Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

I Want To Recall

Posted: July 10, 2011 in Beauty, Love, Poetry, Women
Tags: , , , , ,

I want to recall that dangerous feeling,
of slick warm bodies moving, rubbing, twisting,
thrusting pleasures forbidden by stiff conventions and
banished to bedrooms; I want to be adventurous, for
moans to echo sibilant through midday corridors against
sunlit furniture or counters or bare floors, no reason
but lust, pure and animal and passionate; I want to feel
longing between open thighs begging for release, hot desire
flowing openly, fingers touching, legs, lips, mouths, hands
tangled and wrapped securely, inviting skin demanding pleasure that
I want so badly to be mine again; intertwined under sheets and quiet shade,
comfort awaits me, tempting in its voluptuous pose, craving soft caresses of skin
on skin; and I want, I want, I want.

this temptress of a keyboard says “sell me your secrets”
but i got more than i can hold in one bag
and the hags in the corner say whatcha gonna order
when the bastards in your life order something that’s more
than what you’re able to contain
and you sings a sweet hauntin refrain that echoes
and changes above dripping chains filled with lullabies that
say goodbye and give you pie when you’re down and dry
from a safer place, from some chosen lace,
a low down dirty town sown scoundrel ready to poundrel
your thoughts into gross indignant disgrace that will follow
you from an ant’s death to the grave,
and just when you’ve saved your last bowl of beef and noodles
little will you know what oodles through the cracks
and the crevices and all sorts of services of the life
YOU lived and learned and sobered up from, you
sunofabitch that never deserved any forgiveness from
NO MAN, NO HOW.

Born of Rock

Posted: March 14, 2011 in Poetry

He dipped a scalpel slowly into a vivid velvet vivisection,
the ground around the iron blade cracking,
offering up only dust, no blood, a tectonic incision.
From the wound he hid, knowing he was lacking
in the nerve to keep steady,
to keep his traitorous knife ready.

Covering up his deeds with laugh and smile,
he made small talk and enjoyed his time there;
knowing well all the while
that his victim was still bleeding, still offering a stare.
And his pulse it would quicken
and the silence would thicken.

Not too long after his own transgression
he abandoned all pursuits and locked himself away,
a childish example of true regression,
and away from all eyes he would plan to stay.
Never taking quick moves,
marinating in booze.

I chose very quickly to demonize his actions,
though my own could be viewed as just the same.
I was the traitor with fewer distractions,
a bearer of rationalized shame.
Bear with me in hypocrisy
and let me rest in idiocy.

Seventeen Jewels

Posted: March 9, 2011 in Poetry, Uncategorized

Pulled from the wreckage of a dead man’s life,
two bronze legs sit impaled on a circular disk, dull metal limbs that
suspend a glass orb ringed by a brass shawl.
Roman numerals edge his face, his arms are trapped at two minutes
past eight o’clock; morning or night, he will not tell you.
A black mark on his forehead, could be eyes and nose and mouth,
could be dragonfly or four blotches, mistakes left hasty.
His back is clear, deceiving and peppered with motes of embedded
dust particles, a shield to workers on strike: they don’t move.
Amidst those gears that would grind imperceptibly into operation
lay the inset of seventeen flecks of a precious ruby,
cracked stone split and fashioned into
a distiller of friction.
Imagining Uncle Fred leaning closer to inspect the glass, tapping
experimentally upon it. His back straining against metal,
trapped in his chair, mind still free to wonder
who had constructed such an object,
name erased by time. His eyes
catch the dull pink glaze
set into the gears.
Wondering, was it broken when he had it, fleamarket purchase or
old family heirloom, his elegant face frozen proud
by the passage of frigid years, clockwork eased
to a halt by a lack of proper cleaning and real
maintenance deserved by such a
magnificent treasure.
One day, maybe too soon for me to know,
someone else will be combing
through the objects that I have left behind,
and they will find the small brass tower and
they will wonder these same questions,
their eyes roaming over the metal inscription
proclaiming “17 JEWELS”.

Hung Over Sam’s Town

Posted: March 9, 2011 in Poetry

There are some times that I don’t feel free
amidst a crowd of those that call themselves my peers
and it’s starting to get to me.

Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment:
not all of us will have star careers.
There are some times that I don’t feel free.

When we never mean what we meant,
no time to correct later in the years
and it’s starting to get to me.

When we can’t pay our rent
our heads are soaked in tears.
There are times that I don’t feel free.

All those applications we’ve sent
are completely drenched in our fears
and it’s starting to get to me.

From the first time your pants began to tent
to the last time you shift into the wrong gear;
There are some times that I don’t feel free,
and it’s starting to get to me.

In real life

Posted: February 22, 2011 in Poetry

It’s like cold sweat niggling sort of fear
piercing the back of your head, the sensation
of being watched or followed or studied
like some sort of experiment.
A real icy generational feeling that
creeps through like a goddamn chemical
disease sifting through the air and
everyone coughs up blood in their
bathroom sinks and nobody tells anyone
else because they all think
it’s only their problem and we never
communicate and find out what’s wrong.
The genuine article of terror, a sense of
immoral displacement that you try to
distance yourself from with alcohol
and videogames and reality TV because
you really don’t want to think about
what comes after the endless weekends
of microwave diets and a predictable
litany of classes and financial
aid payments and groping each other
in sweaty ten-feet-square dorm rooms.
We sure as hell don’t think about it
because it is more terrifying than
anything we have fucking known.

Garage

Posted: February 16, 2011 in Poetry

We would sit
cold and damp
concrete and dry
cleaners all around
old sixties records
and holes in
the walls from
splintered drumsticks. I
remember or I
think maybe that
time I broke
a stick on
the edge of
a snare drum
and Eli laughed
and stabbed it
into the wall
like a knife.
Violence second nature
in a calming
cleansing way that
never made me
feel threatened. We
were separate from
the house, it
was asylum from
a small town
mentality that we
were far too
weird to inhabit,
and so we
would take walks
along Christmas time
bedecked streets, replete
with these fucking
inflatable Santas that
we talked about
burning to ashes.