Four months and 20 Days

Four months and Twenty days
By Paul A Fischer
2/2010


When I can feel the plunge,
 into that forbidden abyss
 my breath comes up fast
 my heart beats strong
I begin the uncontrolled lunge
 a fast twist

To finishing the exhilaration
  of secrets long forgotten
and just contemplation
 sinks me into jealous bliss

I know it’s no shit
 Because of the oceans
Brimming over feiry sunsets
 Mixing into salty potions
Tear drops roll against outstanding debts

I know it’s no shit because of the
 Dime sized pools, irises blessed
With transcendental light
 Exhaling upward as long hair
Twinkles like forgotten
 Stars burning bright
On my bare chest

But then your gone
 And I lose control
I’m ready to accept
 The madness we elect
To undergo to keep

What I have now,
 Your hot jealous lips
Beating with my every
 Breath
Keeping with the rythm of
 My heart
Choking me like a christmas
 Blunt
Blinding me with a dazzling
 Insanity
Alive

That’s how I know
 I can wait
That’s how I know
 Four months and
Twenty days,
 The love you give,
I’ll take.

Last Salute (2010)

Last Salute
Paul Fischer
Tribunal Tyrants tremble
Seeing silent Symbols
Towering thundering, like the last hour
Receive true static wrath.
From the Corporate Media
Jarred in between
A nation
And its path
Between a nation
And its power
The power of a working man
Under relentless mechanical barrage
Oppressed by Ingenious Mind Slaves
Locked pitifully in the GE garage, billed with burgeoning loans
Their fiscal ineptitude has them marching in the rallies for
The dope and the lies, the suntan
They’re supplying. Propagating.
Drowning slowly. Futile cries
Against the corporatization of resistance,
Protesters riding reverse in Halliburton buses.
Caught by the
Way-side
Of salutary Sanity
Under the boot of Conservative marchers
Waving signs factory made.
In Taiwan.
In China, pumping out toxic toys, poisoning our kids
In Afghanistan, drugs flowing like ferrofluid to put a nation
On the skids
As Soldiers march, distracted, through
Poppyfields, waving Obama’s bikini flag,
Covered in blood,
In satirical irony,
Worship of the Wizard of Oz,
Defiled like the tattered marriages.
Product of a cursed
nation of lost souls pressure-cooked.
Don’t know if what’s right’s true.
When, whether, maybe its time to bail.
On the bankrupt boat we’re all in,
Rigged to tie every tool in its place,
And let the rest drown
In the oil slick ocean waste.


Satan’s Cookie Chest (2010)

Satan’s Cookie Chest 
Paul Fischer


It shines bright red,

like the wet lips
gifted to Adam’s mortal sin.
The soft sweet bread
bleeds within while
enticing swollen hips
draw me slowly in.

Satan’s cookie chest
waits quietly in the corner
resting precariously
but peacefully
on a trembling brink
of  forgotten abyss 
in unspoken terror
ready to tumble.

It sparkles with lightning,
booms with the thunder
of silent aurora,
but then pandora 
would go the way of the leper.

Satan is too exquisite
for that plebeian path.

A plop in the distance.
You can feel small
spelunking in that box.

Dark green with the dread
of burning sips
from the lamp of Aladdin.
Goldman Sachs shines inside,
manipulates and controls.
In that chest are mortgages,
spun up and sold
like so many souls 
lost forever to the Lord.

College loans marriage proceed
like the plastic bride
bound to Satan’s denizens,
all squelching, depriving a nation
of vigilant citizens.
Mahogany lined by velvet
quietly invites trips
dangerous as Wayne’s last gram.
Pungent, a people disabled.
Poisoned adrenaline.

Like Kobain’s last hit of heroin
lost in the swell of the rest
sailing above like a lark,
under a wave
crashing on a grave beach,
submerged, lest
it slow down to a creek
trickling into the palm
of a sweaty card shark.

A rush in the instant
makes you feel so tall,
that theres no fear even of the rocks.

Satan likes to play
his favorite toy,
the one you chose,
mind still clouded, muddled,
waits behind the door.
That chest is locked, 
but not yet closed.

Aggressive like a beetle
that hurriedly scuttles,
snakes that unabashedly slink
under briefcases,
fill with lives bought,
steal the last thought
from those who don’t need
to think.

Subsisting on faces
of races piled in sync,
as the same hands beating,
repeating,
the thunder of an iron drum
eat the last crumb
from the trembling hands
of those who can’t afford
to lose.

Different paths
aren’t really there to choose. 

So sweet
in itself
but still lost
in the heavenly realms.
Satan’ in heat
and hes ready to fuck
stay the hell out of his box.

Poem in style of TS Eliot (2010): Paul Andreas Fischer in Mrs. Ledoux’s poetry class

flags worn thin and bloodied
Burn under the brother with red eyes and corn rows
like the bush of moses
psychosis inducing love grows
a finishing plan
from  above
To protest the innocence of a guilty man
White devils dance to the trumpets of fallen angels
Squelched by the poverty,
Stifled by the ignorance,
 of Lackadaisical, self-pity swelling 
Until, poison creeps
Down the face in unspeakable agony.
where Bleeding tears pool,
wolves circle 
like a snarling chain


Sexually exploiting affability,

Socially exploiting temper,
Pressurized by the black viability
Of darker violations,
That cut like a shard of redemption.
Until, exploding with vice,
Melting like the Fukushima crisis


flags worn thin and bloodied
Burn under the brother with red eyes and corn rows
like the bush of moses
psychosis inducing love grows
a finishing plan
from  above
To protest the innocence of a guilty man
White devils dance to the trumpets of fallen angels
Squelched by the poverty,
Stifled by the ignorance,
 of Lackadaisical, self-pity swelling 
Until, poison creeps
Down the face in unspeakable agony.
where Bleeding tears pool,
wolves circle 
like a snarling chain


The steady warm chants
and the perverted priestly touch
Of Satan echo in the halls of the lord,
He is lost, and has no return.
All the kings Doctors and all the kings nurses
Won’t save him: devil-crossed.


flags worn thin and bloodied
Burn under the brother with red eyes and corn rows
like the bush of moses
psychosis inducing love grows
a finishing plan
from  above
To protest the innocence of a guilty man
White devils dance to the trumpets of fallen angels
Squelched by the poverty,
Stifled by the ignorance,
 of Lackadaisical, self-pity swelling 
Until, poison creeps
Down the face in unspeakable agony.
where Bleeding tears pool,
wolves circle 
like a snarling chain


The best potion, a mixture of loneliness and
Screaming in pain as dancing fools
And singing devils
Tear his very soul from its essence
In the twinkling firelight
Under blazing stars
Leaving those who behold
Circled with evil,
Disgusted and hopelessly broken,
Parched to the point of suffocation in the desert sun.

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