Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

For the sake of ornament and illumination.

POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 8:57 pm

Plan "B", by Charles Carreon

Nothing's quite so sure
as this, the moment when
something's gone amiss . . .
It's creativity then
must intermit, at the
pleading of necessity,
to show us how to make the
best of it.
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SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:01 pm

Planet Earth, 2008, by Charles Carreon



Image

Well I never thought
I would make it this far
To see the fall of the wall
And the rise of the Reich

No I never thought
I would have to live
In a brainwashed country
With an enemies list.

Planet Earth, 2008
I know exactly who to blame
You can call them by their real names
They're not ashamed
They think they're the masters
And we're the slaves

Our soldiers break down
A man's front door
Put a gun to his head
And his face to the floor

We always shoot first
And never ask questions
We believe what we're told
And buy what we're sold

Planet Earth, 2008
Our crimes have blotted out our name
In the name of God
We've gone insane
Spilled innocent blood
In Jesus' name

Our leaders are liars
Some say they like it that way
Cheatin', double-dealin'
And gettin' away
But money's made of somethin'
Like the hours of our days
That we grind away
Tryin' to make it pay

Planet Earth, 2008
Hell on earth
In a thousand ways
Could we just stop killing
For one damn day?

Our kids are half-crazy
Black and white
Singin' rap and cheap metal
Every night
Their hope for the future's
Not very bright
They know they've been sold out
They have no rights

Planet Earth, 2008
How long will people have to wait
For the sun to shine
On a decent day
Where the workers smile
And the children play?

Planet Earth, 2008
When the billions rise
It'll have to change
And until that day
There'll be hell to pay

Planet Earth, 2008
I Declare a global holiday
No more bosses after today
Just break the chain
And walk away.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:20 pm

Plastic Doesn't Breathe, by Charles Carreon

Image

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Image

One summer I was too poor
to buy new shoes. When my old
ones got really worn out, like falling
apart to where you look psychotic
if you wear them in town,
I took to going barefoot when
I went to town. That was funny.
I used to go barefoot all the time
When I was younger, but now, with
all these kids, I felt like a poor
hillbilly. Finally, when I got a little
cash, I broke down and got a
pair of blue jogging shoes at
Sprouse-Reitz for five dollars. They
were even too big but they were cheap.
So I wore them without socks and
looked psychotic.
What I discovered after I'd owned them
for a while was that they weren't made
of rubber, as I'd assumed; they were
made of plastic.
I knew because they clicked when
I walked on linoleum, and nobody's
Nike's or Adidas ever did that.
Eventually I discovered that they
were plastic in every detail, from the
thread to the fabric, to the insole to the
tongue to the wrap-around leather-looking
stuff that's supposed to be suede but
is as plastic as everything else.
And none of it breathed.
Plastic doesn't breathe.
It doesn't inhale or exhale
And it's not holding its breath.
Eventually my feet got sick
of those shoes. They were too big,
they made me look psychotic, and
they didn't breathe.
I threw them away and
breathed a sigh of relief.
Those shoes had started
to give me the creeps.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:22 pm

Pocket Essay Re: Ramones, by Charles Carreon

Why Ramones play like they do:
To destroy the enemies of human freedom.

Why it sounds so good:
Full-spectrum sonic sun
pulses pure crystalline idiot bliss,
kicks nirvana into overdrive.

Why it's played so fast:
To harmonize with the buzz
of human anxiety in this smoke-filled age.
To give you the speed to escape.

Why it sounds so harsh:
To subdue conflicting emotions
and eradicate fear.

What you can do with it:
Cut LA in half with one clean stroke,
Raze Century City with a backhand swipe,
Vaporize the Hollywood sign with a glance, and
blow away all eight lanes of the
10 freeway with a single puff of breath.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:23 pm

Practical Wisdom, by Charles Carreon

Practical wisdom, 'swhat I say.
Practical wisdom everyday.
Practical wisdom
like a pocket flask
or a Zippo lighter
Ready when you call
and you don't have to fight it

Practical wisdom
like a little boy's hand
in his daddy's grip
Hold on tight
Never slip

Practical wisdom
like a momma's arms
Hold so strong
To keep away harm

Practical wisdom
like a maiden's smile
all sweetness and innocence
for a little while
all truth and consequence
after many a mile

Practical wisdom
like a ploughman's palm
rough and callused
from always keepin' on
Work till sunset
Rise at dawn

Practical wisdom
like a policeman's gun
Always in the holster
Never pulled for fun
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SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:26 pm

President Evil, by Charles Carreon



Image

It's night in the West Wing
The lights are still burning
In an oval office
A man walks alone
He's weighed down with worries
Oh you'd like to think
Troop movements and spending
The war neverending
Whether old Scooter Libby
Is going to sing.

But you would be wrong, then
He picks up the phone
And asks the woman who answers,
"Has Colin gone home?"

"Well why would you ask that?"
He says, "Just a joke"
"My whole foreign policy
Went up in smoke"

"Last week in Jordan
It was such a thrill
This sleeping with Laura's
A bitter pill."

President Evil, can't understand
If killing's good for the economy
Why isn't it right?

Why do they plague him
With tiresome demands
The haters who hate him
Just don't understand.

He has a vision
He has a plan
He's going to start surging
Like a real man.

He has his puppets
He pulls all the strings
Chalabi, Alawi, Maliki
And friends

We've got all the oil now
We'll just rig the vote now
Wheel the last of the cash
Right out the back door

President Evil, wonders sometimes
How it's all gone so well,
Yet he's not done yet,

Let them rejoice now
He'll bring the House down
When he picks up
His veto pen.

Pelosi should learn how
To just shut her trap
How can you trust
An Italian like that?

But Karl says she's got her
Tit in a ringer
She can't cut off spending
That's vote suicide

Yes President Evil knows
he's got it right
Depend on the stupids
And call darkness light

He can't be worried
By haters who vote
The people who loved him
Preferred to stay home

Besides, they're still paying
Like donkeys they're braying
That honor's not cheap
So to Iraq they must go.

President Evil, if you only knew
He's as sweet as the sun on a
long afternoon
His kisses like honey
His ass smells like money
That's why people who lick it
Can fill a big room.

President Evil, will not be dethroned
For evil endures
Like a dinosaur's bones
You may not realize it
May think you despise it
But it's waiting for you
Wherever you roam.

President Evil may be the right man
For evil tasks
We just can't understand

So hush now my baby
I'll sing sweet lullabies
While President Evil
Destroys those we despise
Buries their faces
And stifles their cries.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:28 pm

Professor Dee, by Charles Carreon

Professor Dee
What do you see?
In this temple
Of mystery
A shaggy bear
A scary guy
A drunken poet
A slashing knife
You don't play games
You've got three wives
Playing dominoes
And sipping tea
Your cart broke down
One rainy night
And now you're
Stuck here with
A mystery you've
Been meaning to
Solve for some time
So let's get down
And make some notes
Got to be careful
Someone tried to kill you
But your wife, the #3
Had wrapped your
Head in orange peels
That the other wives
Then concealed
Under your hat
So when someone
Went and hit you on
The head
You weren't dead
You had some wine
You thought some more
You interviewed the
Poet who was drunker
Than before
About the Body of
The Abbot, was he
Poisoned, tell me more?
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:30 pm

Psychic Cartography, by Charles Carreon

Image

Maps grow out of darkness,
Negotiating that (we hope) ever-expanding perimeter
of understanding
out of nothingness,

Using fingers, eyes, ears,
To probe, search out, define, delimit
The actuality of what is there and
Freeze its meaning in a picture.

The early maps of Terra
Had so much incognita,
Like a real woman,
Essentially unknown.

The old maps look organic,
A continent, like a mass of cauliflower,
Or an undersea sponge,
The rivers like veins, pumping the sea.

Suffering from relative blindness,
Or blindness to relativity,
The old cartographers were handicapped
And forced to imagine the contours of the shorelines.

Hence, Africa, in the shape of a papaya --
Old maps fail to depict the contours properly,
The confident assertion of the land,
The invasive penetration of the sea.

So much for those who tried to map the known --
Their talents refined with the ages,
But at last the sattelite eclipsed them all,
Giving any stupid eyeball the whole story in a wink.

Were we wholly blind,
Truly sightless, what would we imagine the world to be?
Precisely the riddle
Of psychic cartography.
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SONG

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:34 pm

Psycho Santa, by Charles Carreon



Image



(Dedicated to Matthew Inman of the Oatmeal)

[Well, Merry Christmas, Boys and Girls. I hope you've all been good, because Santa is on his way, and the Air Force is reporting. This is Lt. Col. Merriweather from NORAD reporting that we have just sighted an airborne sleigh crossing the dew line. It appears to be drawn by reindeer, and piloted by a jolly looking fellow in a red and white suit ...

... STATIC! ...

No, what is that?

It's not Santa, it's, it's ... Oh, my God ... it's going to tear the Internet a new asshole!

BOMB!]

Well he used to be a pterodactyl up in the sky,
Tearin' people's heads off,
and eatin' their eyes,
But now he's done a change-up,
Got a new disguise --
All Points Bulletin: Look out for this guy!

He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.

Particularly dangerous to boys and girls
Who play with computers in the virtual world
He claims to be the hero of the human race,
A relief from their cubicles and bookin' their face.

He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.

His prehistoric origin's a mystery --
Did he escape from the lavatory?
Was he made by the Pentagon and NSA
A living drone that shoots mind rays,
Makin' zombies of his followers --
Internet slaves!

He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.

When cornered he will strike back with a vicious blow,
There is no depth to which he will not go.
Do not attempt to apprehend --
Type "King Kong," then hit Send.

He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.

He can revert to his original form at will.
X-Men got nothin' he can't kill.
Only a simian of similar size
Can pluck the Pterodactyl out of the skies.

He's a psycho-Santa with a big bag of tricks,
Ringin' a bell, and beggin' for clicks,
Psycho Santa got a itty bitty stick,
Psycho Santa, don't fall for his schtick.
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POETRY

Postby admin » Fri Sep 27, 2013 9:36 pm

Rain Heard Outside the Open Window of the Motel Room, by Charles Carreon

Sweet passion,
Now the rain comes down,
The plashing rivulets
enchant the ear,
the night air pauses
and tastes itself,
branches dripping,
water gathering in hollows,
marked with glints of moonlight --
In every niche of water --
A Moon.
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