Riot
From the flickering screen to the eye of my eye of the world
I see the dance of old children around a ring of fire
They swarm downtown as ambassadors of Reichstag ghost
Piling debris of the streets into aluminum pyres
Where black smokes in vigor in the war of Childs play
Leading plagues of amber flames that erase all false remorse
Rehearse well for reason: say it's for losing the game
Guilt washed from their faces as they entertain a savage choir
Riot - ignites Pandora's Box of treats
Her final secret unwrapped the cellophane teats
Riot - assemble the horseman's chariot
Let them carpool in masse as they scourge Vancouver's streets
Two Escalades asphyxiate in pool charred embers
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Subject - 731
Flickering bulbs, pass a narrowing hall
Where the conscience ape still glimmers
His breath percolates, as he's held to the bed
Straps tugging away at his femur
Fear escalates, as the wheals nimbly turn
Boldly, towards the screaming tomb
For the ape is aware: that no one returns
Exactly intact from that room
Closer and closer, the ape slowly goes
Down to the jaws of the abyss
Where brothers now lay, mementoes for worms
Indiscriminately erased
Squirming with effort, he puts up a struggle
While white coats plant him a needle
Weight grows unsteady, the light becomes vague
Chemically, enabled feeble
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Bring Out Your Dead
It's the call to arms for the educated tigers
The miscreant saints in the high-rise Babylon's
Crusading for pleasure in cobblestone discotheque
Down their Rhoads and Damascus of Friday light sapphire
Credo alone - swept into the ravished torrents of desire
Drowned in ravenous feelings for junky blue dealings
For this is the call of summers bee songs
saying bring out your dead bring out your dead
These perilous streets were never made for the old
But the lost boys and girls caught in the dreams of fools
Stealing the stars to mince their Sequin and Fedoras
Through their I phone icon of ephemeral idolatry
Show the office disciples fueled in paparazzi bibles
Wanting fame in the name of the virtue of shame
Bleeding hearts always empty to the pastimes of avarice
Which you hear in the strobes screaming bring out your dead
Bring out your dead
And through your Rimbaud's eye I see De Sades soul
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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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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