Chris Gill

Poems III

She Lives in Chaos

She lives in chaos

Her piles don't make sense to me.

There IS a beauty she pursues...
antique kitsch and the end

of childhood pain.

Her piles don't make any sense to me

Because   they    never    seem    to   be   about


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The Underground

Steaming toward the underground...

I wish it were.

Where it is these days.

Ya gotta think it's somewhere
under the solar flares...

The surface covers everything now

Is there
no more molten core…?

We live on a world where

a celebrity's practiced cry
is heard above
the loon...
Is heard below
the principal of

Is there no more
Has history spit us out...
onto this flat space?

of cultural economics

with shills, pills and frills
replacing the thrill

of genuine discourse
of course
will always invite us
out     side
the carnival
the senses


STOP it doesn't matter that you do
but only if you are
the inside track
where winners win
and losers
are the punishment
to the game      as we know it.

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Trains Abrupt Uphaeaval

The clock stops at the neon fringe
a lone man stands inside his skin
Why must the system take control?
and choreograph the dance of life
Please... let the ocean roll

A crooked little symphony
delays the grand epiphany
when the end is fabricated
black mail Sunday reject dance
The truth is just backdated

Words betray defy defile
insist resist the background gist
and no one even notices
the turtle keeps it all within
The fix is in but once again

I can neither write nor speak
fuck you, I say...
and choke imagination
with the lard of conscious thought
all stuck inside electric box
the trains stay at the station

neckties bogus penis mask
a three piece suit, a tie, a gasp
a manufactured outcome lasts
beyond the reach of simple zen
the circus clown has died again

individuality surreal and faux reality
whatever that might mean today
juxtaposed in opposition
birds, words, curds and whey
we fuck inside the kitchen

© C Gill
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Tabloid culture
tabloid mind
tabloid heaven
tabloid grind
tabloid incest
tabloid friend
tabloid mother
tabloid zen

I'm an alligator boy...
I'm a 100 year old virgin
I'm a big headed baby
I'm Sadaam Hussein
back from the dead

here to terrorize your mind

© C Gill
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Wild Wind

Laughing in the rain...
looking under the hood
just a spark in the dark
of a wild wind

the truth is understood

You can outrun lightning...
on unpaved roads
you can spit sharp words
on the blade of a sword

in the wide, wide world

In crowded freeways...
in schools and malls
you can smell the smells
of a perfumed hell

in the wide world.

The tip of an iceberg...
or a bank's cold vault
a particular place
like a mole on a face

is no one's fault

All the rains of silence
inside a man
and the muted violence
of his one last stand
is a woman's measure
of a shark’s cool fin

in the wild wind
the wild, wild wind

Ahhh, the wild wind...
the wild, wild wind

In the land of mirrors…
where the grass is green
and the brown grass hides
way deep inside
of the glass machine

In the halls of justice…
where the judges dream
And the cracks on the walls
of the hallowed halls
cannot be seen…

in the wild wind
the wild, wild wind

© C Gill
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Whatever THAT Means

A spike in the face
for all your good deeds gone bad
A slap on the back
for all your cosmic misery
A fire in your kitchen
for all the maids gone mad

Whatever THAT means

A ball in the eye
for unsportsmanlike conduct
A glass of electric mud
for your late night sprees
A bee sting on your karma
for your unchartered seas

Whatever THAT means

Hallow be thy name
A halloween refrain
Stop!   The boy's insane

Whatever THAT means

© C Gill
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