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Like the Czars • Documentary • The Way They Do It • Hollywood’s Death Angel • The 4th of Hell

Paul Lojeski: Each and every Madmen swims In the fear they Rule by, knows The mob will Cower and grovel Almost to the point Of self-extinction.

Like the Czars

Each and every
Madmen swims
In the fear they
Rule by, knows
The mob will
Cower and grovel
Almost to the point
Of self-extinction.
Almost. That’s
The secret worry
Of the madmen:
Going one step
Too far. Like
The Czars,
Their teachers

Like Czars


Watching black and white
film flicker on the screen,
voiceover talking about
the long dead famous actor,
watching scenes of London
poverty, his hometown
neighborhoods, the long dead
poor staring hard at the camera,
as the actor in tux and tails,
then, stepped out of a limo
at a Hollywood gala,
waving and laughing
at the camera. Like today,
the living actors and well-off,
well-dressed and coiffed
in the spotlights, easing
down red carpets, grinning
from ear-to-ear. As for the poor,
well, they look the same
too, beaten down in doorways
but there do seem to be more
of them nowadays, a lot more.
Legions staring hard at the camera.

The Way They Do It

The way they do it is
To hide the bodies,
Whisk them away
Before any witness
Or camera can
Speak to the truth.

And while we drive
To the grocery on a sunny
Summer morning,
We’re assured a bloodless
View of the coming day’s

That’s the gift the rulers
Bring forward, a magic act
Of sorts, sweet sounds
And movie stars, blinding
The eye and mind to those
Missiles falling far away.

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It’s for our own good, though,
That we, the good citizens,
The law-abiding followers
Of this religion called
Consumption are kept in
The dark, as we stroll
Produce aisles, grabbing
Lettuce, squeezing melons,
Gazing at fat, ripe, red tomatoes,
Are kept calm, in a daze,
Kept in the blue groove.

For the other truth is that even
Crumbs tossed at our cozy feet
Become an abiding life force
On these smooth suburban
Roads of smiles and Sirius
Classic Rock and Classic Soul,
An easy ride down Main past
Armies of lush trees, a sleek new
Engine humming, drowning out
Those hellish, far away screams.

Hollywood’s Death Angel

quentin tarantino
punk ass pimp
of whored cinematic violence
out of every
bloody stab wound
gushing, shooting, blowing red
across the stench
of America’s
this two-bit death junkie
stuffing murder up
his putrid ass,
on every deranged
howling piece
of quivering
he can twist
into the lens,
puking nightmares
onto burning screens
to fatten his
this snuff master
of blade,
and hate
this walking
death diarrhea,
scourge, scum, slimy
is writing
and will direct
the film version
of the Manson family’s
(imagine using the word family
to describe that conclave
of vile
venomous shit bags
with their pot stickers
and beady eyes
glazed with red
and the filth
of America’s
love and
of violence—the dark
heartbeat of a foul
and lethal
country) hideous
cowardly crimes
against the holy
breath of life itself.
I say fuck charles manson.
I say fuck quentin tarantino.

The 4th of Hell

guns rule my dreams
as they rule daylight,
maniacs, soldiers,
lunatics, leaders
hail the brains
splattered forth,
the heart sprays
of red brightens
dark skies.
love of the gun’s
bark holds court,
where movie theaters
become slaughterhouses,
where child soldiers
rage on foreign soils,
where guns cocked
are the state of being,
amerika the gun.
amerika death
celebrated as life,
happy 4th of Hell

Paul Lojeski