Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Caves and Graves

After forever walking
in total darkness,
even the smallest of lights
is as bright
as the midday sun.

There must be
a reasonable expectation
for hope to fully live.
Kindness ran out
of reason long ago.

Sunday, May 17, 2015


Living in a GMO neighborhood
where the burned out abandoned houses
grow differently day by day in the fields
that now have a pungent cadaver smell
wafting from the enormous weeds growing there.

It is hopeless to have hope when the genetic strands
know there is no label on the package
wrapping this place so far away
from the growing organic portions that produce profit
for the social chemists that decades ago started the experiments.

Some say there was good intent
only no forward thought to the destruction
the modifications have wrought today.
Born pure I’ve become modified a’ready.
My strands twist and turn chemically away.

Attitudes modified by age and bad air
yet old enough to remember time
before the laboratory opened the doors
to the destructive enhancements
on what had been growing just fine.

© M Durfee

Do not disparage aging away and death as the work of the Devil, it is the Savior from living the encroaching rot that is eating mankind.--md

Thursday, May 14, 2015


The sounds of the breeze making the singing of the trees a song, nature written oft times falling on deaf ears. Not hearing the song is akin to the blind eyes that never look up to sees suns and planets playing hide and seek with the clouds. We have come used to the concrete sight of our surroundings, where only wheels and feet clatter off key tunes occasionally punctuated by other human noise. This is the cacophony of lives lived in lost knowledge of the natural world buried ‘neath the human one. We have time, yet refuse it to listen and see.

The winds blow the stench of bitterness and blight
through slumlord loaded neighborhoods filled with
cons and crooks looking to regain an untaxed uncared for
toe hold in cityscapes overly taxed to reforming for the gentry.

The hipsters drag on e-cigs vaporizing
while lecturing the coffee shop crowds
about farming lots where families once stood.
Though the new intelligentsia refuse
to get a pen knife out to dig dirt hardened
under their own nails that never touch the soil.
They believed that what they do eat
is really organic and not brownfield grown.

Acres vast and wide now desolate and decimate
with so many drugs, whores, guns, lead poisoning
fertilized with the bodies of the dead babies
caught in the crossfire of teens having kids
in a culture that no longer cares for them.
They want the stage, to act like adults
but on government enslaving grants to grow
only more of the same: Give me poverty
or give me death. Both are near akin.

A once portly middle belly
now shrunken thinned out
by an Auschwitz mentality
in the actions of oligarchs;
Work Shall make You Free.  

That there is no work
is when from the soiled diapers
of the teens grows the grim reality
of potent cocks unleashed on abandoned
babies with babies that don’t have tits mature enough
to nurse a child, much less mind enough to teach them
to look up and stare until they find a star afar off calling them
to a destiny beyond the slums of a city filled
with a humanity birthing a vicious feral reality
that has no other desire than to use them for fertilizer,
mulch so the wealth will continue to grow
in the banks of them who hold the gild of gold.

© M Durfee

Saturday, May 9, 2015


I opened my door to the  lately usual mess of mind,
didn’t much care for most the crap laying around inside.
Shit gets picked up same way as in any neighborhoods trash;
either a good strong gust of nothingness blows it away
or as a scrap metal truck gets its junk
roaming the allies looking for something;  
funk with a few pence of value to strip bare
and leave the rest here and there and nowhere.
Worthless waste lying there somewhere between
the curb and street crown. Littering the landscape
waiting on that gust that moves the dust
and other shit thrown from windows of the mind.

That is where what is left of the waiting me presently resides.
In the place where only the speed splattered memory
of the once living now dead faces of a life,
some well lived
but now mostly imprinted logo’s on T shirts
are (for a) royalty for a moment.
The past once fresh in its grief and glory
now bas relief until the monument’s story
of moldy stuffed toys and slowly sinking mylar balloons
fade the memory to the immemorial.

A child’s memory, mine, becomes not much more than blight
nailed to a tree turned lineman pole, crucifixion style.
The slum dwellers know,
the slum dwellers know
the hard and terrible education
than no school can dole out.
There are no sins though left to die for,
everything from murder to crimes more severe
can be dealt away in the never, never land
of the wherever, wherever land of them
who once shared air with me have gone off to.
After all those crucifixes are all over mindtown
just as are the leavings of the minds of men
wasted in thought over the trash of men like me,
once vibrant, alive
now stripped to the nothingness
of my minds worthlessmess.

© M Durfee