romantic fallacies
That are the obstacles of hunger buried in the loins
Neglecting mammal habitations for primordial felicitations
So let’s just skin our lips and handshake tongues
Wrist cuff our hips too moonlight the floor
Exploring mouths and the new sensations of saliva
In the world of our eyes, where the secrets all die
Through the rhythm of throbs, we bait the language of lust
Gesticulating groans, sweat burns and atrophies
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Ding Dong Osama's Dead
Ding dong Osama's dead
he's been chopped with lead,
he's a sleepy head
Ding dong Osama's dead
By a black ops team in a Pakistan crypt
But I get bored and go to bed,
Ill dream of sheep in turbines instead
Rise - you patriots-
Get drunk and scream America
Wave old glory, and march with duty
Now Justice served, is wire tapping security?
To listen in on the disenfranchised
Incriminate Intel on personal live
Will it provide your world with peace?
To kill the donkeys in the elephant sleaze
Goodbye- to wiretaps
and illegal strip searches
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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How The World Will End
The world will end, when its least expected
When the days grow numb as dull November
Drifting sagged cardboard from silhouettes of heaven
As every face becomes a portrait of its own grave
A masque medicated to professional wake
Living day by day for the cuckoo disbursement
Regulated by numbers in scheduled hours
Collapsing our faith in the alley of bones
Where we are set free to one day roam
The world will end, without a goodbye
It will fade in a whimper without a big bang
Like water tip toeing on an unassuming stone
Parched penetrating the sewage of rusted charcoal
Yes the world will end the world will end
Counting down the grains of an hour glass eye
When there is less of a future and more of a past
Staring behind flesh of disintegrating glass
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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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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