Category Archives: Mr. Stacker

Snake Tongued

Standing up there giving his grandiloquence,
doesn’t anyone see it as ponderous?
Words are his snakes, causing blind consequence
so cover your ears to be one of the courageous.



Filed under Mr. Stacker

Dall’altra Parte

The sun is mocking me as it sinks low,
Beneath the horizon promising me,
Another night where beauty does not see,
Terror lurking all over and below;
Summer’s heat is jaded (going away)
Leaves shriveling up taking away shade,
Exposing everything to what has been made:
Beauty becoming a slattern each day,
By sable lands ruthless tongues borne on wind,
That they themselves forsake the evil within,
Which we entrap in the deep of the night-
So we run, we die from our time sinned-
It catches up with us creating a din,
Cutting us (faster then time’s scythe) with might.

1 Comment

Filed under Mr. Stacker

Leave Me Here

I left the lights on
made promises on the wind;
Unknown to us both, this simple dark con
Plaguing us of what we couldn’t find;
The promises I broke apart.
“Without purpose?” you say through tears.
I can’t tell sweetheart,
so get out of these affairs.
I can’t stand seeing the pain I’ve inflicted.
Leave me here to be alone-
Leave me here evicted!
I’ll sit here in the unknown
not deserving of a second chance.
I beg of you not to think of me.
Just wave goodbye leaving your broken stance.
This lesson you’ve been given is a guarantee,
for you to move forward into a better romance.

1 Comment

Filed under Mr. Stacker

The Slow Drift Away…

The slow
Begins on harsh whispers
Never fully formulated
But ever present in the eyes
Violently screaming the unspoken truth
Oh so loud-
-SO LOUD it’s left creating
The slow


1 Comment

Filed under Mr. Stacker

There is this dream I have…

This dream I have, begins and ends in a building.
Just me and five other men who are all now dead.
All inspirations to me but stuck doing the same job as I do.

There is Ginsberg,
Stroking his cock and balls
Explaining the benefits of enrolling.

There is Poe,
All dark and Goth
Refusing to call people because his crying will stop, nevermore.

There is Kerouac,
The ringleader even here
Smoking his joints, writing from memory and not fucking caring.

There is Thompson,
Feverishly writing
Chronicling every detail somewhat drunk-mostly tripping.

There is Bukowski,
looking like shit-drunk and lonely-
fucking some broad at his desk, groaning not talking.
Then there is me
Trying to work
But utterly failing with this cacophony so damn deafening.

This Dream I have, I think it’s telling me something.
These 5 men are sending me subliminal frequencies.
But that’s a secret that I wont let out here.


Filed under Mr. Stacker

July 4th

As I sit here watching the infant summer waxing and waning simultaneously the wind jostles the small white caps into dancing foam upon the stark contrast of the dark blue water.

As I sit here, thinking of what is past and what is to come, the wind jostles about the electric green grass to long for a public space and these thoughts to short to be record here through my mind like invisible things do through a strainer.

As I sit here, I’m completely disoriented. Out of space and out of time. A cacophony of moments waving and winding before me in endless mind-eye made film negatives, cutting and splicing from what I have imagined and what I have seen through historic document.

As I sit here, disappearing into this small moment in the blissful now and the thoughtful mindlessness, the wind jostles the blood red, pure white, legal blue and shining yellow stars into a fitful cacophony of flapping patriotic surrealism.

Leave a comment

Filed under Mr. Stacker

The Poets Wept

The poets wept
The drinkers drank
The stars bled
And the rest fled

What’s left here in the end
Is simply the best of the worst
The unknown dreams of the ones who didn’t care
And the ghosts of the dead

All the bridges have burned
With no hope no religion
All money and only fame
Everyone else elated on the med

Stuck in a loop of a neo revolution 9
Making sense of rubbish in gibberish
A doped up generation coddled under mother’s care
Taking in everything that they are spoon fed

It was always going to end like this
Ashen skies and blood red seas
Walking skeletons and fat pigs
Divided by cracks created in dread

The dread of what was always to come
but no one listened to what the fools said

Because the poets just wept
The drinkers just drank
The stars just bled
And the rest just fled.


Filed under Mr. Stacker