Thanks …

“It is the quality of one’s convictions that determines success, not the number of followers.”

~ Remus


Thanks For Your Support And For Following “The Resurrection Waltz” !


Apocalypse, Etc.

Bite me ... Apocalypse, Etc.



I am tired of your self-centered

Bullshit & whining ways

Stop this train, stop it now.

For we shall all remain… Dream.


Into this life,

Or the next.

An ode to the dead world that is poetry, lost and faraway.

The ancient soul of Sappho gone and golden days.

Tear these words, voices away. Now only left with memories.

Let the prophets burn,

And create the visions of what shall be

Under the currents and beyond the sleep of the icons reach…

Let us

Speak of that which is human,

Love …this eternal dream

Forget the fools, the mundane

Apocalypse, Etc.

A wild ride,

An action packed extravaganza

With spooky, scary thrills

Coming soon to an idiot near you.

Fuck it… Fuck them.

I’m going out

For a drink &

Kiss my wife & kids


Love thy neighbor

Love thy friends

For this life

Is all too short

To waste.


R.M. Engelhardt 2012

R.M. Engelhardt Poet~Writer, Albany, NY Albany, NY based poet, writer R.M. Engelhardt has published several books over the last decade including Nod~Logos~Alchemy~The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt & others. His current experimental book of poetry & prose is called “Versus-Lexikon” A poet & writer, Engelhardt through his ideas & visions has helped to create a large amount of the Upstate, Albany, NY spoken word~poetry scene and is the host of “SAINT POEM READING SERIES” an Open Forum-Mic For All Poets held every 3rd Monday of each month at The Upstate Artists Guild (UAG).His work has also been published by many journals on the net & in print including Retort, Verve, Industrial Nation, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, Fashion For Collapse, 2nd Avenue, The Angry Poet, Danse Macabre, Full of Crow & many others.

The Queen Of Hearts


They say in Deadwood

Hickok’s final hand included the aces &

eights of both black suits,

A Deadman’s Hand, a 5 card draw

And that death came with it,

But in life it all depends

Upon the cards

That you are dealt.

For I’ve seen the world thru

A narrow glass,

An empty glass

And a terrible glance

That revealed all the best &

The worst…

The worst oh love

The worst kind of chance

In life.

For you can dance with the devil

In the pale moonlight,

You can save & save and work

all your life. And hope… And pray or

Spend. But either way the man

Will come a knocking soon

No matter what… in the end.

For your life can be a million things but

It all depends on you.

For luck is only half the game,

And the rest is up to you.

Because the truth?

Is that you are not

Completely, supremely, or eternally fucked or

Somehow destined to self destruct

But everyone you love will fall in the end

No matter what you do.

So the best kind of dance?

Your best card to chance?

Is always the ace of hearts.

For this, these words are both

A warning and a blessing,

A little bit of wisdom from a man

Whose words will stay true.

That your mind & heart

Must find a chart to

Plot your course upon.


Find a love thats

True, find a soul thats real

And that will never let you down.

And that heart my friend

Is your ace.

So no matter what?

Treat her right.

Rich or poor

Old or young

Thru good times or bad.

 Because all life really

Is based upon on how you play the cards

And the winner always

Takes all…


R.M. Engelhardt 2011


Lou Reed Has A New Edgar Allen Poe-Inspired Graphic Novel

Poe Lou Reed

Lou Reed been quite busy these days. When he’s not collaborating with Metallica on a record, he’s spending time putting together a graphic novel based around his “spiritual forefather” Edgar Allen Poe, called, appropriately, The Raven.

It’s not Reed’s first tangle with the author—in 2003, he released an album, also called The Raven, a Poe-themed project in which “Reed’s poetically streetwise sensibility merged with Poe’s dark chronicles of terror and despair.” Now Reed’s Poe-esque lyrics have been collected into a book and illustrated with paintings by New Yorker cartoonist Lorenzo Mattotti. And yes, the book looks just as creepy as you’d expect.

Lou Reed Has A New Edgar Allen Poe-Inspired Graphic Novel


Ghost Of My Tooth...


From bone to blood to grave.
The tongues of women in countless waves,
Ripped from socket, torn from safe


Survivor of fights & broken pieces, words
Pronounced and apologies given, 


Ripped from socket, torn from safe 


Pain is passing, mortality as well.

I intern you to a place
Upon my shelf.



R.M. Engelhardt




Oh Dear God
Oh see how they bleed
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they plead
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

My Lord;
Who we wait for
Scream for
On the battlefields
Of every war



Oh thy Lord,

You upon
Our side

Their side.

No questions
No explanations

Or ever given.

For my brothers
We will see you
Once more & again

In “Heaven”


Or on the fields of
The Fallen,
And The Honored


Where no uniforms
Are ever worn
As in Valhalla
We all toast

And sing
Another song.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they bleed
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

Oh Dear God
Oh see how they plead
Oh Dear God, my Lord.

See how they are born
Oh Dear God My Lord

And See how they grow
Oh Dear God My Lord

And Dear God?

See how
They Die

“Alone …Screaming”




People Kill People




Where are you now?




Old man, child of the Long Island

Free verse son of America,

Teacher & government work-man?

“Human – Being”


Man… Mind of the spirit

Spirit, in the flesh

Where have you gone?


Now a ghost

Among the leaves,

The rest.


I see your name written in

School books and upon the wind

And within the rain,

And I still hear your songs fill the air

In the forests & the city streets

Body … Electric.

But father?


Where are you now?

Where have you been?

Gone, gone away from

What you loved most, the land

Yet buried beneath the green

Green meadows, valleys & time

Of ages.

Meditating within the oldest of trees

Silent thru out new ages.

For a book is merely paper

But a voice must ask or say

Invoke yea and awaken others from

The vast darkness & the gray

For uncle, poetic father,

Your America has sadly changed.

No longer the free land

Of promise, no longer do we

Dream like you once dreamt

We still fight wars and without hope

Falter & lose ourselves,

Souls within the damned dark & dense.

So uncle, father.

Return and sit here for a while

And bring some comfort the dying of poets, poetry &

The young boys, and now women…soldiers,

Decimated in faraway lands

You never mentioned in your poems

Or ever heard of.

For it rumored

That you are dead.

And yet?

The 21st century & centuries to come

May yet remember thee still,

And write your verse upon some wall in yet

Another revolution coming.

For it is the same world that

Faces us today Walt Whitman,

One of a new slavery & lack of, death of spirit

That you would not begin to comprehend

Where the poor are now

The slaves of corporation & debt

And prejudice

Still runs rampant…yet hidden

Behind best intentions.

So would you,

Father, Uncle Walt

Still stand insolent? Defiant?

Would you, Walt Whitman

Still stand up & among the

Working class?

But alas,

It is no longer your time here

But your heart & soul remain,

For we, the poets who still struggle

Must create our own new voices & names,

Speak, of what is now & not of the past

To audiences not of one land, but many.

So, Uncle? I owe you an apology.

For you, Walt Whitman are dead.

A timeless friend

And a memory

That we must let rest

To create a new vision.

That one day brings your spirit,

Your uncorrupted vision


For if we miss you in one place?

We shall search for you

In another.





End times

The Mayan calendar,

Prophets, sages & warnings

“Fuck it”

Cause all this was all once just “bible prophecy” & science fiction,
& all of that crap that people talked or laughed about

When they got bored, drunk or stoned.

But they,
Were all wrong.


And our world our times our people
Did all this stupid shit,

To ourselves.

What a joke.

NYC, Babylon
The new city of paradise, commerce & whores
And every other major city in the world
Now devastated, now leveled, and now
Laid to waste


So now,
If you are hearing or reading this
Then it’s already too late,
But at least you are still alive.

But then again, like me
Maybe your ass got left behind
After 3 billion people

Bit the dust.

So, let me tell you a story,
Let me tell you
A fairy tale
About how all of this happened
Or will happen
Very soon.

End Time
End Game


It was those idiots,
Those stupid “new world order” bastards
And all of their scientists
Who studied the sacred
Shroud of Turin
That once covered the dead
Crucified body of
Jesus Christ
The very son of God


Who, without asking
Stole his still living genetic
DNA from the blood on the cloth.

These scientists
Who foolishly attempted to clone him,
But failed.

But were able,
Realized that they could take his
Genetic makeup & impregnate over
20 beautiful young women
As an experiment who unknowingly
Gave birth to “mini-gods”
And then went unexpectedly insane, crazy,
Committed suicide or died


And were never seen nor heard from again.

And from the abyss the beast shall come,
And a black colored cloud
Shall cover the world.

Cover, the world.

So now, advance forward
30 some years later.
Where twenty “magic-time kids”
Are alive.
19 boys and one girl.
Raised by the privileged, the rich
And the royal,

As their own.

Who were born
Created, to save humanity
For mommy & daddy
As well as every other
Poor asshole.

Now all adults
Who had spent the better part
Of their lives hiding all their gifts.

Water to wine
And all of the free fish
That you can eat.

More pallor tricks
To save the earth
With plenty.

But what they never thought about
Or realized was this;
That by creating all of these “little messiahs”
That they were not like their daddy “J.C.”

And never would be
But only selfish little bastards of humanity
Pretending to be, all pretty, good looking
Half people, the elite more concerned with
Status, money, partying and fame
Than with the concept of love

Or real love, at all.

With all of their different varying degrees of
Various “”super-Christ” powers but named appropriately
After all of the pantheon of the Greek gods, the most powerful
Of the kids a little boy who became a man named “Apollo”
Yes, Apollo who could take out an entire army casually with only the single
Wave of his hand, and turn all their bodies slowly into dust
As the soldiers would watch in horror, and scream.

So what did you expect?! What were all you stupid bastards thinking when
They didn’t turnout to be saints? When you fucked with the sacred
And caused the world its own death.

As future boy & his click of cronies
All now 35 are all already secretly entrenched,
In governments, politics & commerce
Around the planet.

When suddenly
It all happened
A sunspot, solar flare
A rapture
That knocked out all of
The power
Around the world.

Three days of darkness
Lootings and killings, rape
And the neighbors shooting each other

Down the block.

As millions suddenly vanished

Without a trace.

All the satellites and all the technology “Gone”

When suddenly after 3 days of night
All the power & light’s came back up & the sun returned in
The sky. As all the people of the world rejoiced
And were just thankful
To be alive.

As the word that in all of the turmoil
All of our beloved leaders
Were all dead,
Killed by mobs
In the confusion.

And that’s when they moved in
The mini-gods
Who created false miracles
And who fixed and saved the earth.
Stopped starvation & healed all of the sick & dying,
Ending famine and disease
With a magic wand.

As they finally all revealed themselves
With the wonderful catch phrase
“ We have been sent by God, our father, and we are here to help”

And as all of us just mere humans
So fucked up & desperate just said “Thank you”
And never looked for the truth.

So meet Apollo, our new world leader
And his staff of 10 bretheren,
Running 10 countries under 1 mass government
From what used to be the UN.

No one poor
No one starving
No one hungry
Everyone thankful,
Money glamour
Wealth except for the fact
That we all had little microchips
Implanted into our fucking heads,

The mark … of the beast.

The chips when studied under a microscope revealed the
Circuitry resembling three 6’s
In a row

Put there,
In concern for our own welfare
And safety.

The world now happy
Our lives all beautiful and fine
Until the mini-brat gods
One day decided that the power
To just rule & conquer
Wasn’t … enough,
Wanting to be “Gods” and worshipped.

And anyone, any group, any person
Who challenged them

Got put
To death.

Controlling our lives
Controlling the media
We, never believing that all these loving saints
Or saviors were all really just a bunch of
Drama queens & butchers
Who argued and fought over power.

But all the while
Heaven was watching
And god with all his armies of angels
Had finally
Had “Enough”

And got pissed.

And the four horsemen of the apocalypse
Got their asses kicked “Again”

So there’s your story children,
Your fairy tale foretold,
About the future where mankind fucked up themselves
Looking for miracles around every corner
Instead of believing in themselves.

As we, the remaining “spirit men”
Are left here to guide what’s left of humanity
In the right direction
The sword, now the plow

The cost of life, too much to comprehend.

So here was your lesson, your bedtime story,

But like I said in the beginning

“Fuck it”

And by the way ?

My name
Is Michael…




“And now,

Let us all pray”


Does anybody
Have a cigarette?

Let’s all talk about your day,
Light up simultaneously.

Oh Lord,
I need more sugar
In my coffee

And not that artificial


One on one,
Let’s all talk about
All of your sins,


No hail Mary’s, no regrets
For our God only demands
More cigarettes.

And that you light up
And get happily caffeinated
So that all, will be “forgiven”

Does anybody have another cigarette?

He hears your prayers
So pray, to Saint Marlboro
And they shall all be answered

More coffee?

More taxes?

More bullshit from the masses?

This religion, is getting damn expensive