When New York City wasn’t such a friendly place
At first what appeared to be a menacing glance
late at night you can never tell
but there is more
as the steel rips through your soft belly
Mocking Thanatos
has conquered Eros
who
weeps
in silence
amidst the red flashes
Robert K. Stephen
Behind the Iron Curtain before the fall of the Berlin Wall
Being a party member is a responsibility
We serve the people with our utmost ability
So to say we obtain the privileges of an aristocratic nobility
is sheer and scheming capitalist naivety
We serve our mighty land and people
merely a gunshot (as Beria would say) away from the Kremlin steeple
we labour night and day in offices located anywhere from Georgia the wonderful land of Comrade Stalin
to cold little towns like Aldan
Just because we have a five star flat off the square
shows how much for the people we do care
why then your sarcastic stare
I’m nothing but a hard working man
so why the comments over my Black Sea tan
and that expensive Swiss electric fan?
My suits from France
are needed for an occasional diplomatic prance
not for my personal prestige to enhance
My Zil with a chauffeur
is provided to me as I am not a loafer
in fact I am in it now to visit Iraqi foreign minister Soffer
Being so busy it is imperative we have our own stores
not because of corrupt mores
that you suggest make us rotten to our cores
We are still members of the proletarian kind
and your unfounded accusations are but a product of a capitalist roader mind
to suggest that to bourgeoise lifestyles we have fell
and I respectfully say to that you can go to hell
Ask any of our folk
and suggest to them we have privileges and they’ll take it as an ill joke
and perhaps to you deliver a warning poke
we are no different than them
our happy and content comrades would heartily agree
if not you probably think I’d expel them to the cold Siberian degree
It’s this Solzhenitsyn chap who has caused such a flap
with his groundless crap
but our censors were on the rap
and he was liquidated from our map
Every citizen is free like me
oh why can’t you see through all this propaganda of the CIA
and for once agree with me
all we do is administer
and if the skilled like me become a Politburo minister
what in the hell is no sinister
Change of Taste
Memories of Mordecai Richler and Leonard Cohen in my old Montreal
I looked for you at Schwartz’s on the main
but they told me after Moishes you started eating at Joe Beef
the mighty sirloin
defeats
the lowly smoked meat
Robert K. Stephen
Hope
You-
held me spellbound
freshness
not of plastic concocted standardized perfection
your smiles in my direction were of courtesy
civility
and cultured background
I tried to touch but you needed everyone
those surly and ugly butchers of your beauty
oblivious to you
they thundered over you
leaving their hoofprints on me
ripping and agonizing torture
I tried to heal
you pushed me roughly aside
but you knew
didn’t you?
The hunters
Ladies and Gentlemen they say
Kill at the office
or in the factories all day
it really matters they say
to show them you are the boss of the way
like the sheep they hunt there must be leaders or the flock will stray
is it really this way
for them animal and man is eaten off the same tray
But
they
proud self proclaimed hunters are crawling parasites
sucking the blood of the innocent
but virginity is made to be given away
as innocence is in its dying day
the façade of peaceful co-existence will fade away
and the angry will rip the leader parasites off their backs
and hurl them
under the wheels
of angry tricycles
Optical Illusion Oasis
People sitting under the great Canadian fright
drinking heavily in the village of neon light
pretensions of affairs being outtasight
really nothing more than a heard of uptight
matters really aren’t all right
Such a pathetic sight
it’s strongest on a Saturday night
people with nothing to do
except play acting cool fools
floundering in the human cesspool
Death should be superior
come join me now or tomorrow
for you’re already dead
what really can you ever do in life
I tell you that you are needless and superfluous
like the pieces of gum
the black suited monsters
crush without pity on their way to paper colonies
refusing to hear the cries of the crushed innocent
come join me in the land of the insane
where every day does not end like some futile game
soulless butchered minds craving dead maggots
that’s what we are
no schools of respectability
only dens of perverse sadistic crazed nobility
souls of the living cry to join us
yes I’m Lucifer but which hell is better
yours or mine
you may find out in due course of time
Robert K. Stephen
Ode to donald trump
Dear me it wasn’t such a shock
when donald trump was ousted from the flock
his picture everywhere
even where one had to go
but he fell so low
where did your friends the fascists go
most of America has woken up and hates you now
you’ve got the popularity of a turbuculean cow
But not all is doomed as you sit in your cell
for in 23 Hitler didn’t do so well
your type still abounds
and not even “democracy” chases them off the grounds
But in the end Hitler, Nixon, Samoza and Mussolini couldn’t withstand the frost
so donald get lost
did you direct the mob to put Vice President Pence in a noose?
if so donald be prepared to be trampled by a moose
Downtown Treblinka
hemmed into hamlets by the awesome guardposts
the weary beaten stagger
into black Calcuttian holes
to be transported to prosperous futility
whisked by gleaming publicly funded expense
only marred by the spots of the unhappily assimilated
broken only by their black boots
stomped through lack of humanity
or lined up on the wall of advanced humility
or
cutthroat bestiality
experimented on by clever wizards
soothed by taxed juices and coloured flashes
that numb
and bring “round the clock relief”
to the voluntary prisoners
and arthritic stricken
Robert K. Stephen
A junkie of sorts
up the highway flows the citrus juice
from Florida
celebrity Anita Bryant (who is she anyways?)
the pusher
scores a hit
and all are satiated
except the Orange Bird
who weeps in lament
for she can’t talk
and
is forced to sing
at gunpoint
Robert K. Stephen
Empty Ballad
he basks in the spotlight
an angel
and
the throngs surround
calling for more
the critics rave
only time knows that he is nothing
but words and music of an era
a face on an album cover
They hate him for he is nothing like them
more than they know they will ever be
his reality crushes their dreams
his words their fantasy
He is nothing
they are nothing
his words are nothing
but for one moment they
believe
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