Three Poems by Paul Corman Roberts


Contrary to popular belief
The poets are the last
To be killed or driven out
When the various gurgling pockets of
Begin to fracture, shrink, divide and multiply
Into a foamy disaffectation
Beneath the economic pressure
That makes a liar out of everyone
Who claimed they had faith
In civilization.

Poets used to be the elite of course;
In the days when only the elite
Were allowed to read and write.

Since then, no practice or profession
Has so sycophantically embedded itself
Into the columns of society
Than that of “poet.”

And this is because genuine poets
Are genuine slaves to words.
And words have always been used
To divide and fracture and
Separate and segregate.
And there is none of this
That is new.

But what the liberal white intellectuals
Tend to forget
Is that while Western Civilization
Faces many humiliating and degrading mileposts
On its slide down history’s timeline
There is still actually quite a long way to go.

But make no mistake about it
And let’s be perfectly clear on this

When the authorities
Begin rounding up the poets
And incarcerating them
En masse,
You can be sure that
It is not the beginning of the end

But a sure sign
That the whole shithouse
Has already gone up in flames.

–          For Mojo R 40 years on down the line



It was a gorgeous day in Hell this afternoon.
Seventy-Five degrees and a gentle breeze,
Flames unobstructed by clouds.

Yeah, a beautiful blue sky day in Hell,
In this city, it’s Heaven’s ambassador to Hell.
The eternal bad seed, the tainted soil of paradise;
Because you know every Heaven has got to have one.

Did you think the place was all brimstone and high impact aerobics in a lake of molten lava for all eternity?
None of our religions tell us that Hell is what we feel, not what we see;
Hell is the ultimate illusion much as it was designed to be.

Hell is
Wall constructed combustion
Line drawn exclusion
Hell is fission and it is fusion.
Hell is the wholesale of consciousness and creativity
by those claiming to be prophets of vision
when in fact they are only visions of profits.
It is where we are told to cling to the sidewalk
and all of its associated storefronts
because if we don’t we’ll have to come back after we die.
Hell is a beckoning, teasing lover;
palpable yet just out of reach;
a mirage that slips not through the fingers
so much as the mind; leaving the heart at war.

And war is against the white blood cells of the nurturing, single welfare Gaia.

Hell is inside you dreamer, individual,
You time-spun creators, you dust-bound poets,
You geodes of star matter made self-conscious.
We are our own angels and demons.
We are the citizens of Hell,
and literally it loves us to death,
because we do shine this dark
and shine this light with an astonishing intensity,

Inside these carbon wrapped marionettes,
On this collapsing proscenium;
We all just want to make it to the cast party baby,
‘Cause Hell is not the hereafter…
… it is…


Ponder the mind
which originally conceived a WMD
designed to maximize
the suffering of the living
and minimize damage
to property, resources and capital

none of the sheer vaporization of particles
provided by the all encompassing H-bomb
or even the conventional A-bomb
nearly as clean and quick
a death one might ask for
almost a blessing
a purifying death

But no
instead here is the lowest bid
the path of least resistance
the all too convenient
dirty bomb
which by force
creates a relatively minor ripple
in the space time continuum
but also manages
to render urban populations
into George Romero extras
in rather large numbers

Take a moment to imagine
everyone you engage with
nearly every day
and every month
and every year
whether you love them
or loath them
but please imagine
every last one of them

with their hair falling out
puking blood the whole day long
third degree burns
eating, sleeping, shitting and breeding
on all their faces
all the time
all the while trying to figure out
the best way to die
while the power plants
and lockboxes
and secured resources
await scavengers
frequently wearing protective gear.

& while a disproportionate number of us
May already be oddly suited
to such an environment
But please do me this one favor
and never forget
Who I guarantee
Was a man
With very rich descendants
Pondered this scenario
For all of us.

2 Responses to “Three Poems by Paul Corman Roberts”

  1. PCR is a cut above the crowd.

  2. charles plymell Says:

    HE BE THAT! Charles Plymell

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