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Neon

raincoats fallen down the drain
filled with the pain
of realization that water flows down
with expectations
Of a soiled silk gown
 
this is loosely based on the Harlan Ellison book, Gentleman Junkie, 1961. At the time, I wrote this, Tipper Gore was going nuts in the Senate over " Dirty Lyrics". Put me in a tailspin. It wouldn't have been so bad, except she needed to be sure of her facts, and she wasn't. She pitched a bitch over what she called "sublima" except what she presented was actually the stuff of Victorian Literature. Sublims are one or two frames in which something else is superimposed. You can't hear it or see it, but it imprints. Victorian Literature is very Freudian. Why not? Freud was Victorian. His psychology is largely invalid, because we're no longer Victorian. When people weren't Victorian, along came Jung with his archetypes, anima, animus, and synchronicity. Things got happy. Then something happened between then and now. We grew up. And yeah, hot dogs and doughnuts REALLY are just hot dogs and doughnuts.

Sitting on a Rusty Blade

By Angela SH Garcia aka NeonMercuryASH

Rubbing noses with priveleged slime
In the high rent district
where taste ran strict
Bouncing off the Borealis
Into the Ultra violet
They crowned him
King of the toilet

He couldn't get enough
He flaunted it all
He only wanted to stuff
his virulent influence
Down the throats of affluence
Floating on bad finance
In Banks stinking effluence

Pray that Baby Jesus
Is really a Jew
I know he sees us
And we screwed that up, too

Flamed by the torch igniting Ellis Isle
His sanity was on trial
Channel surfed a fallen pastor
Who swore out a tasteless sermon
On the rise and fall of man
Grabbed needles and knitted his hair
Into a matted ugly sweater

Pray that Baby Jesus
Is really a Jew
I know he sees us
And we screwed that up, too

They made him an idiot's erudite
then trashed his soul for spite
Like the cream, the scum also rises
To higher and higher hights
Just in time to collect a moron's prize
Limping on debauched genius
Pissing stupid the censor's penis
 
You don't have to fight
Your urge to stare
Comes the veil of night
Embrace me if you dare
Laced too tight
My mandarin shoes
Pretty
Aren't they so pretty?
Aidez moi en pointe
S'il Vous plaît
It's what I want
Lose the pity

If I knew the why
The tear
Falls from my eye
I could sleep
I could dream
Of how I dance
Until the dawn
They're in the vase
Burned to ash
Can't keep the tear from my face

They never found
Patient zero
Brother Cavil's poison
Or a mosquito
They call me a Cylon


Systematic mutilations
Poster child
Disease or designs
Make me wild
Your robot girl
Pick up the phone
Matrix
My legs in binary
With Mr. Six





Angela SH Garcia 2009
 
Serpents and Caviar

by Angela SH Garcia aka NeonMercuryASH


The timbers fell as the Mad Dog slept
No one could tell if Pontiac wept
To see his children become
Faceless coins dropped to the bottom
Of a terminal wishing well
Serpent at the millenium

Oh Maumee
Where are you now?
Mad Dog wants to send you under the plow
Fly to the moon
Fly to the sun
Hide under ground
Until this bloody war is done

He sat alone atop the Great Mound
Guarding her bones without a sound
Trying to wake a dead princess
Whose name he did not know
He's lost his American Express
A thousand years ago

Oh Maumee...

They'd made peace before slum clearance
Making space for all the new tenants
The cover of the Saturday Evening Post
Oh what becomes a Legend most?
We're gonna see the Wild West Show
Bless the children and buffalo
 
Time to edit. Now you can see how something evolves.

La Reine de Borguese

You don't have to fight
Your urge to stare
Comes the veil of night
Embrace me if you dare
I would be
Of kindred
I would see
Through eyes rimmed red

If I knew the why
My tear falls from eye
I could sleep
I could dream
Of how I dance 'til I
drop into the sunbeam

Take a silicon wafer
Wash it down with
a brew made bitter
Sit before
a crucifix
And my footfalls disappear

If I knew the why...

Might be seven of nine
The clock can't say the time
It's all on second hand
Must listen for the chime
Where's my throne?
And my scepter
Well, Jean Luc said
The Borg Queen's dead
Long live the Queen
 
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