BRUNK HOWARD


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duality deity

I’m walking through fiction, sliding on friction.

Mouths are moving but words slide away.

Debts pile up; yes men say, “Yup”.

Writing on the wall is in invisible spray.


The Devil’s in God; God’s in the Devil.

Truth jumps in a black hole to find its own level.


The wind is sterile; Pauline is in peril.

Procreation is a thing of the past.

Seeds don’t form; calves are not born.

Milk forgets its color in an atomic blast.


White House freshly painted.

Streets freshly gated.

The president looks through six-shooter eyes.

There's no saving from his look

Or his bankbook

And you won’t be saved by any disguise.


You get to choose; what have you got to lose?

It can’t be more than what you started with.

If it is, you failed the quiz.

You forgot that sands always shift.


President spoke; you think it’s a joke.

They taped his talk and verbatim reported.

He’s going to sue, don’t need a cue.

He says everything is verbatim distorted.


He says, “My message is between the lines.

The rest is lies for national spies.

There’s grapes on the vine; then there’s fine wine.

I'm an acquired taste like William Bligh.”


The Devil’s in God; God’s in the Devil.

Truth jumps in a black hole to find its own level.