Spokane Valley, WA    1980 -   

Seethe Sob Think Write
That is all we must do.

Seethe Sob Think Write
That is all we must do.
Paul Gurrieri
Paul Gurrieri
Nov 29      Nov 29

I remember stereos,
CD's and LP's,
and daytime whiskey binges.
Dancing like a dervish,
a devil on shoreleave.
Chasing Crown with diet Sprite,
In the chill embrace of the basement.
Mold has claimed everything.
You can gut the past,
and chuck your memories into the street,
but the smell of whiskey cannot be erased.
And, when a bum stumbles by,
and you are assaulted by the sweet stench
rising off his failing body,
then the dial is instantly turned to twenty.
The speakers concealed in your mind
start pouring forth a symphony.
Your youth collapses in on itself,
and you find yourself at the liquor store,
buying a bottle of Dewars White Label,
to drink to the health
of a world that already died,
and yet still haunts the hallowed hallways
of your memories. You will never see
a greater day, than that day
you sat sipping whiskey in the basement,
with the girl
who secured a chain around your spirit,
before you drank her inhibitions under the table,
and slipped your hands underneath her shirt.
It hurts, Dear God it hurts!
But, the whiskey dulls the worst ache,
and time buries all the rest.

  Reposted by Paul Gurrieri  ·  Nov 10
Senor Negativo
Senor Negativo
Nov 10      Nov 11

Never again
in the swirling maelstrom
will we dance together.
Your firey eyes
cut to the bone,
and in the flicker of a dying fire
I can barely see
that I am once again alone.
I once compared you to a fallen angel,
all glowing sword, and a fist
shaking in defiance of the heavens.
But, the horror, the horror of this sorrow
is a razored rain, falling in torrents.
I cannot ever touch you again.
I would rather drown,
in the blood, shed by this shower,
than to never again waver
in ecstasy, beneath the thrumming genius
of your potent power.
Oh, but sorrow, bitter sorrow,
I shall never again dance with you
in the swirling maelstrom.
Forgive me, lovely creature,
I knew not what I had done.

  Reposted by Paul Gurrieri  ·  Nov 9
Senor Negativo
Senor Negativo
Mar 10, 2013

Who with her words,
Has shattered and torn
And bound and repaired,
Should never be so sad
As to believe that silence is the same
As condemnation.
How can one forget
The passionate howl,
And the most tender caress.
In anger she struck
In the night of grim declarations.
Of lamps ever lit
For eyes and song and bravado and daggers.
She knew not until the dawn
That in every work, of the infantile days
Was a fragment of labor, dedicated,
To the lustre of her abyss dark eyes alone.
Eyes, which have shone in the darkest day.
Eyes, which have darkened an evening of flickering flames.
Who's voice, though dissonant to ears this cold
Nevertheless, has sung the sweetest strain,
And etched southern flowers upon the brain.
Such as her,
Shall always remain,
In the core of who I am
I will remember your name.

Paul Gurrieri
Paul Gurrieri
Oct 23      Oct 23

I fell in lust for a Montenegrin woman.
But, an Albanian dude had already tied a noose around her neck.
So I took a sip of her Rakija, when he was off working,
and rubbed against her supple skin, when I thought we were alone.
I will never forget the look on his face,
when I called her by her name, without a hint of western inflection.
And when he saw the glimmer in her eye, when she answered me  
  shyly smiling,
I felt a despair, which cannot compare with nearly any other
I have been sliced with, ever since.
Of all the flesh I have felt,  but failed to penetrate,
I think I would have feasted on my own fingers,
to slip between those pale white thighs.
But, alI I have to comfort me in the neverending silence of the ages,
is the sound of her whispering my name,
and the message of desire, sinking,
in her brown, drowning pool eyes.

#regrets   #unpaid   #debts  
Paul Gurrieri
Paul Gurrieri
Oct 3      Oct 3

Cut your eyes out
if you can't see
the beauty buried in each pore,
in each scar, and blemish
that stares back at you
beneath the surface of the mirror.
Put a bullet through your brain
if you don't think
that you deserve happiness and pleasure,
because of the pain you have caused,
when that pain is just a reflection
of the horror you have endured.
Smash your body on the rocks,
and shatter every bone,
if you believe
that the flesh you wear is a curse,
and not a blessing.
And, after you have destroyed yourself,
and rendered your being down,
into a pile of unmoving meat,
know, that even so,
you are beautiful, beyond description.


For a man without a home in this world
the road becomes a lover.
With rubber fingers running over blacktop skin
the miles are shared
with something that falls just short of affection.

But, the road has her rules, she demands so much.
For each mile together, blood must spill.
Ten thousand tiny bodies must be mangled,
and strewn in bloody tangles along the shoulder.
Leaving brown streaks behind, for months,
as a reminder of her bloodlust.
Ten tons of rubber must be shredded,
and scattered across every lane.
Bouncy black booby traps,
that thump and tumble, and startle the unwary.
Crushed glass, and crumpled steel make her smile
so sacrifice must be made for every single mile.
When you are alone, and your world is a blur
of fast food wrappers, and lonely motel rooms,
only occasionaly shared,
with women who disappear before dawn,
you are willing to make such sacrifices.

But, when the sky bleeds blue, and paints the highway its shade,
the horizon merges into a hazy sea.
The lines and the lanes disappear,
the cars ahead appear to sink into azure nothingness,
and for an instant the whole world wavers,
until the next hill is crested, and the illusion is dispelled
by the brightly glowing city skyline in the distance.
Only then do you realize that the city you see there isn't yours,
and the road leading you towards yet another alien world
never loved you, and never will.

Paul Gurrieri
Paul Gurrieri
Jun 27, 2013      Jun 27, 2013

Erase me.
Deny your desire
to browse the images
that you thought brought you pleasure.
Toss the mental albums in the fire.
Release the songbird of sweet memories,
do not clip its wings by revisiting everything,
until you have drained the treasury of the past.
Only touch my skin with the hand of your mind
when the night is blackest,
and loneliness howls like a caged hound.
Lock my face away in a place it can't be found,
in an obuilette, so deep in the ground
you can no longer hear the sound of my memory.
Erase me.
You never should have written me into your history in the first place.

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment