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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Let Them Weep Where They Fall
Seraphim beauties sleep too soon
Beneath marked waves of Neptune’s throne
Cemented chaste by their patriarchs pride
Bowed in the sacrosanct of Jephthahs ties
Where cowards honor, above love is the chosen sacrificed
And a daughter’s noble blood, is as cherished as dorm Mice
So let them weep where they fall,
let them weep where they fall
Seas distract tears and drown laments in their souls
Let them weep where they fall
Let them weep where they fall
Deny them the light where Gods propinquity dissolved
When you ran refuge towards the dawn of new shores
Did you not stop to think what your children would learn?
As they became more acquainted to the garden of delight
Found in abundance of the forest of the western sun rise
The treasures of eye liner, cell phones and good looking boys
How dare they decide their freedom of choice
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Cassandra's Blues
Prescience was the fatal curse
That drove her future in a Hearse
Towards the walls of fatal dice
Where Achaeans bid so well to smite
Their wooden vessel that encodes
The Sun Gods laughter on his thrown
Vengeance for her first refusal
Comforts from his lecherous council
While hazard poured outside her tongue
Hiccupped through riddles of vapors lost
Her relatives could not profess
It's semblance for common sense
Whereas ten thousand stood outside
She wailed besieged to the endgames tide
Perhaps they should have played charades
Then they wouldn't have been a myth one day
Cassandra's Blues were born from the truth
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Bottle Rocket
It's flimsy and clumsy
and epileptically sturdy
Lacking circuit transistors
With 20 inch motors
The paint jobs diminished
Crackling white brim acrylics
And you can see the Coke logo
Embellished beneath the port windows
But none of this matters
Even if the ship scatters
For it's propelled with conviction
Against the Sadisms of Physics
It's an aluminum cadaver
Furbishing two cylinder pillars
With an apple juice cartridge
Bifurcated as the ship's bow
It's got wings to counterbalance
The aerodynamic escaping actions
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Island In A Sea Of Space
Night stroked the vision from the dream I became
While soothed to the pull from the door of the first page
The salt of ocean lingered in my nostrils that quivered
Confusion annulled existence rampant waves of haphazard rigor
Beneath opaque sapphire that crept on scarlet shores
Shimmering reminiscence particles between my velvet toes
As I kissed the look of horizon that rotated mechanically
On the soft romances of childhood kidnapped into Fantasy
I was spellbound in purgatory that was five miles round
Sheathed in Pacific imitation of Hawaii bold mounds
Forever encapsulated as the cynosure of pure anger
That was licensed to service by the Machiavellian Doctor
In an island in a sea of space
Old Satellites ascended in a cathedral of black mass
Whispering anxious luminescence in geodesic glass
Orion sat lackadaisically behind the nave of Ganymede
Vacillating the trajectory to escape his lovers band
As he encroached the heavens as I wondered as fractal
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Jerry Is A Man
Margaret bought him from a Phoenix laboratory
Outrage he'd get the axe, in the literal of sense
Cargrew thought her mad, and took it all in strides
Brownie was displeased and said it was her spit
But she said it was concern for all utensils right
Because Jerry is a man not a dog food machine
He was just a cattle Joe engineered for sanitation
Built for odd job routines, across the corporate nation
Labor made his paradise, benefits with no insurance
His occupation hazards were befitting for compensation
Which he got in payment of non brand name cigarettes
It was just the perfect timing for a mansion on Malibu
Got an autoclave Zamboni for a test tube baby daddy
Factory commissioned with a brand name on his sleeve
Though his intelligence quotation is below a baby elephant
He’s an expert with his fingers above anthropoid development
Built completely from scratch with proteins that can match
There’s nothing faulty in his conscience because he’s just a man
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Socialist Jesus
Revolution is dead,
buried next door to God
I Got his son's autograph,
at the souvenir shop
You can buy him on T-shirts,
and black duffle bags
Pin his sepulchral image,
on white dormitory walls
While rehearsing old prayers
Of old liberalisms brand
From a barging philosophy
In a consecrated ideology
Socialist Jesus
the second coming of '53
He road on a motorcycle
to the front page of history
Helping Amazonian Leopards
and Miners strike in Chile
His Pilate were black suits
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Screaming is Free
Screaming is free you should try it some time
I've been a consultant since the long age of five
Schooled in Diogenes I'm not so artful to be a cynic
But I'm stealthily committed as a cautious romantic
Labouring under the pretense of amateur wisdom
Byron's stealth's a placebo and I'm really a Novice
Who's been committed to the specter of being human
Miscategorised in a genus that would disturb poor Lepidus
Always caught in a kaleidoscope of my own imagination
Ballooning to horizons that escape from realism
Novels, Rock & Roll and Sci-Fi, are my obsessions
Finding solace in the refuge of a hermits born oasis
Cause I've Been kicked in the heart and pushed on the wall
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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