On The Back Of The Devil

On The Back Of The Devil
by That Bastard

Through the meatgrinder on the back of the devil
through darkness the demons I slay!

In the meatgrinder on the back of the devil
Come hell, high water or what may!

I am the warrior, the slayer of might
The power of metal is mine!

Upon the angel's neck my blade befell
Oh holy metal divine!

The sword of God blazing in my hand
The olive branch twisted and burned

The blackened earth, the weeping angel
The world forever twists and turn

I am the angelic warrior of legend
Testing Satan's divine steel!

Wielding the power, the fury, the might
The demon king I shall wield

SCREAMING OUT AS I CHARGE THE FRAY
(SING IT WITH MEH!)

Through the meatgrinder, through the highways of Hell
On the back of the Devil I ride!

Through the meatgrinder, through the passage of Hell
This power cosmic is mine~!
Heaven and hell shall align~!!

Through the meatgrinder, through the highways of Hell
On the back of the Devil I ride!

Through the meatgrinder, through the passage of Hell
Overrun this dimensional divide
Stand besid the cosmic tide

To behold the final siiiiign
Oh un/holy metal divine!

Pondering

A deafening roar, the crash of the spray
The blood in my head, it pulses and thunders

Thunders like a drum
Like the one in me

I can only live today, to work for my bread
The breath I take, it may be my last

Lasting in me
I scream for more

Post existential, possibly transcendant
What shall become of me, within my life

Selfish desires
One just like me

I walk a shadow, my footsteps light
My deeds go punished, I know not why

Others who fall
Used to it as they are

I try to comprehend
The lives others live
I try to understand
But the silence is so loud

In my head
In my head
Oh this confusion
Simply trying to be

In my head
In my

But the silence is loud

Nothing Is Sacred, All Is Forsaken

Yeah, this is one of those lyrical ones I warned you guys about.

Suffice it to say, it's fairly blunt with the message, and if you have read my Anubis Unit and other songs you can already second-guess what those messages are.

Do I mind?  Hell no.  Sometimes what you NEED is a tac hammer to the skull, get yer bell rung good and proper.  Maybe THEN you'll get pissed off enough to be proactive.

Take the fight to them, don't just bare throat and die.  Don't let them, the Powers That Be, the top-level executives who profit off of twisting laws and paying off political buddies, win by simply doing nothing.

You're just one person.  Taken individually, so are they.

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Nothing Is Sacred, All Is Forsaken

Your leaders have lied to you
Your faiths have all lied to you
Your friends all betray you
The television never told the truth

The government has lied to you
The companies have all lied to you
The beautiful all lie to you
The television never beheld the truth

The future stained, it lies to you
The dream has died, they lie to you
This dynasty under heaven
A house of cards
Waiting to fall

Future's wealth, it lies to you
The dream of the past, they lied to you
This dynasty under heaven
A burning husk
Wither and fall

The media newslets lie to you
Controlled streams of info, they lie to you
Carefully manufactured
The television now sells the truth

The charities you support have lied to you
The future is bleak, it's coming true
The dream has died, they all have lied
"Honest work, and honest pay"

The future stained, it lies to you
The dream has died, they lie to you
This dynasty under heaven
A house of cards
Waiting to fall

Future's wealth, it lies to you
The dream of the past, they lied to you
This dynasty under heaven
A burning husk
Wither and fall
The brass ring
This carrot on a stick
Destined to fall

The Glass Ceiling

So when I'm not working on Taboo 2 or workin' my ass off, I've been workin' these up in my state of delirium.  Just a whoooole lot of memories has surfaced while workin', and y'know what?


I ain't the only one who's been dealt an unfair hand in the land of blue-collar labor.


So I guess you can say I launched into more than a few of these pissed-off poems to get out, and my muse apparently approved of it.


So here's the first of 'em...hope ya like 'em all.


A couple of 'em are actually lyrical, spoken-word poetry, but you'll still get the point... 

To give you guys warning ahead of time, I've apparently used the references of bikes, walking, buses, and cars in two of 'em.  I'm just sayin'.

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The Glass Ceiling

What do you know of work?

Can you ever empathize with us on the ground level?
You up there, you executive types, you office types.
You look down at us during your lunch break, your coffee clutched within your manicured hands.

What do you know of work?

We walk.  We ride the bus.  We ride bicycles, sometimes used, most of them cheap, all of them breaking down.
You ride in nice cars.  Mostly new, some gently used, all of them working.

I can type fast, and without error.  I can file and answer the phone better than any of you.
So what's the difference?  What is that defining line between you and me?
Is it truly nepotism?  Is it that I don't know the right people, or have the right degree.

You make more than us, but we work harder.  We're here for twelve hours, you're here for six with a paid hour lunch.
Our half-hour lunches are unpaid, taken out of our hourly wage.

I am more qualified than any of you up there, and there are others who are as well, yet you look down on me.

On us.

I'd like to think there's some obvious moment, an obvious truth.
Do you truly think you're better than me?  Some of yours is down here too, working,
slaving
in the pit, here with me.

I have never risen to your level, yet there are so many of yours who have fallen to mine.

This isn't success.  This isn't what I want.
I have the certifications.  I have the qualifications.
But because of work history or looks, here is where I remain.

Watching as you watch us
Watching as you condescend to us
Watching as you enjoy us slaving away
And enjoying as I watch each and every last one of you fall.

Untitled 4

Don't ask, 'cuz I won't tell. <3
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I can hear it still, the fine music
The song of the day, as it plays
A song carved of sweet memory
And of bitterest cacao, this day
Sweetest balsamic, sweet as sin
And of the tea we drank that day
The tea she saw through, purest amber

I can hear it still, the sweet music
The cool, cold wind, yet never bitter
Only bittersweet, the sea air blowing
Blowing through our hair, her smile
Blowing through us, through our souls
And everything I wanted to tell her
Was right there, right there, glinting

I can hear it still, unforgettable
The music of her laughter that rang true
Of today, of today, always
And the taste of her lips, her flesh
The warmth of her close to me, in my arms
And of the sea, never cooling our ardor
But banked, always and ever smoldering

Ode to your local diner

For me it'd be Shari's on Meridian Street. They're like a slightly comparably-priced version of Denny's, but with way better pie. Reckon they're comparable to Marie Calender's then, y'know?

Some people complain about the service, but I've never had any complaints, plus they're another 24/7 place to grub and hang out. And hey, dat pie!

Plenty of other good stuff there too, and the staff can be downright interesting if you get to know 'em.

It's all about what YOUR diner is like, y'know?

You know the name of the chef.

You know the names of the waitstaff.

You know this place by heart.

Your table is always ready for you, or in the very least a table like it.

There's a table for you and your people, when you need to gather about such a table and break fast or enjoy an after-work dinner in each other's company.

You know each and every special, but you have your own.

A plate just for you.

The pie is perfect, and the coffee too.

You know this place.

It knows you, your name carved into a table or a wall somewhere.

This is your diner.

This is YOUR diner.

It's ready for you at any point in time, at any hour, and will always accept you.

And that's a good damned thing.

Ode to Denny's

Highly suggestible that you read Ode to IHOP first. So naturally I ensure this one is first on the page lol. Intentionally bad prose, not even written in a true ode style or with any real rhyming scheme, and I don't care.

Sometimes ya gotta write some bad shit about sub-par quality restaurants, I reckon.

Oh, Denny's.

Oh, Denny's.

Ohhhhhhhhh, Denny's.

At one a.m., you're the warrior, standing guard against the onslaught of our enemies. The lone soldier on a pale horse, battling against the invading horde of boredom and hunger.

At two a.m., you're the king, dictating to the people what is good and what law is. You lay down the rules with endless pancakes and endless coffee of questionable taste, and betimes the odd delightful specialty plate.

At three a.m., you're a God. My friends and I gather at your temples and give charity, preaching your cause even as we devour you. Your biscuits and gravy are fucking awesome, and those pancakes....the bounty of your pancakes and ever-flowing coffee never cease.

Lord of the night and savior of the day - when waiting for a bus, you're the best thing in the world. Coffee and pancakes, a book in hand, the morning beautiful and the people interesting.

Yearly you open your doors and give back to those who have given you so much - a free meal to all who wish it. Your charity is as great as your syrup is good, your eggs and hashbrowns perfect, your bacon crisp.

Oh, Denny's.

Oh, Denny's.

May you never fall!

Ode to my local IHOP (that closed down)

Y'know, sometimes I intentionally write bad prose on purpose. Hell these aren't even structured properly for an Ode, but meh - whatever. I like 'em, think they're funny, and worthy enough to be shared.

I might be wrong, but I think I'm right on this 'un. Lemme know what ya think, as always, at the usual spots.

Once, I couldn't walk. Once, I was immobilized.

Once, my soul was in constant pain and broken to bits, my pride gone.

But you.

YOU!

During the time of intense pain, through the humiliation of physical training, you were there for me.

With peppery breakfast sausages and a new delectable plate each month, with your delicious coffee (oh god, how I remember you so well!) and your excellent service.

We would sit there for hours afterward, drinking coffee and happily digesting, playing cards and enjoying the view from the tables we chose, the outside a wonderful thing.

We would bring our friends and make a happy ruckus, buying plate after plate of tasty goodies.

I and my darling would talk of you to others, and tell random strangers on the street of your fields of splendor, your palate-pleasing taste sensations.

Oh god, it's because of you I can't have syrup unless it's hot.

Oh god, it's because of you I put syrup and honey in my coffee.

But you.

YOU!

You had to leave us, didn't you? You had to shut down.

Is it the economy? Was it corruption? Could it have been an act of God?

It doesn't matter. You were there for me during a time when I needed you.

You were perfect, you were necessary, you healed me.

You delighted us, you delighted me.

And sometimes, that's enough. You had a good run, and I will always remember you with kindness.

With fondness.

Even as my darling has left me, even as my body regrows in strength and pride, even as I glue back the pieces of my soul I will always have a special place for you in my heart.

Where your breakfast sausages will always sizzle with peppery goodness, your bacon with a clean and delectable taste, and your hot syrup always perfectly poured over some new creation.

Perfection forever.

For the record, hot syrup really did blow my fucking mind. I haven't been to either Denny's or an IHOP restaurant since...god, last year. Nine or ten months ago, methinks. Suffice it to say I order it that way no matter where I go, and the IHOP I'm speakin' of closed down nigh on a year and a half ago. Sigh. The memories. The hot syrup.

An untitled poem

Because as I draw closer to mid-life, I realize I'm probably going to write crappy midlife poetry anyway. So I might as well do it at my pace, and at my will rather than because apparently all middle-agers simply do at the behest of time and social status.

Bah. Screw it. Here's an untitled poem for ya.

Untitled

Life is a dream and I'm awake
I've heard all the crap, it's all I can take
I'm not thin-skinned but I'm so hard-headed

See others deserve all that they make
though your time and your life is what they take
You toe the line and feel some contentment

So will you refuse just what they say
Find your own style and live your own way
Certainly these things aren't unrelated?

If life is a dream why am I awake?
I've taken the abuse and seen what I can make
I've seen all the clues but I'm still jaded

I'm still jaded.

Stone Bastard 1-7

I don't know, don't ask me. Just somethin' I wrote recently. Seems like my life has been full of ups and downs as of late, and as always there's the potential for so much to gain...but also the potential for even further disasters.

Nothing to do but to go forward with it. Yeap.

Instead of doling all seven pieces of this out, I figured meh, fuck it - just give it to you guys in one big gulp.

Swallow it all down, dear. There's still dessert, y'know?

Stone Bastard

#1

I died last night in my sleep.

I'm moving, I can feel my eyelids blink, my eyes move, my fingers twist.

But my back aches, and I can't hear my heart anymore.  It's quite strange, realizing how much our heart fills our ears, a background song that barely anyone recognizes.

My good ol' buddy ain't moving anymore, and I'm so cold.

So cold.


#2

I was dead as I walked about.

I see people going about their daily business, and appear to do so as well.

But I hurt, I hurt so much it burns.  My heart is dead, a stone rock within me, though I want neither food nor water nor rest.  The noise of the city fills me, but I still ache.

I'm just not me anymore, not really.  Don't know why, nor if I deserve this.

Hurts bad.


#3

I am dead, laying on my bed.

I'm still pretending to be alive, even now in the quiet of a restless night.

My neighbors are interesting, and the city never truly sleeps.  Like me it's a dead thing, but unlike me it's so noisy.  I can hear quite plainly the arguments and grumbling, the sounds of living, loving, hating. 

Hearing better.


#4

I have died, but I'm still here, ambulatory.

In a park, watching people as they go about their lives, unnoticed.

I miss this, miss being one of them.  My heart has stopped, its' thunderous noise replaced with the noise of others.  I don't like this, but I can get used to it.  Guess anyone can get used to anything.

Sitting still.


#5

How dead must I be, if I'm still here, still me?

A new, unsettling thought has entered my supposedly rotting brain.

My heart is dead, but I'm alive.  My body is dead, but I'm alive.  But I'm not different than others, not at all.  Perhaps I'm simply more aware of it now that I can't hear my own heart?  I have to figure this out more.

A frenzy.


#6

Now that I'm dead, I can see it visibly.

My options without a heartbeat, without a shadow.  So limited, yet so open to definition.

I'm dead, this is true.  I'm dead now, through and through.  Yet within the scheme of things, I have discovered a wondrous thing: worlds without end, choices to make and follow through with.

Time moves.


#7

Dead and buried, good and gone.

All is well 'twixt right and wrong.  If I'm there and I'm here, then from whence have I come?  Was I always like this?  Was I always only going through the motions?  Dead all the time?

Without reason and with plentiful joy do I now live, dead as I am.  To redefine my life as I am, to live as I wish, even as dead as I am.

My heart skipped a beat, that's all it did.  It's still dead, stone cold dead now.

But it plays, it PLAYS!  Such wonderful music as I've ever heard.

I heard it, I hear it.  The noise of the city, the noise in me.

Joyful, painful, and full of rage.  Loving, hating, fighting, needing.

And with each line do I make new rules, as I wish, wonton and willy-nilly.  Thither and hither, heckle and jeckle.

A world of my own.

This world of my wishes.

Do I need anything better than this, finer than this?  My palate is ablaze, my senses overloaded.

My heart is dead, my brain is aflame.

My tale does not end, even as I have already ended.  Perhaps yes, perhaps no.

But with each new line, I will continue.  With each line I will learn more, hear more, be more.  With or without my heart.

A Boot Shaped Poem Again

It's always the same thing, isn't it?
The dull grey that occurs afterwards
The hangover from emotional letdown
Always the same thing, time and again

Like a boot pressing down on your trachea
It'll fill you with wonder and light, only to hurt
To break, to rip and tear your very soul out, yet
We are constantly attempting to feel it again, unable
To differentiate between the true feeling or a facsimile
But rather, it's something that we seek, all of us, whether
Or not it's something that we actually need. In fact, some
of us are better off without it. So is it our biological endeavors
That pushes us to consistently try and try again? Are those who
Burn out and fail, never to try again, better off than we hopeless ones?
We romantics, sensitives, blind to the pain that even now haunts our weary
Hearts ?                                                Then let it be, and let it hurt, and simply
Do    as                                                  we can to let it hurt, to revel in that pain
and see                                                      to the pain never lessens or dulls, but
rather,                                                           that it hurts simply to remind us that
we are                                                           alive, a thing that we take for granted.

Waking Up Before The Alarm

Well, here's the one song I didn't think I'd post this soon. I kinda-sorta wrote this for "her," my previous Partner-In-Crime. Of course with our recent...ahem...parting of ways, I haven't even been able to look at this.

The good news? I can look at it again without bursting into tears, glaring at nothing for an hour or so, or feeling like I've been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.

The bad news? I don't know what I want to do with this. Is it a song? Vocalized poetry? Just a poem?

Bah, here it is.

The cheesiness factor is high. You have been warned.

4 a.m. without you
Feels like destiny
Disregarding memories
How you came to me and

I'm watching you from
Within my mind's eye
Feel so lost without you
Cliched, wishing for death

An end to the suffering
An end to the loss of you
Living alone once again
Cold and shivering

So here I stand alone
Lost adrift in time
Without a reason to go on
With only a lonely rhyme

I could make you hurt
I could make you cry
I could make you moan
I could make you mine

I could make you see
I could make you writhe
I could make you sing
I could make you mine

It's 4 a.m. again
Feeling lost without you
Helpless before the eye
Deep within my mind

The projector plays on
Regardless of emotion
Feelings mean nothing but
I cling so desperately

Even these little things
These little joys that exist
Only to hurt, to torture
My existence, my meaning

And how can I be proud
How can I stand tall
Watching the pain wither
Watching as I fall but

I could make you hurt
I could make you cry
I could make you moan
I could make you mine

I could make you see
I could make you writhe
I could make you sing
I could make you mine

Two-For-One Poem Shot!

I actually wrote these months back. Also Waking Up Before The Alarm, another poem I wrote back then...but it still kinda stings, the whole break-up thing, and I DID write that one for her.

Sooooo let's just chill on THAT one for awhile, eh?

Battleworld write-up (without spoilers) comin' soon.


It Was A Glorious Evening

A potters' wheel
her shadow splayed out on the grass
dirty honey gold a fan
her breasts, pillows
enticing and joyful
for the delight of her
a fond memory
in these days of grey



Drawn Depths

In misery and viscera
I have decided my own fate
and have wrought cold vengeance
with these hands of mine

Of memory and viscera
These tools, my hands
as blunt an instrument
as Pygmalion's

To dream in viscera
And in that rose red house
we shall grow closer in shade
and forget this rotting world

God I Hate The News Channels

I find that I write a lot of anti-whatever poetry and song lyrics. Reckon it's how I'm able to cope with the modern-day yokes that surround us, not to mention having crashed against the glass ceiling that is constantly raising out of, well hell...all of our reaches.

Most of my poetry is either lyrics without a bridge or chorus, or merely rambling along in various patterns. Nothing inexactly traditional, but they do alright by me anyway.

God I Hate The News Channels

No one is truly human
you are subject to whim
you are enslaved by fancies
not the product of your own
nor of you or yours
of a reality not devised
but on that is, was
and will be after you.
Is the individual then
divisible by their truth?
I sincerely hope so
for your sake and mine.