1986 -    27 followers
Brass Knuckles Mike arrived into the world today as an evolution from the former, Michael C. Polyard who had found that he had indeed been on the frontlines of a cognitive war... within himself. A living paradox, a contemporary mover and shaker, a pirate chasing booty... BKM is all of them. And now he brings his stories to you.
Brass Knuckles Mike arrived into the world today as an evolution from the former, Michael C. Polyard who had found that he had indeed been on the frontlines of a cognitive war... within himself. A living paradox, a contemporary mover and shaker, a pirate chasing booty... BKM is all of them. And now he brings his stories to you.
Brass Knuckles Mike
Jan 18      Jan 18

This is not a poem.
This is a rant.

I will put on my rage face,
And paint the town red,
And "just go crazy, man"
With the company of myself
In the comfort of my own home
Because I can tear my shirt,
Or draw a knife
Or shout shakespear off a balcony
And I openly scream at the shadows
Who answer with silence
I can behave badly
And if I am my only witness
I can sleep at night
Without the peace and solitude that comes from iron bars
And padded cells
I can fight with myself and indulge in the guilty pleasures
That make me feel sullied and stupid
I can argue with a hundred dream girls
And when I sleep,
They are still there in my dreams
There is no loss or losing
I can spend three hundred dollars
Monthly on alcohol
If it saves me three thousand on sanity
I can look in the mirror and see a hundred different faces
Each more honest to its emotion than the last
I can bite my tongue to spite my face and
Laugh that it was my reflection that drove me to do so,
You never know what that son of a bitch will say
When i am not looking
I dont spend the night on the town
Because I no longer need to surround myself with people.
I no longer need to go out to buy a hat
That suits me and makes me look interesting or meaningful
When I sit alone at the bar
I have no one to impress except myself
And myself already knows I am unimpressive.
There is no one to disappoint
And while this seems like a sad tale,
The truth is that it is the free-est I've ever felt.
In the sanctity of a space that is mine
Surrounded only by people I disagree with
My reflections
And shadows
And to be able to write this while wearing underpants.
Bukowski was right
God is dead

The last line is ironic. If you get it.

Sometimes I spit
To let the saliva
On my lips

Its stupid cold
A cold of the kind
That effects the synapses
Of the mind

So cold the the very molecules
Experience a slowing of time
That I
Cannot taste

Cold so that the frozen ground
Refuses to accept
The burial shroud

A kind of cold
That dinosaurs
Dreamt of in nightmares

Planetary bodies
Far more distant from ours
Are warmer

And still the saliva


Moist on my lips


And dripping

A defiant middle finger
Shouting damn physics
Damn the evidence

Nothing can be as real and limiting as this

Biology at war with
The law of thermodynamics

A molecular battle to exist

And still the cold persists

Jenny plays the diplomat
While Mark gets another round for us
And Graham sits at the bar waiting to sing along in a praise chorus
And Tommy plays guitar and we all gather round to listen
To songs of wide eyes and closed off hearts
But this is just the beginning
And Henry is a classic post modern
Renaissance poet
Who talks of stocks and figures
And something to do with pork belly futures
And Ians dressed to kill looking like an 1830s colonel
Sipping his mint julips and quoting from the radio
Jaimie dances by herself atop the broken wooden benches
Jeff is in his own world pondering the purpose of building fences
And the gang has all assembled here
With the almost famous for a weekend
At the flattest edge of our narrow world
Locked in at the days inn
And any one of us could've left
Instead we passed out on the floor
The night grew too quick to hazy
To read the push sign on the door
Not that it would've mattered
Even if we had a plan to escape
The motivation would only come when
The well ran dry of libations
But here in this little pub
Of characters and long lost loves
Theres only just one thing
Keeping us locked in at the days inn
The nod and the name
That comes with a weekend up in flames
The stories that we tell our children
Of the good old glory days
With fire in our bellies and passion in our hearts
And the urge to break convention
To survive when the glory fades
And here in the lobby of this Days Inn
The pulses in our veins beat in the same percussive time
Over well-drinks, cigarettes, and Sarah's shitty wine
Aristocrats and acrobats, diplomats and thieves
Every single one of them famous this new year's eve
Never looking to the exits for here's where we exist
Locked in at the Days Inn,
Locked in for a weekend
Locked in at the Days Inn
and this is still just the beginning.

I got christened just in case
Marriage in a church was my girls desire
I became an acolyte
So in church I could play with fire
You probably think I write my cool lines
Without any help
You think I make my fortune all by myself
But look a little more closely and see
Most of my lyrics were written by somebody else
I know I'm not going to heaven
Being good could never pay the bills
I made a far better super villian
Let the angels come and take me straight to hell

You think this bitter happiness is good
But I know it ain't
I never wanted
To be revered
As a mother fucking saint
False idols, empty titles
People just grow to hate
My crucifixtion is past its expiration date

I know I'm not going to heaven
I could sing a million hymns
They wouldnt let me in
I know I'll never make it to heaven
Its a dangerous chance just for me to exist
And it comes with far too great a risk

So give me your tired,
Your pious and poor
I'll show you gamblers,
Sinners and whores
None of us are going to heaven
God's cushy cloud has just too good a view
Im not suited to share in his heaven
I'm not righteous enough, and neither are you

I know Im not going to heaven
I like it far too much to drink and smoke and curse
I have no desire to be forgiven
A surface of sin just hides something worse

I know I'm not going to heaven
None of my friends would be there anyway
Cause none of us are going to heaven
This flock of sheep has gone long astray
And we're not going to heaven
For those who make it, its all just as well
We dont want any part of your heaven
I'll see the rest of you sick mother fuckers in hell

Brass Knuckles Mike
Nov 8, 2013      Nov 9, 2013

My home has been invaded.
Not by the usual suspects.
Instead, by the ravenous locusts of judgement.
Of the "I told you so's" and not good enough's.
A territorial plague that infests the very structure of molecules.
Never has a room so full felt so empty.
They digest.
Devouring the fabric of electron bonds
To where the air itself is heavier than water
And my lungs choke,
Desperate for smoke.
The condescending eyes,
The pollution of a space I once called mine.
A space once pristine has now
Festooned itself in patternous greed
Where opinion is paragon before law
And the laws once laid
Leave a cavitated wake
As they lay helpless by the wayside
Waiting for a passer-by
To claim the unclean deed
And draw away what sickens me
The raw and busted hide
Plays brave but cracks to the festering wound
Of unbridled, wild pride.
So strong are those that sit on perceived thrones
That even in another's house
Basic courtesies are considered contrived.
And the sickness soaks
Deep in the bones
Of the worn and weary
We should all hope to press without due regard

Out in the West, California's rising
And effulgent tribute to desire
And down on Main Street,
The crowd is dying
For a volunteer to sacrifice
And the hangman's on his way
From Mulholland Drive-ing
And I've got a tickle inside my throat
I kind of find the panic a bit surprising
They have no idea about life inside the rope

Tell me is it easier to live so quiet
Surrounded by the burning neon lights
And the palm trees blowing like candles on fire
Continue about your quiet lie
Tell me is it easier to be blind
Deaf, dumb, and ignorant, and never cope
Tell me what its like to feel like dying
Tell me what is this, the life inside the rope

And now the crowd has doubled its size
Eager to blend into the mob's hive mind
And they split like a river to each side
As I take my place in the Gallows
And the hangman's pulse beat drums like knives
And the crowd's thirst for blood, it chaps my throat
I'm choaking on the bitterness of desire
But such is this, the life inside the rope

They kick the stool from below my feet
And I swing into the yardarm and bang my knees
Before I can realize that I cant breathe
I'm swallowed by a dark and rising sea
I'll tell you what I've tasted of desire
And from what I've seen from Mulholland Drive
Down on Main the party's dying
And the undertaker has the final role
But I get to live the quiet life,
Deaf, dumb, ignorant and blind
Because that kind of life is just like dying
And such is life inside the rope

Late last night I had a date with Death
And she wore a corsage of my last breath
Around her wrist and
So I decided to dress to impress
I wanted to look my best
I wore a sweater-vest

With a spoon, I slit my own throat
And pulled my tongue through the narrow hole
I figured I was getting dressed to die
And hell with it
So I wore my favorite cuban neck tie

We strolled through the evergreens
And the thorny trees
Silently chewing on epi-taffy
Found ourselves raising hell
And picking locks
And digging up graves to find my future pine box

I walked her home along the shores
Of the River Styx
To find myself standing at Death's door
I peered inside expecting fire
But instead just a fireplace was roasting a goats hide

I smiled and leaned in for a kiss
Instead of a kiss all she gave me is
A pat on the shoulder and said we could still be friends
After all, we'd be together in
The End

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