by Rick Young | Feb 18, 2016 | Poem
I stalk this region. I’m the rule that runs this game.
Like darts of icy wind I whistle through your brain.
I drive you to the street with eyes red and insane.
You might do anything to loose my ball and chain.
And my name is pain. Desperation’s my terrain.
Pain. Like needles running through a vein.
I won’t deceive you like a lover gone astray.
I’ll never leave you, though you scream, "please go away."
Unless I’m satisfied, I’ll haunt your every day.
You’ll buy me guns and drugs and anything I say.
And my name is pain. No use to cry again.
Pain. Endless is my song’s refrain.
by Rick Young | Feb 17, 2016 | Poem
Jack Ruby was promised
a big boat for his deed,
but got sent up the river,
a patsy, too, indeed.
His killing of Lee Oswald
was an undercover job.
But never trust your cover
when your bed’s made by the mob.
by Rick Young | Feb 16, 2016 | Poem
He elbowed his way up to the bar
and said, "Bartender, can I have a coke?"
He wore a suit of crimson like a star
and said, "Excuse me, can I bum a smoke?"
I seemed to recognize him
and he acted like a friend.
I felt that we’d grow closer
before this night would end.
Now I’ve been drinkin’ all night but I’m gonna be okay.
I’m down to several singles and a fiver.
He offered me a lift because he’s going just my way.
The devil is my designated driver.
He said I’d had enough drinks for tonight
and took me outside to his hell mobile.
Into the death seat I was buckled tight.
And satan then climbed in behind the wheel.
I looked into his glowing eyes
and felt a little woozy.
I’ve had hallucinations, but,
man, this one was a doozy.
Now I’ve been drinkin’ all night but I’m gonna be okay.
He’s guaranteed I’ll be a safe arriver.
I don’t know where I’m going and it’s much too late to pray.
The devil is my designated driver.
by Rick Young | Feb 15, 2016 | Poem
There is no future left in transformation.
You’re met with insolence and condemnation,
the awful tearing sound of separation ,
and constant knocking causing bad vibration.
Too late to move, there’s just too big a stockpile.
So watch the sky and keep a hand on that dial.
No need to wear a purgatorial grin.
The world has cloaked its civil servants in sin.
(chorus)
Oh, the dead can’t rhumba to the bomb.
They don’t know what they’re missing.
Oh no, the dead can’t rhumba to the bomb.
Hear those elements hissing.
The movies tell you all about survival.
They make it seem just like a Dead revival.
They say the strong who want to stay alive will
hang on perhaps a minute more than I will.
Too late to politic, the lines are frozen.
By atom smashers we have all been chosen.
No need to wear a radiation-proof suit.
Disintegration makes the clothing point moot.
(chorus)
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2016 | Poem
Honor hunkers in the alley of the apes,
eager to commence her new withdrawal.
Anytime violence bleeds the people,
she’s on a train, lit out for parts unknown.
She covers the land like a hesitant dusk,
always sitting on the next ticket.
She rocks from side to side in changeling wind,
dark eyes testing the horizon for escape routes.
As now she stands, impenitent,
breathing the next evolution.
