The Daily Stew

This news

Is nothing new

We just should have knew

That politics and corruption

Is all part of the stew

That these posers brew

In the private of lives

They steal the stars from the sky

But what do I know

I have no job

Nowhere to go

Just an itch to write

I am for truth

But rather write what I simply know

The Only Way Up

The only way up

Is never to complain

To ask to start again

To wither in the hope of progress

But to advance

Head above the dust

Feet planted on the ground

Working for the moment

Pushing all around

From the dash of the withered

One pushes slowly on

On and on

Up and up

Move any way

Rather than giving up

 

Santa Monica Sun

Along a winding path

Paved sun-glazed cement

Baked with a hazy grey sealant

With summer shoes

Raking the rocks

Along the freckled

Grass

Sunscreen scented fragrances

Illuminating hiatus

Under the strung out

Santa Monica Sun

Franchise Virus

The franchise virus

Growing from the roots

Of a dead cypress

Cold pressed nightmares

Held up by titans

Each man has a turn

To flame the words

Caught up on the wings

Of drunken birds

By night

And by day

What the naysayers say

Is the franchise lies

Being manufactured day

And night