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Four more doom sonnets and a Prop H8 poem May 26, 2009

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Uncategorized.


Ambivalence attends me:  my dosage
of bipolar meds that “take the edge off.”
The true unspoken question, this gross age—
Should we not begin to value the soft
heart and its delicate desires over
profiting from mechanics-based suff’ring,
byproduct of choice banker to lover
accepting his jealousy sick, hovering
like an impotent fat bee with nothing
better to do than suck my life to husk?
Indeed, if I’ve no choice but mere frothing
to substance, no kindness to the brusque
zak-zak-zak of harvest CDS’s
give me anything to cease the stresses!


Having kissed three hundred pound mark, returned
from that inglorious edge, an honesty
surprising has graced my once-glazed adjourned
eyes, and while feeling nature’s bliss, trusty
and fecund, I observe the fragile state
of both mental and material spheres.
Awareness came first slowly, then as fate
would have it, I came face to face with fears—
some mine, most not.  This one fake, that on real.
I discover even my own nightmares
hold no substance, but grasp on, and they feel
tigered, wolfed.  I face harsh eyes from inside snares
designed to hold my animal self fast.
Acceptance disperses them into the Vast.


Evil white powders thus departed, brought
me forth to understand the brittle state,
this loosely defined verbiage, so shot
through with irony, this inveterate
“American way of life” held so dear,
presidents declare negotiation
off the table.  Yet “American” near
and dear to hearts untold, corporations
own and leverage with each passing buy-sell.
The stasis desired, where things remain same
offers no “way” to speak of.  And as swell
as Cheap Chinese Tchotchkes are, they can claim
no “life” worth living that I can see.  No!
Collapse must surely come.  Then! Life will grow.


Cubicle farms’ demise won’t cause me pain.
Forego the pleasures of consumption?
Moi?  Of course!  In war where nature’s a bane
in favor of mere comfort, assumption
of human dominion so virulent
our species-wide nerve receptors’ empathy
impulses deaden and most truculent
amongst us run roughshod o’er earth (grim wrath
spewed forth at every basted turn)
count me ‘mongst those who long for civilized’s
destruction. Yea, can’t come quick enough. Burn
the fire out. Psychopaths, heart-excised
automata zomb’ly Bethlehem
bound, Yeatsian slouch foretold to bedlam.

Prop H8 Upheld?

Well the Cunts won this case, and vEmpire wraiths
dressed up as Mormon-gorgon goons pious
can dance their Ire-Deus tarantel’
called “Grimzelly-grimzel-grim.”  Not like last
time, when I felt incensed, this go around.
(Though I do grieve Reason’s death, as he lay
fresh-interred next to Hospitality
in the conceptual graveyard.) Just confirms
what I heart-knew twenty odd years ago:
Benjamin Franklin’s America died.

Was corpse long before my plain conception.
To some, the Divide and Conquer franchise
still carries trademarked sway in their frozen
viewpoints, permafrost having demolished
fourth chakra connections from childhoods harsh,
brutal, unforgiving.  Blood-suck-drenched fangs
brandished, these projected-evil undead
refuse integration’s light, blind themselves
to their own complete sacredness, opting
instead to point fingers and SPRAAAAAAWK curses

on those who they have deemed other. And so,
satans predictable satanize
we gays and lesbians and other queers.
They remain Mordored to transformation,
to know the Work and the Joy of Their Own Gods.
Fwah!  I suppose I should care.  Sexual
impotence in others hurts all of us.
But I see the signs–this last-ditch Hail Mary
for a team most discredited. And State
of California perhaps first to implode.

My alchemical focus to prepare
my vehicle for upheavals rising
and planting seeds for local resurrection,
creation of new extended family
tribal groups loosely affiliated,
blissful vision from best and brightest
future Frostwolf lays its delicious claim,
urging me to bypass these concerns stale 
with eye to the nourishing of spirit.

Instead, I choose to employ this God’s will
to call to me tribe to quench our souls’ fill.



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