we can't sing so much, but alive we deaden somber with aplomb.
we are remorse and ripe plums. tap roots fastened to air kisses and laudanum.
we congeal in our own ' thud '. a slow bomb coughing the alphabet's are off -
with our high noon lows; depleted aloft. we are One -
in the chamber of succinct
we carry on. drudging up the hillocks of our Pandemonious Love.
blurting the wrong devout; conjoined to the rip in our seamless joust
adjusting the rudiments of our lathe of fresh hell; to accommodate the actual constant
of our hateful esteem. the very same accursed of our mutual louse...
doubting the excellent kill of our divine Without.
we covet the reign seeds
of Love's Drought.
and at plausible honey
we combs tangles
Restless puddles that ripple and borrow.
Stealing glances from pedestrian feet,
Children jumping through fire in the street.
Through broken windows and through coldest ice,
Taught to be naughty, wrong to be nice.
All the kids on the roof, the ones with their laces,
Tied to the gutters with upside down faces.
Moving past shadows that cling to the wall,
Racing toward madness to bring forth the fall.
And here in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bed,
The blood was so fresh and so thick and her head,
It sat in the corner of a long lost regret,
While the kids played with guns to try and forget.
Mother open your doors, don't leave them locked.
It's zero hour now and the rifles are cocked.
Here we breath revolution through the soles of our shoes,
Our broken hearts welded, it's time to make do.
We came with our bullets, we'll leave with our blood,
We'll walk through the doors without a slam or a thud.
Turn off your eyes,
And follow the beat.
Sun in the skies,
Singeing concrete feet.
In the beginning.
Throughout the middle.
Final lonely thud
In the end.
contained in a cell of skin and blood
striking out at the walls with a thud
forlornly I stare
down at the bud
of the poem which I had wished to begin,
and wonder exactly which sin
this mind war is repentance for...
ah well, suppose it's sods law.
I never cried in viet nam,
I just seemed to take it in.
The missing limbs and twisted flesh
Friends one day and gone the next.
Was I too young to understand?
And need someone to take my hand?
No mother there to hold my hand
No father there to teach me ways.
To lead me through the day by days.
Just left alone, and alone I stayed
Instead I found my bottle friend
To stay my tears and hide my fears.
Back then “charley” felt they owned the night.
With blusterous thud the mortars hit,
Of saying hi it was “charley’s” way
then to be my friend by day.
From no where came the dragon ship,
and tipping his left wing
As a polite executioner saluting his victim just before unleashing hell.
w/ firery tongue lapping up the earth while mini-guns
Roared, eagerly devouring all living things,
Leaving “charley” w/ no where to run.
All clear a small visit w/ my bottle friend
And back to sleep in the alcohol deep.
I was no john wayne, I didn’t fight the war
A target yes for “charley’s” sights
When the sun gave way to night.
But no I didn’t fight.
I never cried glossary:
Charley=VC=viet cong=enemy: by day he acted like any of the population, some were even employed around the various bases. But at sundown he would turn…
Dragonship=C-47=2 or 3 several barreled mini-guns mounted on left side of the plane capable of firing a few 1000 rounds per minute each w/ a phosphorous round placed at every 6th round a tracer. At night this made it look like a steady stream of fire coming from the plane, hence the name “dragon ship” or “puff the magic dragon.” To aim the pilot had to dip his left wing and fly in a counter clock wise fashion. Very effective weapon…
Written for a special friend A.S.
That old coat, the one you wore,
You wore in laughter,
Drenched in rain, cold water pouring, droplets of pearls,
Glistening in light of the single star, the one,
Which didn’t die yet.
That old coat, which sits by the fire,
A hearth of orange, now only black,
Devoid of colour, life, warmth,
A dead tinderbox, of passed emotion,
And happy feeling, all turned grey.
That old coat, frayed, torn.
The brown leather faded in patches,
Patches of memory, think back,
To happy days once before,
That old grey coat, you used to wear.
That old grey coat, stained in mud,
Undistinguished in the rough hide,
And broken seams, rough stitches,
Coarse repairs to hide the scars,
Of just been worn out.
That old coat,
You used to wear,
The one which was a part of you,
Sitting on a rusty peg, holding memories, so carefully.
The snap. The drop. The thud. The coat falls.
And the thoughts shatter again.
You have no
You shouldn't clown with matches.
I know the fire is exhilarating
But it can cloak you or
Leave you asphyxiated, intoxicated, suffocated.
I know the warmth is meditating,
Mildly comforting or
Leaves you still, steady, tranquil.
But leave it be.
It's too late.
You have started the forest fire,
Slowly sleeping, licking
Taunting your innocence.
And life will beguile you,
And you will feel guarded
By it's false promises and debts.
And it will guffaw as you dwindle and descend.
You see, buoyancy gives no injuries-
It's not the physical act of falling that hurts,
but the sudden thud at the finale.
So drown in your levity,
And you will be another fool.
Another innocent fool.
I can see
how men can fall irrevocably in love
with so much soul in their bones
that it must ripple, and fill out living flesh
who possess thoughts
that could bring down the sky
with platinum eyes and satin skin;
willowing waifs and dewy dreams.
But how can they fall even a stones throw
for women with
sallowed cheeks and deserted eyes
who paint themselves out of freckles and blush
minds that contemplate only as much as the mirror reflects
and mouths that open to unwittingly break a misleading silence
not a ounce of longing or lust
in their veins, just a crimson thud
without a beat.
fade into a crowded bar,
three bar stools,
enter our three heroes
(or our three victims),
they each take a seat,
throwing sideward glances lightly, curiously.
they hail from three different worlds
(but they're three sides of the same die).
and they all
"shot of jameson."
the words seem to come from the stool,
only reverberating through a man in his forties.
two strangers glance sideways again, nodding slightly;
both gesture sideways with a wave of a wrist
and a point of a finger
before looking back down to the wood paneling
which seems to swirl and crack into a world all its own.
the jaded veteran of life is the first to get his drink,
followed by the frizzy haired young woman,
and then the boy who could be no older than twenty three.
three shots laid on the counter;
three shot glasses clinking empty against the counter.
we all drink to forget, i think
(and the man, the girl, and the boy are no exception)
the man isn't happy
(and neither is his wife).
his world is woven of arguments and broken plates,
lost and tarnished love.
the burn of whiskey is nothing new
(more the burn of alcohol on a fresh wound).
his bar visits start with a head scratch and a sigh
and end with a taxicab back to his musty pillow
(and his musty love).
a tap on the shoulder,
he turns to look behind him.
"jesus, shit, bob! i've seen prettier expressions on train wrecks! come sit with the guys."
arms around each other's shoulders
to a darker corner.
the man needs to forget his life
(and the frolicking through meadows he thought it'd be).
two shots on the bar,
two empty glasses thud.
it burns, but she's had worse.
the girl hasn't been so lucky.
thrown bottles and cigarette burns are her world,
and the liquor is her respite from remembering
(bless her heart)
wasn't there to stand in the way.
but she's better now,
all on her own
(or so she tells herself).
the ring of a cellphone pierces the chattering of the scene
before the click;
"oh hey. your flight's in? sure, be right there."
her heels click against the floor,
the bar stool legs creak with her exit.
the girl needs to forget her jagged recollections
(though they pull from her like barbed wire from a corpse)
so she can forgive.
a lone shot on the bar.
a lone glass full no more.
his mouth stings like a newborn's being rubbed with the booze.
he won't ever get used to the sting of good liquor
(or of wanting her at his side through cold nights).
he didn't want school or work,
striving or achieving,
or his name in print.
just their fingers intertwined, or her head upon his chest
(because secretly, he can't fall asleep,
not when she had the most lovable look in her snooze).
but his affection spans mountains, fills trenches, trails from rockets blasting through the galaxy
even though his sleeve-pinned heart has been skewered without remorse
more times than he could count when he was six years old
(so, why does it come as a surprise to him that the same couldn't be said of her?).
he tells himself he'll learn how to fuck and not love
(so next time he won't have to drink himself back to normal).
he drinks away his future
instead of past or present
(because he needs to forget how to love).
bit on the long side, but i imagine it told as more of a story.
(parenthetical words are whispered thoughts)
I’m tired of this old secret.
It drowned in the endless churning of my
long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,
languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate
dryer of a heart.
I’m too familiar with its satin surface —
the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,
the corresponding bump underneath,
the different textures (now worn faint
and smooth) that once marked
the subtle variations in shade —
and I’m tired of its constant presence
cradled in the palm of my right hand.
I’m tired of it.
And so I step back
my arm in one great resolute arch.
I turn my back on the distant thud
that marks its far-off landing,
my hands find their way into my pockets.
It is still there,
lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint
and empty wrappers.