Dystopian Ways and Means

Oh yes 
Indeed, we aim 
To please the tired, 
The teeming destitute 
Derelict masses washed up 
Like so much flotsam 
On our shores, 
By keeping our eyes 
Always on target, 
Even if it means losing 
What we set out for. 

Working-Class Stool Pigeon

on the bum, 
strutting under 

neath chicks 
on stools out 

side up 
scale coffee 

house gleaning tit
bits of hot 

info from un 
suspecting cool 

cheesecake crumbs. 

Not In The Script

In this dark grave 
Comedy of errors, 
If you wish 
To begin
Once upon a time,
Best not to 

Plan on ending it 
Happily ever after,
Right on cue 
And always oh
So tellingly 
Nondescript. 

Grease Monkey Gigolo Riff

Maestro? 
That’s me— 

Screw driving 
Down right 

Up tight low 
Down staccato funky 

Monkey wrenching Mr. 
Ostinato Lubricanto— 

At yer soivice, ma’am. 

Trumped: Tower Block Asylum Gravity

In the high-rise, 
Everything was in 
Great, scintillating order— 

Including any semblance 
Of order which had gone 
Right through the ceiling 

When every able body 
On the premises 
Found itself going up 

And down 
In circles, unable 
To do anything but 

Pace the abysmal,
Bottomless pit 
Of the ground 

Floor. 

Exemplary Poetic Specimen

Go ahead, 
Stare at the blank 
Page all you want— 

Nothing needs all 
The help it can get, 
And you’re no exception.

Best Laid Plans

When the rudimentary yet 
Humungous suicide 
Bomb went off 

And everything and everyone went 
To pieces with it, there was nobody to ask 
What became of the intricate 

Nuts and bolts designed to hold 
The whole shebang together.