#THINGSaIN'T...

THINGS AIN’T BROKE, GOT IT BUB?

RICHARD JOSEPH STEPHAN·TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2019

There’s a whisker of a chance that the obelisk and an all-star are a bat and bawled out-liar

Play it cool and maybe you can choke up on your grip and maybe hit a bunt-ball sacrifice

Out to center field where nobody can throw it all the way home without a hot, infinite fire

Rounding third and on the way for the slide into the home plate, err on catcher’s thin ice.

Perfect game from the hurler and a grand slam by him to boot, won the game 4 by 2 three

All you need for a perfect game is one more out, 13th strikeout of the game, hard lot of sand

Sponsored dreamers and schemers, coaches and players, even the manager and the fans see

Nobody can beat the best there ever was in the best of five, seven, nine or a hundred grand.

What do the men do who are not only human but also divine sons of a universal creator God

No evidence in the black out of Space’s Time that there’s a man left on screens of cellphones

Here and now or then and there, past, future or right this very moment, it’s but a mega-flood

Bringin’ no tears of joy to the epitaph of yo’ mama but she flipped over her urn’s dusty-bones.

Do not bring on the finale until it’s well prepared for, ready for the ending, final curtain down

Ready for the bows to the crowd, salutes of the hands clapping together, whistles and a frown

From the bottom of their hearts, they want out #ASAP like it or not, exit to stage right below

Your guess is as good as mine, conceptual analysis of things and their perpetual soul’s blow.

I know and you know what it’s like to be all alone without a care, without a friend, battle blue

Just before the challenge of trying to survive in a hostile environment, hungry to eat old you

Whether dressed or gutted, it’s the chewing of the infinitely small to the ferocious dog or cat

Ripping the muscle-meat off the bone, raw as the living thing breathing fresh air, fly to swat.

Appearances allow no errors to formulate the equation of inequality, it’s the essence of the O

I ain’t a freak but I am a mutated genome of the original 32 genes of Homo Sapiens of blow

Tons of the cocoa leaf, chopped and pulverized into the power of powder, up a mainline rose

Compared to copulation of moments, causing animated conception, we’re light a heavy dose.

Down under or downtown MAGAlopolis, the water drains just like the Earth’s wobbling spin

Pink sky punked the blue, all of them just obscured deep, black space where mortals lips sing

Spin in a prison cell with no view, just light and air to enter for sustenance, midnight’s origin

In the corner because an ogre pointed the way and ordered the action, soon to be a blue king.

by

r j j stephan, i

c. September 24th, 2019 A.D. @ 8:53 PM E.S.T.

{ drafted while listenin’ to #BluesCousins #TheDream link @ https://youtu.be/3ctQiIPE2IA & https://youtu.be/HRJGVbMtzBQ now, #OpenTheDoor }

W.W.A.R.D.?

#EyesOnThePrize #SPRINGSTEEN

EYES ON THE PRIZE, FLY EAGLE 1

by

RICHARD JOSEPH STEPHAN * TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24TH, 2019 A.D.

 

Living in the smoking groove of the platinum and quicksilver musk of the holiest holes, mine

I have seven of them from head to toe and it’s what has been given to me, free of charge time

Feathers grew from DNA forces I cannot see, inside of you and me, I cannot wait to eat food

I know this is a chore for you and yours but it doesn’t matter, it’s survival of the fittest, dude!

Counting blessings one, two, three then on the way to work in the factory’s’ garage, blindmen

Left me these pains in my heart to reproduce the passion of the spark of living blood, quicken

Fast as we can, we live and die in a thimble of deep space’s sewing kit, no eyes, no needle, no

But you have the ego and Id of your mom and dad, it’s all they had, it’s all you get, now blow!

You, you, you, it’s all about you, not me or them, just the thing itself you feed with dead leaf

Seeds from the radio playin’ on the counter, volume is turned up to the loudest noise, chief

Regrets fall one by one as the final gasps are stolen from the struggle of your mama’s popper

Pickin’ the marrow out the femurs and skulls, crossbones of Davy Jones and ol’ Jolly Roger.

I had to fly away from the nest to hunt for the unwilling who just chew the grass’ of my joy

Thunder and lightening strikin’ my motherland of chopped liver and potato pancakes’ jam

Flavor of the bottom feeders’ political spectrum of ethical melodrama and fictional flimflam

Pork, beef, mutton, fowl and holy God’s dogs, waitin’ at the 7-11 store, mocha java, oh boy!

Tracks of the drag strip dug deep in a groove that even a Chevy with a .396 can’t live within

Off to the war after the twelve years of school and the finishing off the rest of the world’s jin

Magic ain’t happenin’ it’s just the nature of the beasts and the matrix of mud, middle of Oz

No wizards in back of the curtain, it’s just you, me and the Holy See, Zen and dirty ol’ lies!

Now, I gotta tell you what you’ll never read or hear from your mamas and papas, I now speak

Of mice and the men who catch them in traps full of cheese and pig bacon, one chew & a snap

Struggle until the breath ceases, movin’ the hands and feet as if you can halt the progress #Ap

Here’s a model and there’s a corpse, beauty turns on you, reflecting dirty water of one freak.

by

r j j stephan, i

c. September 24th, 2019 A.D. @ 00:59 PM EST

{ Produced in the shadow of the darkest night of 69 years, no stars, no moon, no sunny day or garbage in an alley, just me and my blade cuttin’ Springsteen on Broadway fusion of #Jungleland South Jersey...whisperin’#FleshAndFantasy, https://youtu.be/lW1RAYYs8RI }

W.W.A.R.D.?

#ROCKbYTES

ROCK BYTES, STONED SPEEDIALS

by

RICHARD JOSEPH STEPHAN·MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2019

Movie stars are really just our brothers and sisters, our cousins, mamas’ pops too cute, yup

Nobody knows when they’re a baby or a youngster that it’ll happen, but it sure does happen

The kids all rock if they can and some of them get stoned to the music of the gangster pups

Tried the funny things that parents would never allow, on the cuff and on the lam, moral sin.

Whiskey out the bottle or beer in the six pack of Colt.45, either way the launch above beyond

Winds up three sheets to the north wind, back up against the wall and with a cowboy rewind

I recall my strapped gene autry pistols, put ‘em on backward like hop along Cassidy, too high

Wasn’t the Cisco Kid or Poncho, but I rolled just like the sunrise and sunsets in the west sky.

Bottles and cans full of the liquid cool and hot stuff of the cosmic soup, trailer trashed to heck

Devoted to ending of days, bringin’ them for you and nobody else but where you’ll go, I know

Find yourself in the rewinding position of the vacuumed void of the Space and Time too late

Nobody knows and everybody cares about the last breath in your and my face, it’s God’s fate.

Price is too high to be paid by the tiny mortality you get to move about in, 208 bones, trugrit

True of false, it’s the way of the middle of the road, down the center, getting to the doom soon

Talking begins and ends right there at the start, before the finish line, echo the shouts of s#it

Complicated mess of a hodgepodge, remember what your daddy said, get crazy as a fool loon.

It could’ve been Tuesday but it’s already gone, Eagles flew into a volcano’s hot, holy chastity

Burned the feathers and cooked the skin and bones, like thanksgiving turkeys of Notre Dame

Completed missions of the flights and sorties we flew for the sake of the motherland’s gravity

Too dark and grey when it’s rainy, so just drink it all away, change the alcohol into my fame.

On the train’s express or the jet’s non-stop flight into the Twilight Zone between yo’ ears, see?

It will all come out in the wash, no way to change it, always same as it was way back, ah blood

Mixed up with all of the data and information that was given as a favor to the kids of old Eve

Awaken from the slumber of the dream you can’t recall, it’s the life you had, now you be dead.

Got you and your sisters out of the trailer park’s sweet foam before you got too drunk to be

A good boy and nice girl, for the parents of the space cowboys under the feet of the papal see

It’s right and wrong, it’s good and evil, It is what It is, A MIRACLE, to be alive in this dream

Lovers and sinners all meet at the crossroads where It all must go, then vanish, then scream!

by

r j j stephan, i

c. September 23rd, 2019 A.D. @ 5:55 PM P.S.T.

{ drafted movin’ on to #MaryJanesLastDance by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/L5pHM-o2_Dk }

W.W.A.R.D.?