From The Poetry Corner

Returning Rhymerinos,

This song is not the sort of thing worth putting in our upcoming book of poems but it came out in a burst and so it gets typed anyway.
We hear a lot about bullies in the media today. Thirty years ago it was not so. Fifty years ago, when the world seemed pure because we could not see it, we did not think of bullies. We did not hear reports of third grade students being arrested for threatening classmates.
Fifty years ago we learned to arm ourselves against such people and even our toys suggested killing. Here are a couple of my toys from the 1960s… Once we reached age nine or ten, we replaced these with real knives and rifles.

That really has nothing to do with this song but Michael Hendrick just wanted to show off his toys, as males are prone to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Neighborhood Bully (not to be confused with the Bob Dylan composition, of course)

She’s the neighborhood bully (3X)
I found out today.
She pushes from the left
She pushes from the right
I wish she would fuck off
So I could sleep tonight
Oh, the neighborhood Bully
Always got to have her way.

She don’t know which is East,
Don’t know where is South.
One thing she knows for certain
– how to run her fat old mouth
She the neighborhood bully (3X)
Wearing her welcome out today.

She shaves her head a-baldy
So she has no color hair.
She gets a tan in floodlights
Then bitches about the glare.
She the neighborhood bully (3X)
I just stop and stare.

She always has an alias,
Says she is a cop.
She comes on so damn shrill
She can force your balls to drop.
She the neighborhood bully (3X)
Ball-dropping waste of time.

(Drink 4X cans of Guinness and repeat first verse 3X)

In the Poetry Corner With the Metal Machines

     Brilliant Readers,

     We were happily surprised that our last blog from the Beat CookieJar went over so well! We had been trying to think of new subjects, like K2, which would cause a stir but were happy to see that a bit of poetry gets more readers than a rant about our less-than-stellar form of government. The last poem got more views than anything we posted since the one about Obama getting the shotgun blast to the face.

     You may wonder what iambic pentameter is doing in the Beat jar but Allen Ginsberg told me I had a gift for the rhyme and that a lot of my poems would make very good song lyrics. It is on record in the Ginsberg Archives, if you care to see. Ginsberg, himself, had taken an interest in songwriting and rhyming meters at the time, which was during the heady ‘Punk’ days of the mid-1970s.

     All of my poems are open to interpretation since I will never explain them, so take it as you will and this one is titled, Metal Machines.

                                

                                    The metal machines move, mashing,

                                    gleaming, reaming blades all gnashing

                                     – a million daggers slashing,

                                     slicing, tearing, digging, thrashing –

                                     and chains that strike home smashing.

                                      like a billion forearms bashing;

                                      the victim stands alone.

                                      The victim’s skin flies, splashing,

                                       his life before him, passing –

                                       – before his eyes all flashing –

                                       like a flaming film impassioned,

                                       while the machine keeps fiercely crashing

                                       through the skull and finally smashing

                                       dead, bruised skin and splintered bone.

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~