Born in a barn? - I'll take Door #1.

Remember hearing "Were you born in a barn?" any time you left a door open? Back when I was younger it was an expression used to train people to close doors behind them. Parents of course used it but even complete strangers would ask "Were you born in a barn?" if you didn't shut a door when entering or leaving a room or building.

There are lots of good reasons for closing a door, especially one you had to open first... keep the cold & bugs outside, the pets & small toddlers inside, security, privacy etc. It seemed, back then, that closing doors was an expected thing to do and often even considered within the realm of 'manners' - it was good manners to close a door, bad manners to leave it open.

That's how it used to be anyway. Today, things are different. It seems many people no longer consider leaving doors open a bad thing. It's no longer bad manners to not close a door, or maybe calling someone out for not doing so is nowadays... Is vocalizing the rhetorical question "Were you born is a barn" considered bad manners now?

Is taking umbrage with anyone's actions the only form of bad manners left in this new "Me first" world we live in, a society where leaving doors open, spitting on the sidewalk, swearing in public, butting into line-ups and countless other things once considered bad manners are now commonplace?

I live in an apartment building. It's what rental companies like to refer to as a "secure building" because you need a key to gain entry; either that or you must be 'buzzed in' by a tenant or the building manager. This security measure is to ensure our little building community, the apartments serving as people's homes, all have some collective line of first defense to keep out the undesirable elements roaming the city... criminals, canvassers, salesmen, Jehovah Witnesses etc.

Inside the building there are additional secured doors. The storage locker area and laundry room both require additional key entry so just getting into the building doesn't grant access to those areas. (Keeps the salesmen, criminals and Jehovah Witnesses from rummaging through boxes of Christmas ornaments, broken appliances and old books or trying on your underwear fresh and warm from the dryer.)

Having locks on the building's entry points and common-use areas makes sense and these doors should remain closed for good reason. So too should the stairway doors since most of them are designed, in part, to always be closed for reasons of fire suppression and building ventilation system function. Apartment doors should also remain closed to ensure one's cooking odors, noise, pot or cigarette smoke etc doesn't fill the hallway or seep into other people's units.

Keeping doors closed not only makes sense, it's good manners... a consideration to others who might not share your taste for fried fish, Metallica, Colombian Gold or neglected cat boxes. Closing the doors is also a moral obligation not to compromise the safety and security of the community that is the building's inhabitants.

Past experience having demonstrated the best way to keep doors closed is to ensure they will naturally assume that position at rest, all the doors in the building are fitted with a device that will close the them automatically. It's a good system but it only works when people don't purposely screw with it.

A common occurrence is people using some kind of object to hold a door open. This most often happens at the two main entry points to the building and the most used object to hold the door open is a rock from the building's garden area. I understand people doing this while moving in or out of the building - who wants to fight with opening a door while carrying a couch or box of kitchen utensils? I can even sorta understand those who do it while unloading a trunk load of groceries.

What I don't get is why, when they're done moving whatever with multiple trips through the door, they don't close it to return things to the way they were designed and intended to be for the greater good of everyone in the building. Some people do (although hardly anyone ever returns the rock to where they got it, they usually just kick it aside thus creating either a whole new issue or a handy device for the next person to jam the door open - depends how you look at it) but most people just leave the door wide open.

I know enough about human nature and behavior to understand why someone moving out of the building could walk away leaving the door they jammed open as an invitation for anyone to enter. After all, they don't live here anymore and have no further interest in the building's security. It's a pretty good indication that they probably never recognized they were part of a distinct community while living in this building... that they probably only ever think of themselves. I don't particularly like that way of thinking because I find it a symptom of the further decay of our ability as a species to live in close proximity with each other but I get it.

It's harder to understand why the people who are moving in or already live here don't close the entry doors once completing the task that prompted jamming them wide open . They are still here, in this building. Even if they don't recognize their reality as one piece of the whole collective community of building residents, even if they think only of themselves, even if they were in fact born in a barn... wouldn't they, on a subconscious level get an instinctual animal-in-its-den gut feeling recognizing the need for security, a security offered by the simple act of closing a door?

Thanks for reading. Please close the door behind you on your way out.

Madness Echoes

Do the very scary kitchen sounds that echo through the madness
Bring you down?
Do the very scary bedroom scenes that echo through the madness
Twist your dreams?
Do the very scary snakes and birds that echo through the madness
Make it worse?

Echoes never come first.
Madness is like smoke,
It follows fire.

And the fire that envelops me
Touches me
Caresses me
Tosses me on flaming waves
In an endless ocean of sadness.

And the lifeline that I'm holding to
Praying to
Expecting to
Reach you
Leads nowhere.
It's all just dreams
That echo through the madness.

Do the visions in this new dimension
Where no story has a happy ending
Penetrate your sadness
Creep into your madness
To echo through your mind
Like a neon highway sign
To a false reality?

Or is it me?

Madness echoes.
This I know.
Madness makes the echoes grow.
Madness hides behind my face.
Echoes come to take my place.

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

Crack In The Eggshell

Crack In The Eggshell

The crack in the eggshell, it casts a shadow of doubt

If a bird or a reptile will be stumbling out.

The crack in the eggshell, it's where the virus slips in

To dance the Saint Vitus on the creature within.

Better not crack your eggshell unless you're ready for the World.

You might crawl like a lizard, shed your feathers like a bird.

Better not crack your eggshell unless you want some company.

You just might meet a virus, perhaps change genetically.

If you crack your eggshell to see how God designed you

You might find a frying pan with a roaring fire behind you.

Better not crack the eggshell

Ya better not! Better not!

You might find an awful smell

So ya better not! Better not!

You might feed a virus well

Oh whatcha got! Whatcha got?

Better not crack your eggshell

The crack in the eggshell, it casts a sliver of light

Into your hidden darkness, cuts you like a knife.

The crack in the eggshell, it's where the madness appears

To slip into your head and dance between your ears.

Better not crack your eggshell unless you're ready to get hurt.

You might soar like an eagle before crashing to the dirt.

Better not crack your eggshell unless you want some company.

You just might dance with Madness, perhaps lose your sanity.

If you crack your eggshell to see how God designed you

You might find a frying pan with a roaring fire behind you.

Better not crack the eggshell.

Better not crack the eggshell.

Better not! Better not!

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

He Calls You Home - A study of fear

WARNING! 

The following poem contains language and imagery that might be offensive to some readers.

He Calls You Home

He leaves a trail like a slug;

An oily sheen that sends shivers up your back.

He blurs your vision like a drug.

A swirling set of colors fade to black.

He reeks a stench of rotting meat;

A noxious cloud of poison purple gas.

He clings like fungus to your feet.

Trips you

Fucks you

Face down in the grass.

He is the one who follows you around when it's dark,

And you're all alone.

(But you're not alone)

He is the one who breathes nightmares in your ear,

When you're at home.

(And you think you're alone)

He is the one who shits in your front yard

And throws you a bone.

So you are never alone,

He calls you home.

He screams like babies being burned;

A cacophony of haunting tortured cries.

He makes you question all you've learned.

A catastrophic brain-fart full of lies.

He pukes up poison in a bowl;

A deadly diet that will surely make you blind.

He spreads like cancer to your soul.

Traps you

Fucks you

Face down in your mind.

He is the one whose footsteps you hear late at night,

When you're alone.

(But you're not alone)

He is the one who makes you leave a light on,

When you're at home.

(And you think you're alone)

He is the one who shits on your front porch

And writes you a poem.

So you are never alone,

He calls you home.

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Kill The Weatherman (Come on, you know you want to.)

Kill The Weatherman

I'm frozen stiff

I'm boiling mad

I've got an evil plan

Have no doubt

When I thaw out

I'll kill the Weatherman!

His forecast said

A warming trend

Was due to start today

So I thought

Why wear a coat

When I can catch some rays.

Now it's blowing snow

And bitter cold

Enough to freeze my breath

I guarantee

The Weatherman

A slow and painful death!

He's always wrong

He's never right

He always ruins my plans

If I don't die

A Popsicle

I'll kill the Weatherman!

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

Ground Zero

Once upon a time not (too many years from now) in a VERY classy restaurant on the top of the highest mountain...

Ground Zero

"Good evening Ladies and Gentleman.

Welcome to the Ground Zero Restaurant and Bar.

Drinks are on the house.

At midnight,

For your enjoyment

A thermonuclear device

Will be detonated in the Main Lounge.

Have a pleasant evening."

Wasted again but hey that's nothing new.

I'm all alone at a table set for two.

The wreck you left me, don't you know my heart bleeds.

Sometimes a holocaust is just what I need

At Ground Zero!

Sometimes I kick it out of bounds.

Sometimes I overdrive my car.

Sometimes I spread myself around.

Sometimes I take it way too far...

That's where the thrills are.

At Ground Zero!

I better slow down on this cheap remorse.

Don't wanna get too drunk for the main course.

The waiter asks me when my date will arrive.

No one should be alone when they're vaporized

At Ground Zero!

Sometimes I wear it on my face.

Sometimes I think I am a star.

Sometimes I rock it into space.

Sometimes I take it way too far...

That's where the thrills are.

At Ground Zero!

Looks like I go this one all on my own.

This is one special trip I'll take all alone.

The waiter asks me what I'd like for last call.

Sometimes a broken heart needs nothing at all

At Ground Zero!

Sometimes I wonder if it's real.

Sometimes I wonder if you are.

Sometimes I wonder what's the deal.

Sometimes I wonder if I took it to far...

To where the thrills are.

At Ground Zero!

Ground Zero!

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Having Kids - A Non Refundable Exercise

Once while sitting with a friend enjoying some (ahem) condiments on a weekend night we began that time honored tradition of playfully insulting each other. We were ripping on each other with abandon when suddenly he said:

"You're so stupid it's a miracle you even found your way through the Microphyte Doorway"

I was taken aback because I had no idea what the heck that even meant. When pressed for an explanation he said the Microphyte Doorway is "the hole in the egg the sperm goes through." I thought that was pretty damn funny and conceded his victory in that round of insults.

That night and the term "Microphyte Doorway" was soon forgotten and for years it never crossed my mind again... until this poem poured into my head one day...

WARNING: The following poem contains language that may be offensive to some readers. Proceed with caution.

The Microphyte Doorway

He used to suckle at your breast
When he was just a babe.
Now you sit and wonder
What you and your husband made.
He likes to dress in leather.
He acts a little queer.
He's got your favorite goldfish
Stapled to his ear.
He's in trouble with the law.
You think he's smoking pot.
He says he's joined a coven
And you know he drinks a lot.
Sometimes you sit and wonder,
If he's dangerous.
Sometimes you ask your husband,
"Is it because of us?"
It's like having a monster,
Living in your home.
All the little things he does
Chill you to the bone.
When you say you love him,
And want to help him out,
"Fuck you and your stupid life"
Is all that he will shout.
You'd better hide the carving knives
When he comes home to play.
Don't you wish he had missed
The Microphyte Doorway?
The Microphyte Doorway.

She was sure a happy child.
Such a living doll.
Now she smokes the litter,
From the cat box down the hall.
She wears outlandish make-up.
She stays out late each night.
You used to have such special talks.
Now all you do is fight.
Her eyes are glazed most all the time,
Just stares off into space.
Spends just about all her time,
In some secret place.
Sometimes you sit and wonder,
If she's hooked on angel dust.
Sometimes you ask your husband
"Is it her or is it us?"
It's like having a zombie,
Living in your home.
She spends her time shooting up.
She's almost always stoned.
When you say you love her,
And you know what life's about,
She just smiles a vacant grin
Says "Wow Mom, You're far out."
You'd better hide the candy jar
When she comes home to play.
Don't you wish she had missed
The Microphyte Doorway?
The Microphyte Doorway.

-G Laidlaw

Note:- After writing this poem I began to wonder if "Microphyte Doorway" was in fact a legit medical or scientific term for the hole in the egg that a sperm penetrates to effect fertilization. I did some admittedly less than extensive research and could find no reference whatsoever to "Microphyte Doorway" in relation to eggs, sperm, fertilization or anything else which, in retrospect, makes my buddy's insult even better for its creativity.

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

A Poem About Angels

Da Shang Der Flocken Harden

A sailor

Sun-blackened

Drifts upon the sea.

His craft

Barnacle-bound beneath.

Albatross

A sole observer

Of his drift in an empty space.

Eyes salted shut

Lips cracked and raw

Pull a smile to his face.

His water filled lungs can't scream

His waterlogged brain can't dream

So angels sing

Da shang der flocken harden

A hooker

Street hardened

Slumps below a sign.

Neon

Cheap rooms for rent

Reflect her mind.

Nickel bag

The sole survivor

Of her descent

A crazy ride.

Eyes rimmed with age

Arms bruised and raw

Trap the lady inside.

A ruby lipped silent scream

Heroin helped her to dream

So angels sing

Da shang der flocken harden

It's funny

Yet tragic

I think it's my turn.

You

Candle lighted

Ready to burn.

A mystery

The sole reminder

Of magic days loving you.

Eyes brim with tears

So many years

I spent wasted on you.

I'm hurting I want to scream

I see angels when I dream

And they're singing

Da shang der flocken harden

Da shang der flocken harden

Meezer ring dum ho

-G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Straight To Hell

Straight To Hell

Johnny was a good boy
He just didn't stop to think
The night he flipped his T-Bird
After thirteen rounds of drink
The girl he hit was ten
Her life gone when she fell
Then God took her to Heaven
But Johnny went straight to Hell

Sherri had a problem
And she tried to run from it
She bought a bottle of floor wax
And drank up every bit
They thought she was a good girl
But who can really tell
Her mom went to God for answers
But Sherri went straight to Hell

Billy was a nice boy
Except he was a liar
They put him away when the Andersons died
He liked to play with fire
They did an operation
Said his brain was well
Thirty years later via heart attack
Billy went straight to Hell

We think we are good
You know everybody does
But not a day goes by
We don't break some natural laws
We think we're living right
But who can really tell
Until they're with God in Heaven
Or going straight to Hell

-G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Toads That Scream - One for the kids

My friend Scott is a wrestler and an artist and he's also a teacher. He might know someone who will enjoy this poem...

Toads That Scream

Toads that scream

Live by the stream

In the forest deep.

They scream so loud

That all around

No one gets to sleep.

Screaming toads

Make screaming calls.

They drown out other animals.

Screaming toads

Scream out their words.

They even drown out singing birds.

Screaming toads

Go for a swim,

Screaming as the all jump in.

All the forest creatures heard

The screaming toads final words

"We've got to get back out!

Here comes a speckled trout!"

Then there was a splash

And the screaming stopped.

Everything was quiet

Where the toads had hopped.

Now everyone could get some sleep

In the quiet forest deep.

Suddenly toads that scream

Surfaced in the forest stream.

They hopped out on the forest floor

Screaming louder than before.

Toads that scream

Jumped in the stream

Got eaten by a trout.

Toads that scream

Taste way too green

So he spit them out.

Now all around

The forest grounds

No one gets to sleep

Because toads that scream

Live by the stream

In the forest deep.

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Dance Of The Butterfly

Dance Of The Butterfly

I walked out to the meadow,

Sat beside the hedgerow,

To watch the butterflies

Dance across the endless sky.

Gleaming blade in sweating fist,

Drained the will from ravaged wrist...

Drifted to an empty space,

Met the Mutant face to face.

Surrounded by a ring of black

The final stop, no turning back.

He said I'm just another one

Unaware of what he's done.

Fingered beads strung through his hair.

Fixed me with a mutant stare.

Scratched his nose and shook his head

Stoked the fire, in a whisper said:

"Behold the Monarch Butterfly,

Dancing cross the endless sky.

Behold the Monarch Butterfly,

Searching for a place to die."

Then he stirred the sands

With gnarled hands

Passed a feather cross the fire.

With long dead things conspired

To cleave my tainted heart.

The Mutant smiled a mutant smile

And tore my life apart.

Senses reeling I staggered back,

Swallowed by a ring of black.

Thought I heard my own voice scream

When he unveiled the Monarch's dream.

Heard his voice - "What will you do

When the Monarch's dream is through?"

On the run...

Butterfly.

Into the sun...

Butterfried.

What have I done...

Suicide.

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

FREAK OUT (Standing In The Rain)

I'm standing in the rain
And I haven't got a coat
Someone took my sun away
Someone stole my boat
Someone turned my fan up high
And blew away my notes


That's when I freaked out
I got a little strange
No doubt I freaked out
Now I'm standing in the rain


And I cry


I'm standing here in horns
And they haven't got my size
Someone said I love you
Someone told me lies
Someone revved my motor up
Then went with other guys


You know I freaked out
Freaked out


Someone made a dope deal
Someone killed a dream
Someone got wet in the rain one night
And that someone was me


Cause I freaked out
Freaked out


I did some of this did some of that
You know I wanted to belong
I didn't figure once would hurt
But man was I proved wrong
I guess my watch must have stopped
Where have those years all gone


Must have freaked out
Cause I'm standing in the rain
Today Tomorrow Yesterday
Somehow they're all the same
Cause when you're freaked out
Freaked out
And you're standing in the rain
You have to admit there's no dodging it
Your brain's the one to blame


FREAK OUT
FREAK OUT
FREAK OUT


There's pain in the rain
There's rain in the pain
There's blame in the brain
And there's shame in the blame


So I cry


I'm standing in the rain
And I just can't catch the tide
Thought I had it all worked out
Thought I had it locked inside
But it all went to hell in a glass-bottomed boat
The day John Lennon died


That's when I freaked out
Turned upside down inside out
That's when I freaked out
Freaked out


Someone pulled the plug out
Cause I'm standing in the rain
Yes I'm standing in the rain again
And I'm getting wet


So I cry

- G Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

The Author's Introduction to "FREAK OUT"

"FREAK OUT came out of nowhere. Usually I get a precognitive sense that a poem is getting close, usually just a feel of its basic emotional direction but sometimes a couple words or lines will rise high enough to recognize what they are but vanish too quickly to recall them even seconds later.

These types of 'thoughts' (for lack of a better word)are a constant companion, awake or asleep. They are always there, always bubbling and moving just below the surface of my consciousness controlled thought process. I would describe them visually as not unlike the refracted dapples of light on the bottom of a swimming pool... able to be seen but impossible to grasp.

When these subsurface thoughts enter my conscious mind they change into something more akin to the blotches and spots of light seen when closing the eyes after staring into a bright light. I'm not 'thinking' anything, not 'creating'. I'm waiting for that shape of light to break to see what spills out and sometimes I attempt to write it down.

Anyway, my miserable attempt to describe the 'process of poetry' (at least for me) is more to illustrate that there is a process of sorts even though the poetry is spontaneously 'birthed' (but fully developed) from a blotch of color in my head AND I can usually tell they're coming.

FREAK OUT came right out of the blue. No warning. A fast rising mahogany and gray amoebic shape eclipsing all other thoughts. I was fortunate to be sitting with paper and pen handy but even then barely had time or ability to scribe the words spilling into my brain. It was as visceral a process as projectile vomiting except it was the Under World part of my brain doing the spewing and my conscious mind was the bowl. (A 'freak out' indeed.)

Many times the poems that pour into my head are accompanied by colors, scents, images of various clarity and even music. Not FREAK OUT. It came with a roar of freight trains, thunder and chainsaws. So tangible was this auditory hallucination that I sat dazed (and convinced my ears were actually ringing) for some minutes after I'd stopped scribbling lines.

I dreaded reading FREAK OUT for the first time because I feared feeding the words back into my head would again unleash the maelstrom that begot it, even though at that time I had no clear idea what the words even were, let alone what they said. I won't share what FREAK OUT means to me. There's no point. No one sees things the same way. Whether it's poetry, sunrise or roadkill everyone's experience is unique to themselves.

If the choice was mine, FREAK OUT wouldn't exist. None of them would."

- G Laidlaw

What I Is - A study of fear

"Be afraid"

If ever there was a blueprint for the root cause of everything we do, "be afraid" is it. Fear is the base motivator for all human thought, action and ultimately survival as a species.

Fear lurks behind everything we do, dominates our lives, fuels our decision processes and rules our existence. To believe otherwise is folly. The evidence is all around us and everywhere inside us... if one is not too afraid to see it.

To live is to fear.

The following original poem by G. Laidlaw is one of a continuing series exploring the fear / human dynamic...

What I Is

I ain't Jesus

I ain't the Devil

I dig my graves

With a golden shovel

That I stole from a beggar-man

Scratching life from poverty sand

Eyes raised to the skies

Dark brilliance inside

I dig a hole

'Cause your cancer's alive

You've heard all about me

I'm all that and more

An' you know what I is

'Cause we've met before

I'm the acid rain that ruins a perfect day

I'm the cold sore on your lip that just won't go away

I'm the dark stretch of highway when you run out of gas

I'm the rings left on the bar by the alcoholic's glass

That's what I is

I ain't Ozzy

An' I ain't Alice

I drink my poison

From a silver chalice

That I stole from a little fag

Sniffing glue from a paper bag

Eyes filled to the brim

Cold misery within

I drink a toast

To your nightmares and sin

You've heard all about me

I'm all that and more

An' you know what I is

'Cause we've met before

I'm the unknown soldier with a drumbeat all my own

I'm the tiny click you hear when you pick up the phone

I'm the lights in your vision when you stand up too fast

I'm the heat in the shock wave of a nuclear blast

That's what I is

I ain't just me

I ain't you either

I spin my webs

With black widow spiders

That I stole from a gutterfly

A ripped up pissed on butterfly

Eyes numbering eight

Hold violence and hate

I cast a strand

And thus seal your fate

You've heard all about me

I'm all that and more

An' you know what I is

'Cause we've met before

I'm the ember in the fire that falls onto the rug

I'm the number you can't find when Junior eats the drugs

I'm the knot in your gut when you fold and lose the game

I'm the million cells that die every time you snort cocaine

That's what I is

I ain't finished

I ain't yet begun

To shoot these bullets

From this golden gun

That I stole from your unborn son

Destined to be deaf blind and dumb

Eyes centuries old

Vile horrors untold

I'll fire a shot

Through your heart and your soul

You've heard all about me

I'm all that and more

An' you know what I is

'Cause we've met before

I'm the odor in the air that calls the flies to feast

I'm the evil in Man and the number of the Beast

I'm the pain in your head when the truth is shown to you

I'm the empty void that's waiting when your life is through

That's what I is

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Just Another Freak - A study in confronting reality

People have a seemingly compulsive need to create a mental/emotional picture of the world, their worth, social status and their own self image. People believe this creation of their own mind is reality. Sometimes, they find out how wrong they are when confronted with what is real. Sometimes, when that mental safety net rips and they plummet from the security of their mistaken belief of what's real they never stop falling into a horror they cannot fathom because it IS reality.

Everyone of us walks a tightrope between what we think and believe is real and what really is.

The following original poem by G. Laidlaw is about one person falling off that tightrope...

Just Another Freak

Your mind is on your image as you leave the office tower.

You join the throng of puppets on the street.

He is just another piece of stinking human flotsam.

No more alive than the filthy sidewalk underneath.

You might have seen him (and ignored him) many times before,

Or maybe you disdainfully stepped past others of his kind.

Tied securely to your puppet strings until you meet his gaze.

You've seen him with your eyes before but never with your mind.

He cuts your strings with a glance. You fall crying to the ground.

No longer as a puppet are you so cleverly disguised.

Your insulating plastic bubble shatters with the weight

Of the truth you see dancing in his eyes.

He licks the foam of madness from his lips,

Pulls a greasy knot of hair from his brow.

His eyes burn fever red as he rapes you with his gaze.

Every dog has his day and his is now.

The scrape on your knee burns with the memory of nylon.

You kiss the dirty sidewalk with your cheek.

Crowds of plastoid people pass by but they don't help you.

When you fall you're just another freak.

He sniffs at the hint of fear, escaping past the perfume

You sprayed on your neck a thousand years ago.

His snot encrusted nostrils flare in eager hunger.

His euphoric state of madness makes him glow.

You cannot reconcile this harsh reality,

With what you thought was real just before

You met the rabid gaze of an honest man,

And for the first time in your life found out the score.

He ripped away the plastic persona

That you carried like a shield everywhere.

He exposed you to yourself and you crumpled.

Fear and loathing of yourself too much to bear.

He moves like a snake through the layers of your aura.

His rancid breath burns like hot wax on your cheek.

Cry out if you want to but the puppets will not hear you.

You've fallen now you're just another freak.

When his scabby hand touches you it burns your skin like fire.

You lay there paralyzed in a spreading pool of piss.

You spent your life planning all the things that you would do.

Never for a moment thinking it would come to this.

Your reality was smoke and mirrors, it will not save you now.

Hiding from the truth has made you weak.

He is from the real world, come to claim your ass

For you, my fallen puppet, are just another freak.

He's ripped away your plastic shield.

Your inner self is not concealed.

Your destiny has been revealed.

Your fate it seems is truly sealed.

A life of truth with no appeals.

Honesty accepts no deals.

Now you know how it feels

To be just another freak

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

When Bowie Sings

When Bowie Sings

Behold the girl dancing lightly 'cross the broken glass

Clutching tightly to her bosom a key of golden brass

Does she dance to drive away the cancer deep inside her

Does she know we watch her dance and Death dances beside her

Her mind is like the sunset it changes every night

Her eye are full of long dead candles never showing light

She's imprisoned by the mirror crack and the horror that it brings

But oh what a rush she gets when she hears Bowie sing

When Bowie sings it changes things

His voice

It sets her free

Sometimes it seems when I want to scream

It does

The same for me

Behold the boy painting pictures crayons and Vaseline

Clutching tightly in his fingers a tale of Dragon dreams

Does he paint a portrait of the Demon come to blind him

Does he know we watch him paint and Death watches behind him

His mind is like a blackboard that's never been erased

His eyes are full of tortured screams that never left his face

He's imprisoned by the Scorpion and the horror of its sting

But oh what a rush he gets when he hears Bowie sing

When Bowie sings it changes things

His voice

It sets him free

Sometimes it seems when I want to scream

It does

The same for me

Behold the children running 'round 'neath the darkened sky

Clutching tightly to a daydream they were born to fly

Do they run to the future and its hint of certain doom

Do they know we watch them run and Death will arrive too soon

Their minds are like the sunrise that hasn't happened yet

Their eyes are full of perfect odds but they're too young to bet

They're imprisoned by Human Instinct and the horror that it brings

But oh what a rush they get when they hear Bowie sing

When Bowie sings it changes things

His voice

It sets them free

Sometimes it seems when I want to scream

It does

The same for me

- G Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

The Superficiality of Beauty

Judging another by appearance is hardly a trait exclusive to humans. One has only to look at the animal kingdom to see evidence of that everywhere. Birds, fish, insects and more judge potential mates, threats and food sources (and those to avoid) based solely on the visual presentation of others.

It's safe to say that all species with eyes have a connection between ocular input and their subjective mind but perhaps only humans take visually induced subjective judgments beyond instinctive needs to survive. Humans judge others purely on appearance all the time.

With that in mind, the following is an original poem by G. Laidlaw

The Superficiality of Beauty

The Superficiality of Beauty

Can cause its share of grief,

If the subjective opinions of others

Impose negative beliefs

On the soul, spirit and character

Of the person underneath.

And from the infliction of such cruelty

Where does a person find relief,

When the superficiality of their beauty

Reflects jealous disbelief

In those too blind to see

True beauty lies beneath?

- G. Laidaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

I Used to be a Werewolf

I was speaking to friend yesterday and he suggested I post this original poem by G. Laidlaw. Written like all the Author's poetry - in one burst of a creative "mind bubble" - and like many of the works that have appeared previously in Dew On The Newts, it is an autobiographical narrative of real life events.

I Used to be a Werewolf

I remember your place

With the funky God's-eye thing,

Hanging on the wall

With your hippy-trippy string.

I stumbled through the doorway

Fell face first in the room.

Threw up beer and whatever else

I drank that afternoon.

It might have been the mushrooms,

It could have been your hair.

Something really freaked me out

When the full moon found me there.

It framed me in the picture window

That I pushed you through.

I'm glad to see you made it.

The scars look good on you.

You know I used to be a Werewolf

But I'm alright now-OOO!

I remember your tires

Leaving rubber on the road.

Is it any wonder your car

Was the first one that I rolled?

Friends don't let their friends

Drive if they are drunk.

So I took away your car keys

And put you in the trunk.

When I checked the rear-view,

I saw the full moon in the sky

Which freaked me so I floored it...

I made that sucker fly!

Skid marks in the headlines,

Graphic footage on the news.

I'm glad to see you made it.

The scars look good on you.

You know I used to be a Werewolf

But I'm alright now-OOO!

I remember your eyes

Tracing circles by the door,

Where you might have dropped a rock

Of crack onto the floor.

It's hardly a good habit

But it still buys you the farm.

From a simple mountain garden

To a gold mine in your arm.

Welcome to my Never-Where.

A world of cheaper thrills,

Where Santa shoots up heroin

And the moon is full of pills.

Someone shouted "Save yourself"

And I forgot to pull you through...

I'm glad to see you made it.

The scars look good on you.

You know I used to be a Werewolf

But I'm alright now-OOO!

- G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Ode to the Wild Side

WARNING!

This original poem by G. Laidlaw contains language 

and imagery that may be offensive to some readers.

The people it's about did exist and their stories are true.

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

ODE TO THE WILD SIDE

Maria Alundra Consuela Ariba

Queen of the Gypsies or last Queen of Sheba

All of her life a woman denied

All of her life a Diva inside

Dressed as a peacock leads the Gay March of Pride

Funny the magic memories bring

I thought I heard Lou Reed's colored girls sing

Jerry came out when he was sixteen

They fractured his ribs and ruptured his spleen

Tough loggers and good ol' boys scared of a fag

Now the kid from a small town dressed up in drag

Is the prettiest corpse in the ugliest bag

Funny the magic memories bring

I can almost hear Lou Reed's colored girls sing

Junked out and bruised is Vaseline Sally

Working her corner in Gasoline Alley

Hep-C and AIDS makes it ten bucks a trick

Horny husbands and fathers use her for their kicks

Do they know what it is that's sucking their dicks

Funny the magic memories bring

Close my eyes and I hear Lou Reed's colored girls sing

G. Laidlaw

Highway Cucumbers

Highway Cucumbers

Life ain't a through-way

Or heavenly foreplay.

It's an unscripted one-way

That has to end someday.

You don't captain the ship

You fall and you slip

Insignificant drip

On a Mobius Strip

These ain't cute numbers

Highway cucumbers.

All that you've seen

And all you have dreamed

Gets sandwiched between

Your liver and spleen.

All that you've heard

And all you have learned

Is food for the worm

When you crash and burn.

These ain't cute numbers

Highway cucumbers.

G. Laidlaw

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Depression, One Size Fits All

The following two original poems by G. Laidlaw look at a condition nobody is immune from. (Even the dead can suffer from it. How many happy ghosts do you hear about?) If you've danced with this dragon, you know just how cruel a master it can be. If you haven't then you have no idea just how bad it can get. Pray it doesn't choose you.

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Gray Today

Drag a cloud across the Sun

Make it rain on everyone

Drain the colors leave just gray

Make the whole World go away

Crush the smile of a circus clown

Pull a rainbow to the ground

Crash an airplane every day

Make the whole World go away

Pour a flood across the Earth

Kill a dream before its birth

Pick a God and to Him pray

Make the whole World go away

Find this poor man take what's his

Make life harder than it is

Fill me up with shades of gray

Make the whole World go away

G. Laidlaw

To The Zoo

She stares into the mirror but she doesn't see her face

Her answer's getting clearer but her question's been erased

So she turns to the closet and picks out the yellow dress

That she burned with a cigarette the last time she confessed

To thoughts obscene

The dirty dreams

That fill the night completely with her screams

Somewhere deep inside herself she knows exactly what to do

Go To The Zoo

She puts on the yellow dress and stares into the mirror

Jumbled colors in a mess but her reflection's getting clearer

So she turns to the razor blade with its edge of gleaming steel

Draws lines across her arm in a moment all too real

Sanguinary rain

Crimson drops of shame

Fall upon her yellow dress

Paint a picture of her pain

Somewhere deep inside herself she knew exactly what to do

Go to the Zoo

G. Laidlaw

Depression Canada

Suicide

"Don't worry, be happy" - Meher Baba

A Love Poem For The Ages

Love... it can be humbling. The following original poem by G. Laidlaw is all about the humbling power of love...

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Nodrog's Lament


Your beauty decrees
Moonbeams and Starlight
Through Space and Time
In cosmic battles compete,
Striving for the honor
Of briefly dancing
Circles 'cross your cheek
While you dream.


Let me gaze not into your eyes
Lest I become spellbound
Lost amid the kaleidoscopic pinwheels
Of sunlight and rainbows
Dancing in opalescent splendor
'Neath your lashes,
Teasing, enticing me with
Veiled glimpses of passionate realms
Deep within your Soul where
Love and laughter cavort
Like nectar-sated butterflies
Spinning secret tapestries
On the warm evening breezes
Born of a late Summer's Eve.


Smile not when I am so enraptured
For it might embolden within me belief
If my heart is true
My intentions pure
I may, like quiet mist, slip shadow-quick
Into the translucent rays of Divine Creation
Emanating from your Soul.
To therein find the key
Enabling me to solve the riddle
To earn, finally
The right to stay
Beside you forever.


Ah, 'tis lovesick folly indeed
For truly you are
The Envy of Angels
Sullen and angry with God
For passing them by
To linger in your light.
They who wear the arrogance of permanence
Squander the luxury of time
Could only watch aghast
As God
Upon the delicate bloom
Of a mortal human vessel
Did bestow His gifts
Heavenly beauty and feline grace.


Truly
A fool am I
Who dares to dream
Beauty of such perfect balance
In fragile iridescence wrapped
Could be entrusted to a creature
Brutal and awkward as I.


G. Laidlaw.

For The Bird (Lovers)

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
David Herbert Lawrence

Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.

Salvador Dali

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.
C. S. Lewis 

Just as there are predatory birds, so there are predatory ideas

Elie Wiesel

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

 

You can see more bird pictures by fotogordo here

Ridin' The Rails - A Story About Drug Abuse

Drug Abuse doesn't get much press these days what with Ecological, Financial and World Political news taking up much of the airtime (and thus people's minds) but that doesn't mean drug abuse doesn't still affect thousands of families across Canada and the rest of the world each and every single day.

The following original poem by G. Laidlaw is a true life prophetic obituary written about one single case of drug abuse and its impact...

© Copyright by the Author. All rights reserved. Used with permission

Ridin' The Rails

You were a happy married man

You and your wife made lots of plans

Now you're in the Devil's hands

Dying on his installment plan

And your wife don't understand

And your kids don't understand

This is the story of your life and other haunted tales.

You're ridin' the rails.

Feed the poor. End all war. Split the atom. Save the whales.

You're ridin' the rails.

Used to be handy

Until the nose candy

Took away your will to live

Ripped away your will to give

Stole away your power to love

Stripped your faith in God above

Killed your spirit ruined the man

While you sat there making plans.

Someone else screwed you over? Man it never fails.

You're ridin' the rails.

They might be invisible but you can see their trails.

You're ridin' the rails.

Little voices in your head

Fill you up with thoughts of dread

Scared of becoming paranoid

Humor gone easily annoyed

Conspiracy theories fill your mind

They're out to get you! All Mankind

Traps and monsters of every kind!

That's what you see when you're snowblind

Standing behind the curtain hiding from the mail.

You're ridin' the rails.

Zombie-fried paranoid and thirteen shades of pale.

You're ridin' the rails.

A mind unclear

Is easily upended

A mind in fear

Cannot be defended

If my rhyming's queer

No need to be offended

Do your own line here:

(Yes, the pun's intended)

Got a fridge full of food but your appetite's failed.

You're ridin' the rails.

You've lost a hundred pounds, a hundred years, since you last stepped on the scales.

You're ridin' the rails.

Priorities inverted

Authorities alerted

Responsibility averted

Morality perverted

Family deserted

Dark side asserted

With the Devil you flirted

To his powder converted

Forsake responsibility and all that it entails.

You're ridin' the rails.

Such intoxicating power! Truth beside it pales.

You're ridin' the rails.

Things have changed forever more

You're not the man you were before

All that matters is the score

Always wanting more and more

And more and more and more and more!

Frantic search through the garbage for a non-existent bale.

You're ridin' the rails.

Sitting in the dark chewing your fingernails.

You're ridin' the rails.

You burned a deadly hole

Through your nose, your brain, your soul

You're no longer whole

You think you have control

But the Devil holds the cards

And mirrors always break in shards...

Now shallow breathes are few

There's a smell of death on you

Got a brain full of snakes and skin full of snails.

You're ridin' the rails.

Bought yourself a ticket to the land of pointy tails.

You're ridin' the rails.

Don't even try

To brush the lie

From inside your eye

Don't even try

To kiss the sky

It's passed you by

Don't even try

To say you tried

Just lay down and die

Goodbye

8-Ball in the pipe burns like a coffin full of nails.

You're ridin' the rails.

M.E. will read your secrets in the blood of your entrails.

You're ridin' the rails.

You're ridin' the rails.

You're ridin' the rails.

- G. Laidlaw

Life is worth saving.

Canadian Assembly of Narcotics Anonymous

Addiction Intervention

Not all screams for help come from the mouth.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

The following is an original poem by G. Laidlaw. © Copyright by the author. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Collateral Damage

A broken doll,

Falls from the hand

Of a crying little girl.

Her baby brother's

Vacant eyes,

Reflect the bruises on her heart.

They huddle,

Together in the closet

Trembling,

Like rabbits

In the headlights of an oncoming car.

Meanwhile;

In the kitchen,

The heat of battle warms the blood

Of generals; 

Too blinded

By the thrilling familiarity

Of their own private war,

To notice the blood

Of innocent casualties,

Soaking the battleground.

~~**~~

Help Stop Domestic Violence

Partners in Prevention

Domestic Violence & Abuse Help Guide