Don't hit her
but I'm bigger?
Don't hit him
He's a fruit
The youth are not to blame
for the poisonous flame
of hatred
TV shows neither
Do not pepper the ether
With kicks to the head
Sony and nintendo?
They do not buy guns
Do not instruct fun
To be had with shrapnel
Who's responsible?
As one dead once said

Ever Spinning Shit

"When you hear the four minute's too fucking late"
Dead fingers talk, close to the buttons
When the popular stakes are won by hate
I hope the good ole boys like them onions

My friends are not dumb
They must have left them behind
The dumb ones
The do anything for fun ones
The voters
Like floaters in the latrine
Waiting for the flush
To make everything clean
And middle class and white
And bright, oh yes and NICE
Fooled once was not shame enough
And to those living rough
Look at the golden elevators
Shooting upwards to pie in the sky
"Raus Raus"
And the world is scared of clowns
Fuck is bleeped
While the coma like sleep
Of the masses envelops
Nobody should shit on you
But shitting on yourselves?
Pissing in the wind
"Jesus saves!"
"Not on my fucking pension he wouldn't"
So return to sleep friends and enemies alike
Wake up and smell the sewer
Someone made the coffee
With elitists piss
The establishment destroys itself?
It shed a skin
To show a new order within
Establishing the established rules
That stabilise establishments
This christmas will be white!
The Klans wank with delight
The blood clots
Around warm hearts
As the beating heart of diversity
Slowly, crawls to a halt.
"Very valid George, very valid"
It's enough.
No very needed
The cake needs a cherry
Just not one made of shit.

"At the Brink of Summer" by Ivy C. Machida

Standing pensively
At the brink of summer
Awaiting the warmth
And welcoming glow
Of the fiery sun
To drape me
In its flaming glory
Shielding me with its masterful hug

A tight embrace
Of heat and fire
A tingling sweep of energy
A forceful hold -
A gripping flash of memory
Piercing the depths within
Drowning me in its intrusive reach.

I melt in the comfort
Of its all-encompassing grasp
Stoking the hidden furnace
Long dormant and cold
With the passing tides
And drifts of yesteryear -

Oh, summer me back to your heat again.