Dead Babies

We are the Dead Babies
To whom no voice was ever given
Only taken with force...
We are the Discarded Embryos
Without a name or a bed
For our tiny little heads
Pulled from life and Mother's womb
Our Father in Heaven weeps
His gift having been disgraced and refused
We are the Dead Babies
Blown apart by Man's bombs
Run over by His tanks and war machines
Cut in half by His long knives
Then fed to His cattle and sheep
We are the Dead Babies
Starved and covered with flies...
Devoured by Jackals and genocide
In the bush of Darfur and Sudan
We are the Dead Babies
To whom you close your anesthetized eyes
As you shake your shameless heads....
Oh Well....

2007 © T.S.

She Is An Aesthetic Cultivator Of Cannabis

Def: The doctrine that beauty is the basic principle
from which all other principles,
especially moral ones, are derived.


She is watering the weeds
fertilizing them too
she thinks they are tomatoes
really....she isn't sure
exactly what they are
she only knows
she likes to water them
and watch them grow
she hates to see
anything die of thirst__

2007© T.S. 

The Senseless Loss of One's Virginity

The dust and smoke of the battle done
The dead left lying in the trenches
Young people's tears mixed with blood
The wounded lie dying
With arms waving a call for aid
That no one answered
While the living lie
About whom it was that won

T.S. 2008

Poems That are Trite, Childish and Overly Simplistic

This type of cerebral highbrowed pseudo intellectual critiquing
of all free verse prose style poetry is deficient; however it remains
essential to understanding the cause and effect of the many empties,
bottle after bottle of cheap booze or wine and then lends credence as
to why the many nicotine stained thoughts of lung cancer victims and vagrants
permeates the internet with the transcendentally enhanced channeling
of Bukowski and Ginsberg from their DNA samples taken off a broken radio
or gathered from some stained sheets left for the bi monthly maid service
in the Imperial Hotel located on First and Union Street in downtown Seattle;
after several long nights of extreme howling and f*cking. Anti-intellectualism
pontifications will abound when man’s spirit tragically drowns following
wave upon crushing wave of elitist deductions. Disguised as clichés,
translated into the vernacular; be that all words have meaning regardless
of the author’s convoluted reasoning and endless desire to try and make sense
of something to which there is nothing but a void…

2008 © T.S.

The Anatomy of Cynical Criticisim

The head is always proportionately
equal in size to that of the anus
The breath, described best as rectal-halitosis,
evokes many pungent
and caustic comments; not at all uncommon
for the modern deconstructionist.
The hands, paralyzed by writer’s block
are cramped with dangling participles; unable
to scribe anything constructive, they
practice their masturbation on an erectile
dysfunctional pecker head…
The head is always proportionately
equal in size to that of the anus___

2008 © T.S.

Mai Li

Once a killer, a soldier; a regular mercenary.
His talents were obviously not to be taken lightly. His eyes
let you know he wasn’t joking when he spoke of his enemies.
They were all dead now, but still very much alive in his head.
He had pissed on each one of their graves, with grimace and recycled beer.
Placed a wreath at their head after collecting the bounty on their ass; a man
who knew his limitations, he never made mistakes. Not one.
Retired now, he has found work as a poet.
He no longer requires his automatic weapons to kill; words are sufficient
to slay his readership without pulling a trigger.
At least nowadays when he goes off, the names have been changed
to protect the innocent and those few he let live....


2008 © T S