Silver lightening bolts taze the sky. Gun powder, casualties, and yesterday litter the ground. Fear runs it’s own game – Choking on desert dust – Never thinking of living in a hole, in the ground. Soldiers sleep in a cool pits; Soldiers die in cold pits of hell.
Streets love desperation Somewhere old awakenings visit the future This world is failing Our time unsure… For the guillotine surrounds my consciousness Wrapped in blood…in tears My head fits firmly in the stocks Just waiting for the world to mock my severed life
Imaginations fuel my head, In the deep corners of my mind. I think of all the things that I shouldn’t do. Much - more, what I shouldn’t be. I try to stay under the radar-- To be neutral & dormant -- Laying low in fear of trouble & the system in fear of trouble & the system. It feels like big brother is breathing, down my neck. And they know you… They can’t steal your thoughts...yet, but someday they might steal our words. Censored in the U.S.A
I hate pretentious fucks, So I ‘rebelled’against society – damn right. If I wore Dockers and boat shoes, Would I be a blue blood? – nah. You have to fuck your sister to be a blue blood, to keep the bloodline pure – All it really does is create retarded midgets!
I question life – I feel no love. I feel no joy. I live in my brain – I’m told that drugs & alcohol, are just a symptom of my disease- That I was born with a complex obsession, of the mind. An addictive personality. Blah! Blah! Blah!Yap! Yap! Yap! It’s true… But fuck off anyway !!!
Been seeing a psychiatrist for 15 years. I talk... I yell... They nod… When I walk into the V.A. hospital, I see the remnants of war. No legs, no arms...death beds-- My brain is sick...it tells me to blow it off- I really want too...the physical and emotional pain, Is beyond reason…It's torture -- I ask God every night to take me out. Can't deal with another day of this. When I wake up...if I sleep... there is a second of lucidity, And then the whole thing comes crashing down. My depression is clinical, with suicidal ideations. People don't know what real depression is... When they tell me to take a walk, or pull up my boot straps. I always ask them... How many times did you taste your .38 this month?
3:17 am Just took a sleeping pill, Can’t sleep at all. My depression is over me again. Emotionally paralyzed Mentally crippled. Tears run down my face, Without movement. Confined to a horrible disease. No, getting fresh air doesn’t work, Neither does taking a walk.
Intellectual boot camp ? Mental masturbation ? Regurgitating thousand-year-old text ? How about a cash fuckin’ cow ? Knowing that you can fit a large family in your ass, and wondering why it hurts! Get 80K in debt. A professional career awaits. With a bunch of assholes you hated your whole life ? In retrospect – build a cabin. Buy a used typewriter & smoke a lot of pot !
People betray you. They hurt you. They are rude. They are snobs. No wonder I want them dead
My girl calls me ‘Smoko the Clown”. Been Smoking grass for 34 years. The chemistry, the strains for medical relief, or just time to go to my happy place . . . Did I say I was high strung?
People are the lunatics in my view- They scare me to death- None speak above a puddle of piss- The way they walk, and want- Afraid to go deep- Those are the crazy one’s- Like a sparkler in the night that has lost it’s fizz-
If I cut off my leg, Can the rings be counted ? My age and design although damaged, Brings a free thinking mind. They call me ancient of days, and I was never created,n ot even as an art form, but I do create. Art, languages, music, prose, and breath. For those of low self esteem, I can also create oxygen.
Illustrated poet from the crazy house. Words & images fuel my head. Also, in the deep corners of my mind. I think of all the things that I shouldn’t do. Much more, what I shouldn’t be. I try to stay neutral & dormant, in fear of trouble & the system. It feels like big brother is breathing, down my neck. You know that we live in a police state, And they know you… They can’t steal your thoughts, But someday they might steal your words. Censored in the U.S.A.
Ron Cervero's Barbaric Yawp In a long tradition of "outside" poets, from Whitman's "barbaric yawp" through Bukowski, comes Ron Cervero, who has crafted a volume of short rough poems which primarily are written as responses to daily occurrences, or, more often, outrages. The outrage is keenly felt, and Mr. Cervero's responses are often bitter and sardonic. Cervero claims not to have read Bukowski before writing this volume and while comparisons, especially eternally being at odds with the Establishment, are evident, these poems are as fragmentary and episodic as, say, videotaping a hanging surreptitiously with a cell phone. Still, they add to define the personality of the poet, whose tattooed legs and torso are displayed on the cover and whose unique view becomes more clear with each poem. David Mix Northeast ReviewCLICK HERE to purchase Ron's new book.
copyright 2006 Ron CerveroSend us your comments on this article