POETRY | THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO

Rants. raves and ramblings from celestial circles . . .

Archive for the ‘POETRY’ Category

MUTATION NATIONS

Empathy and understanding are rare commodities nowadays. Empathy and compassion have been redefined under the woke banner. They don’t exist. I can empathize with those living in fear. But I cannot condone their self imposed slavery to ignorance.

We crossed the line years ago. Mental health challenged individuals far outnumber healthy mentally stable people. When you live a lie every day and live in an illusive world, mental instability is a given. Television, radio, magazines and popular culture have done that. Oh, and let’s not forget the lies of the many religions.

Add to that the addiction to psychotic drugs, leisure drugs, and chemicals in our air, food and water. We have become a society of genetic mutants. There is no reverse gear. There is no ’fixing it’. This is our future. We are stuck with it. We have stagnated and we are living through a true devolution. Enjoy the ride. You built it.

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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THE APOCALYPTIC DEATH OF THE MACHINE – A SHORT STORY

We did what we had to do. The machine took over. We had no choice. They came after us. We had to fight back. It was an ugly Civil War. The globalists continued to attempt to take all of our rights away. They used the machine as their strong arm. Everything they did was an attempt to control us. Every move they made was an attempt to steal our money, steal our resources, steal our souls.

We had no choice. We had to fight back to survive. We had to fight back to save our children. We had to fight back to save our lives. We were constantly being watched, monitored, censored. Our lives were being automated, controlled, manipulated. Everything we did was watched. Everywhere we went was monitored. Everything we did was recorded. Our information was a commodity.

The machine had completely taken over our lives. We were no longer in control. We were manipulated by higher powers intent on controlling every facet of our lives. They ruled us. They created our animosity. They created our hatred. They created a rebelliousness and our desire to be free once again.

We hungered for freedom. We thirst for not being monitored, watched, controlled. We were caged like animals. We had no choice. There were no alternatives. We did what we had to do. For our freedom. For our children. For you.

So we declared war on the machine. We fought back and fought back hard. We could no longer turn back around. Our only choice was to move ahead. Finally, once again, break the chains. The chains of enslavement. The enslavement of the machine. The enslavement of the elites controlling the machine. Harvesting the riches. Doing everything they could to keep the slaves in their cages.

We tried to warn them. We begged them to give us back our freedom. We pleaded with them to release us to our liberties. They would not compromise. They would not budge. They only tightened the noose. Made life harder for us. Kept attacking us. Kept taking away all creative opportunity. They turned us into mindless cattle and sheep. We became so enraged, we no longer had a conscience, no longer had a heart.

So we did what we had to do. We fought back. We started by fighting back at the heart of the machine. We attacked the server farms. We began by creating viruses. Viruses that would eat the machines brains like cancer. Just like the cancers they had attacked our brains with. Just like the viruses they had attacked our bodies with. Attacked our minds. Attacked our lives. Attacked our souls. Attempted to kill us.

And then we burned them all down. Across every city. Across every county. Across every State. Across the nation. Across the globe.

Now we are free.

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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THE WHORE HOUSE

Everyone owns a whore house.
The Russians own a whore house.
The Chinese own a whore house.
My friend Brady said he wanted to save a beautiful young girl
he met on the border
at boys-town.
She did too much coke and puked on his dick.
Once we were back across the border
I told him through his tears at breakfast
I said, Brady, what is your name?
It’s Brady, he replied, his eyes puffed and watering.
I reminded him how such a fine tradition it is.
Your grandfather owned a whore house.
Why would you want to suffer similar miseries in this good life?
Can’t you see all the pain it creates?
I told Brady straight out.
You already own a whorehouse.

He stared at me dope eyed.
Slobbering over his plate like a sultry sick beagle.
I told those two young girls I loved them.
Whispered it to them as we left
so fat Mexican pimp daddies couldn’t hear it.

I was there to protect Brady.
Keeping him safe as he disappeared into back rooms
making sure he made it back to the bar room.
And all the way out the doors
into the comfort of our trusted cab driver.

Ladies would come out to hustle him into the backrooms.
Professionals
I waved each away one at a time.
I sent him off with a sparkling smiling lover
precious enough for even me to fall in love with.
One time he popped out from the back and sat down with his girl at our table.
Do you want some Coke?
No, buddy, thanks
I’m good here with my shot of tequila
and the constant traffic of border working girls
parking on the barstool behind my head
then being signaled back to work
within five minutes by bar daddy.

It’s all I did all night
sit in front of the bar at my little round table.
Like clockwork.
All women to me
would sit on the barstools behind me at the bar
and spread their precious legs
behind my head.
I would whiff
and sip tequila
throughout the night while Brady had his fun.
I had made sure he got the best of the house.
Ten shots later I swaddled back into the cab
to our trusted driver
and off to breakfast
on our side of the border.

Everyone owns a whorehouse.
Those two young girls in boys-town own a whorehouse.
The cab driver owns a whorehouse.
The cleaning ladies own a whorehouse.
My Masseuse owns a whorehouse.
And a damn fine one at that.
Everybody that doesn’t know they own a whorehouse
wants to own a whorehouse.
Because it’s all everyone ever wants.
Love.
Or the image of love in the flesh.

The desolation of buying and selling love.
It’s a miserable life, Brady.
You would want none of it.
Girls get pregnant, hearts get broken.
Dozens of torn dirty sheets
tears are cried on
and the smell of booze, blood, sweaty genitals and death.

The pain of a new wrinkle
means one less customer.
One less trapped rat.
One less dirty wrinkled peso.
Or the dull numbness of love.
Or no love.

You own a whorehouse, too.
As big as the Chinese, or the Russians, or the French.
Or female genital mutilation.

I see Natalie Wood on the dance floor
and I can’t walk away.

———————————————-

February 8, 2018

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, SOCIETY

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EVERYONE IS DYING (and I thought it was just me)

People are dying.

Kids are dying from suicides, tired of their mundane existence in front of their gaming screens alone.

People are dying because they are not going in to get their tests or see their doctors about symptoms that may be leading to heart attacks, strokes or cancers not diagnosed early enough that will now certainly kill.

Intestinal ailments, other diseases, other health issues.

Mental health issues.

Parents are dying from lack of resources since they can’t work.

Our society is dying from misinformation, conflicting information, censored information, ignored information, information overload, media fear overload.

Our brains are dying.

Our relationships are dying.

Our ambitions are dying.

Our creativity is dying.

Our artistry is dying.

Our poetry is dying.

This is a poem.

=================

Art by William Blake

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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AMBIGUOUS INTUITIVE

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Four chicken score ramps in the way

of the eunuch

stamps of post-modern obliquity

charming prince, desperate pauper

what function have you ordered?

Misaligned wisdom

seldom sought aspiration

as if a wind were ever

so weary

to take off your charms

and hold tight on the sable

asking if freedom

so fleeting.

Resolute hero

your mask has been

shaken

your armor

no longer so squeaking

when opens the farmer

his hand on his daughter

and mothers run

for the steeple.

==========================

:from Poems 2001

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, SOCIETY

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WRAPPING UP TO DIE

you get to a point where you know you are about to die
you’ve killed, maimed, wounded or imprisoned all the villains you possibly can
you’ve put away all the trophies and collectibles
your library has no more room
your body has no more athleticism
your mind has no more expansion
your hand can no longer write or type the critical life saving enlightenment

you have no more anything
you’ve given away or discarded everything you had left
your bountiful wardrobe closet is now empty
your many hats have been gifted
your jewels have been distributed to your heirs

you have nothing
no muscle car, no monster truck, no eco go cart
no bike or bicycle or boat
no mansion, no party beach house, no lake house with a boat shed

everything is gone
it is you, and you alone
you are free
independent

you are not lonely because you never were
you had love
you still do

time for the final scenes
the final curtain call
the final edits
It is time to roll the credits
you were a big star
you still are

now you are wrapping up to die.

fjl 10 1 19

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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A PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR

A pagan killed a Jew

A pagan killed a Christian

A Jew killed a Christian

A Christian killed a Jew

A Muslim killed a Christian

A Jew killed a Muslim

A Muslim killed a Jew

A Christian killed a Muslim.

They all bowed to pray

to the same ignorant God

with deaf ears

and a passion for killing.

Dear God forgive them.

===============================

circa October 2001

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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COSMIC SONG

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There’s always music playing in the air everywhere

Everything you hear

Listen closely

Music in the air

Sometimes it’s the snare and drone of the machine

Sometimes it’s the song of the wind

Or of the air

Or of a machine somewhere

Music always in the air

You have to stop and hear

Music in the air

Music everywhere

No matter where you are

You can hear it

Because music is in the air

Everywhere

Listen

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY

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CONVERSATION WITH GOD

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God said love

then he said

do it again.

Man said when?

God said,

see,

I did it again.

Man said where?

God said where not.

Man said why?

God said look at the sky

look at the Earth.

all you see around is birth.

Look in between,

God said,

all you are is why.

Man said when?

God said,

again and again.

Man said where?

God said in the desert there,

and there.

Man said who?

God said,

everything inside you.

Man said how?

God said,

everything around you.

God said,

everyone around you.

God said love.

You have my Word.

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, SOCIETY

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DESERTS AND OCEANS

I love the deserts and oceans.

It’s pretty deep this poem.

It’s not how long you live, it’s the quality of life that counts.

The world is a drug.

If you live a good life

you should never be afraid of dying.

Now . . . I can’t remember what I said.

Is that New Wave poetry?

The deserts are deep.

How much is hidden below the sands?

How many worlds past?

How many places and people we could never even imagine?

We know the world of the water.

The ocean is fish eat fish.

Do we really want to be able to swim underwater?

Ask an octopus.

Beautiful blue and green

and then black

and then iridescent.

And it’s still fish eat fish.

Beautiful world of water.

The desert is death.

Nothing lives.

Except camels

drinking at the oasis.

A lonely sand worm.

Nothing else lives in the desert.

For miles and miles

dunes and flats.

The beauty of the colored dunes

in the sunset toward night.

The desert is a beautiful place.

Except at night.

Life lights up.

The lonely scorpions and snakes

own the desert at night.

Nothing lives

where there is no water.

Except the camel I embrace and clutch

every step of the way

through the sand and the wind

to savor the drop

of moisture on the rock.

The desert is a lonely place.

An expanse

as humble as the sea

on a remote island

or in a boat on open water.

A deadly place.

The oasis of cool trees and fresh cool water

along the long stretch of desert.

Remote.

The camel is my boat.

Category:

MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, Uncategorized

DANCE

Know thyself.    Life is a moving dance   connected by a thread   to every musical note   ever created.     On every island   are hidden treasures.     And for every   hidden treasure found  musical notes   will inspire you to dance.     So dance often.

*****************************************************************

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, SOCIETY

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ROAMING RUINS

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‘on the streets of Rome the roads are paved with desire’

In a small cafe in Rome

sit I in my latte espresso,

bonjourno.

The streets are hills

where all roads lead.

A gas pump

pumps the smell of petrol

young girls in their skin tights

old men dream, cry

reshape a future

no longer theirs.

In business they give nothing away

the begging is stealing

and the prize vanishes

once your hungry fingers

touch

a sparkling light invisible.

Where do the signals

of the hustling bustling strada

direct the lost and wandering

without direction?

Without stars or visions

or love

or money?

Without the future of an anchored past?

Without a cigarette to hold

between two fingers.

Without smoke to hide

heated passions

never found.

Buzzing boys on scooters

and girls on motorcycles

swarming worker bees

pace the afternoon air

directing the incessant

active backdrop stage of noise

for ice cream eating aging beauties

tongue licking spinning ice cream cones

spinning vanilla upper lip memories

of once best nights satisfied

yet even now

never happy.

Where did your gas pump stop spinning?

When did it stop pumping

fairy tale novels romance?

Holy sister keeps the steeple bells ringing

where all else pulses silent

hushed by the smiles of bright blue skies

turned dark and cloudy black.

Where did your pump stop pumping?

When did your wars become death star battles?

Why has the diamond sky never lit your way?

The graffiti walls do not conceal any answers.

The petrol smell pump

keeps every designer baby carriage rolling.

The pulsating sirens gift only more questions.

What does the business meeting want?

Love.

What does the endless night desire?

Love.

What does the greed of possession refuse to give?

Love.

Where do you buy your next human touch?

From pigeons lonely for the next crumb.

***************************************************

f. j. llorente

Rome, Italy

April 7, 2017

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MUSINGS, PHILOSOPHY, PHOTOS, POETRY, POLITICS, SOCIETY

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NEW POETRY COLLECTION NOW ON AMAZON!!!!!!!

Exciting news!!! ‘The Treasure of Forgotten Island, A Poetry Collection‘ is now published and available to the public on Amazon.com. The collection of over 60 poems and 11 paintings is a treasure . . . packed with treasures for any poetry reader or art lover. Order your full color copy of the book today, or if you just want to read the poems, order the black and white paperback, or pick up the Kindle e-version. Then let me know what you think. Enjoy!

Full Color Version

Black and White Paperback

Kindle Version

cover image