Entertain the thought.

Get use to the fact,
the world is a ball made to convince you.
Have another of those Ads across your art.
Another sellout until
each piece of your heart is bought.
Your authenticity from falsehoods wrought.
For that extra cash bonus,
be a part of the spam-luck-bin
that lengthens the holiday
and the slimey grin.
A frequent flyer poet
owned by your own
quest for points.
Worship the gimic-slogan men always a ploy.
Entertain the thought your verse is annoying.
And all the marketing tools(people) you anoint.

The sick poet.

Sick he distanced himself from reality.

He found his only love inside rare fantasies.

He dreamed and wondered what maybe,


his soft mind germinated these false seeds.

Before long he had a plantation of hungry

substance sucking infatuation monocots.

His eyes and ears told lies

reality was blocked off.

Obsession leached him of his charm.

He´d lost his value, his composure...

His golden stately calm.

farewell Eric hobsbawm

We could see the world fall sir.
The capitalist fist raised with muscle
-toned with greed
-veined with conservatism.
And your heroe marx will his legacy
shield us?
From the elite and the puppet master
market tweekers?
Hobsbawm will the world go
to war without warning?
Can socialism save us
from the insatiable apetite
of the machine it´s slaves and lords?
p*ss progress enough of a reward?
Farewell your sentiment...
has stained my heart forever.

Bravado

All show
I´ve seen your bandana,

your uncle´s shotgun.


You´ve squeezed into bad

like it was a tight dress boy.

And you´re up and down sad

with a spraycan!

Your crews addicted to

some new cheap tweeker´s potion.

Your rival´s bought a sight

and bribed the oldschool for the right

to explode you.

Yeah your new face tatoo

has got the neighbours rattled

the local diary too.

But they count bullets and sent

the order to peel off your ink!

Lay low at your friends,

forget that stuff you once pretended.

They do this nine to five to Ak47

By the end of the week better pray your alive

cause they don´t let fakers into heaven.

Making the devil´s clothes

An expectation filled and a grin felt.
A swagger in the step, the handshake
and the clandestine decrepid heart.
All the sheen of a hollywood face cream...
overused.
Your admiration and your tranformation into a fan
you automatically choose.
And with the others you go.
Signature astray.
Like the cinder of your man´s cigarretes
and his subterranean ashtray.
Fine threaded, well spun regret.

Cultured with a purpose.

Beauty belonged to them, young and reeling.
In their sofa spun garages,
Where music and weed smoke
redies the dreamgirls for the orgy.
Young dumbfounded pimple spun
teens like me learn jealousy.
From the smoky windows we can see our
highschool sweethearts losing their virginity.
Being aloof was the worst advice.
And pretending to be like them
an even worse vice.
Yes into our neighbourhoods
with the right cars, clothes and smiles.
Taking the only thing our day dreams contained.
That cliche babe cry on your shoulder and run a mile.
When it´s cool to be wild, your too tame.
These cultured older guys with a purpose
invented the code, the swindle, the game.

Between houses.

Dawns a door, the sun it´s lock.
Sleeping through light or dark
I try not to be late for the feast.
On the boats that have never touched water.
Sweet dreams, an internal holiday.
Outside the door animals scrape.
Dawn is on us like a spotlight.
Hunger owns us.
The clock hands shake.
We are witness to an abundance of
empty kitchens craving to bake.
Early light is no comfort.