jason-galt
Former sailor, soldier, you name it now working in the rough and tumble life of the oil field. Sex, drugs, rock n roll. Nothing can hold a flame to my addiction to words! / There is beauty in the absurd, the broken, the fallible and the flawed. We try hard to deny our true natures in the 21st century. We have social engineered our way into a morass of mediocrity. We've shunned human nature so we can call ourselves 'enlightened'. I don't subscribe to that. / / My writing is about our animal selves. Our flawed selves. The things that truly make us human. The transgressive anti-heroes and heroines who have no damn business saving the world. And do it anyway, through fault or folly.
A nominal amount of pain
when the lights go on.
You roll lines around in your head
and realize you remember none.
There’s only the dull stink of cigarette smoke
and day old donuts in your mouth.
Your mind seizes and your heart seethes.
What the **** am I doing here?
Nothing more than a back alley bard.
A barbarian without grace
with a penchant for writing inane ramblings
on cocktail napkins.
A bald man bellows in the back of the room.
An emo princess giggles at her date’s joke.
Drinks sloshed, cigars inhaled.
All awaiting the crash and burn,
or the entertainment they came to see.
They want a rock star.
They want a sideshow freak.
They will boo, they will howl,
They may even clap if the timings right.
Damon Malio goes up before me.
That son of a ***** is as smooth as silk
and as suave as the day’s first rays.
Hell, I even want to run up there
and kiss the *******
He has a rapacious tongue,
stealing every good word in the English language.
Banging away with syllables and gestures,
the room is vibing to his beat.
Knots in my stomach
and an ache in my brain.
A dull thump followed by
the whisper of “Fraud.”
“Failure.”
It’s that little boy voice
that used to get tormented in grade school.
The urge hits to wither away.
The only escape route is blocked by bouncers
at the back door.
I’m trapped here with the prison guards.
No semblance of thought,
just a rattle, panic and hate.
I’m a predator in a room full of rodents,
ready to eat me alive.
There are no outs,
only the get up there
and get out the vivid images
alive inside of me.
Right before I go up on stage
I touch the brick wall.
Tangible, tactile, rough and cool.
I laugh under my breath.
That’s the way people describe me.
If you ever wanted to hear a pin drop,
now would be a good time.
Staring back are a room full of strangers,
Murmuring, waiting for the show to begin.
I see a table full of beautiful women,
the tattooed, artsy types
I get weak in the knees for.
An older gentleman looking impatient for me to speak.
Clearly a professor of some sort.
I clear my throat.
Startling myself
at the loudness of it.
Loud…voice…speak…speak…speak.
“I’m a salty son of a *****
I could have been a Sabine
if I hadn’t been born in the wrong time,
to the wrong class of people
and a deformity looming larger than life.
That literary je ne sais quoi that working men
and the saviors of syphilis have.
The questionable knowledge that the
seafaring folk were instrumental
in my christening.
I’ll bring God’s ministry to Hades
and two tons of luck to riverboat gamblers
with fortuitous use of four aces.
I’ll bless the maître d’s war against the moguls
and the matadors quest for the upper hand
in the war of the forlorn.
I’m just kidding ladies and gentleman,
that’s all horseshit”
The crowd looks perplexed.
They aren’t quite there yet,
but we’re getting somewhere.
“We’re actually gathered here today to see the holy matrimony
of poetry and pestilence, art and arrogance.
I’ll be your priest, your prophet along the way.
We’ll channel them into
a seven year split and fifteen days of rage.
We’ll curse the gods of conformity and the spirits of suburban sprawl.
Set fire to the system that binds your mind.
The fallacies told to control you.
I never knew the error of my ways until
I touched God on Tuesday.
She was dead ringer for Greta Garbo,
gracious as a host and divine in her dealings with me.
I saw the white hot heat of Stockholm syndrome
and knew I was in the presence of the pantheon.
Felt swelter and fear,
but she kissed my forehead and whispered that it was all a lie.
The power others presume to hold over me.
The judges, the juries, the couponing maidens, the schoolmarms,
the cops and fathers and armies and vicious tax agents.
The Machiavellian telethon charities
and the undressed hookers pretending to be my saving grace.
The drugs, the music, the books, the ******* the fury of 40 years gone too long and not enough wisdom to die too soon.
I wept when she spoke to me.
Guns will **** you but love will **** you quicker she opined.
Obfuscated words from the otherworldly.
She sent me on a mission to find the words of Sinatra,
the Rat Pack’s subliminal subversion of all that power players hold dear.
The fear the unwashed masses will come.
The provincial mindset that they can procreate proletariats
to be the permanent protectors of their gilded ******* towers.
As I seethed she kissed and soothed me.
She whispered her love and asked me to lie with her.
I thought copulating with God was a heresy.
She told me to lay back and everything would be alright.”
I looked in the eyes of a tattooed temptress
and saw ravenousness for more words.
At least I knew I was getting laid tonight.
There was a new footing.
This vulnerability, baring my *** for all to see.
But there were no boos,
just the synergy of poetry conveyed through me.
“As we lay in the afterglow
I rolled over on one side and asked
how do I rid myself of the devils that plague us?
The bleeding, the burdens of humanity enslaving me?
She smiled playfully and ran her fingers through my hair,
telling me there there, don’t worry your pretty little head.
They can take from you. They can beat you.
They can **** you.
And oh my how they will try.
Governments and men with guns.
A society of rats crushing you with social mores,
moving to tell you what to do and how to live.
They will give speeches of how to behave on AM radio.
Buckle your belt, conserve the earth and be a good dad.
Foster those brats and bleat like sheep
to the tune of an Orwellian world.
I shook as she maddened my mind,
but her touch ran over me with ecstasy.
You will go forth my prophet, my prince,
and spread the word of free men with free minds,
not bound by internet ******* parties,
the latest legal trouble for B-listers
and all the trivialities of brainwashing.
The baubles betrothed to those without
imagination or the ***** to seek the truth.”
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
The debutantes unfurl their game faces
For Southern gentleman with fat wallets
Credence is given to long held family names with distinguished pedigrees
They reserve their special womanly charms
For the ones with plantations covered in Spanish moss
And men whose business interests in Savannah and Charleston
Take them away for weeks on end
The slaves toil in the fields and are tallied in ledgers like livestock
But these civilized belles only see the wealth of white men
And the servility of the servants, the burdens of back lashes of no concern
Perspiration glistens off cleavage,
Perfume strategically placed
Wafts through the air as an aphrodisiac to the affluent
The genteel manners mask a well of emotion
Rippling right beneath the surface
It only erupts as the slaves turn in and the guests say their goodbyes
The click-clack of hooves on cobblestones in the distance
Announce it’s time
Then dresses are dropped
Corsets are shed
And the night is pierced by the moans of lovers
The indentured servants take their turns giggling silently
With their ears against the door
Passion begets lust
And lust begets fornication
All manner of depravity is exposed when the manners are off
Women possessed of ****** desire
I have witnessed many things in my day
But nothing is more evil or more beautiful than a Southern belle
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
This isn’t a tale of snails and puppy dog tails
This isn’t my love opus
There will be no dandelions and daydreams
This is poetry to fight to
This is poetry to **** to
This is poetry to **** to
This is beauty
This is art
It’s exhaust in your face
It’s fury after heartbreak
It’s bleeding and *** holes and mold
It’s the ache in your brain and the tugging at your soul
Maddening, hallucinogenic, tongue in and cheek and powerful
This is road rash and asphalt
This is for the punks who spit in your face
This is for thieves in the night
This is for the battered, shattered and abused
This is for those who can’t take anymore
This is for those still truckin along
This is for the addicts, ******** and opinionated
This is for the single fathers ****** over by baby mamas
This is for those who spit blood and get up off the canvas
This is for those crawling out of their skin
This is for those bursting at the seams
This is for those who pick scabs for fun
For those willing to fight and **** and feel
Those who steal at will, who shotgun beers at 8am
Those that fight bears with Bowie knives
Those that saddle burdens
This is for those too smart for their own **** good
This is for the unhinged
This is for those who walk the edge
This is for the devils
This is for the demons
This is for those who can’t put the genie back in the god ****** bottle
This is for those who wear their heart on their sleeve
This is for the ******
For I am the ******
This is for the lunatics
This is for those with poor impulse control
The saddened and gladdened, miserable and merciful
The maniacal narcissists with delusions of grandeur
The glass half full types, swilling *****
The junkies. The ******
This Rottweilers stuck in pint sized packages
The nonsensical. The absurd. The unbecoming.
The shivs and the shanks.
The me’s, myselves and the I’s.
The notorious. The nefarious.
The sinners and saints.
The lovers. The lost. The last of their kind.
The ones who broke the mold.
The outlaws and rabble-rousers.
The coke heads and kingpins.
The ones who live in no man’s land.
The beautiful. The scarred.
The demented and downtrodden.
The ones who give up Sunday morning ******* to put pen to paper.
The attention ******
The anti-social lovers of humanity.
The Molotav cocktails.
The ticking time bombs
The powder kegs and the poets.
This is for those who can’t get enough
And for those who can’t stay away.
This is what poetry is.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
That cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Sittin’ on the pisspot in a one horse town
Salient sista, she sees them cowpokes
And they do their damndest to draw her attention
Oh, she’s seen chairs thrown, barfights break out
And the piano man run away
Sometimes they shoot the others down
All for the chance to pay two dollars
To lay with the only cowgirl in town
She’s the Queen Sheba of the saloon girls
**** loose and fast
Motherly and tender, it’s all for the askin
Sanctified or sinister, that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
I asked her to marry me
Many times before
She laughed and said, “Honey, you can’t have me.”
In my naïveté I thought I could change her wayward ways
Domesticate her like I’d break a young filly
All the thoughts of getting off the trail, building a house,
Settling down and starting a family.
But that cowgirl won’t go
Won’t ride
Won’t die
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
The neon wraps itself in the purple
And Chattanooga
Monstrous in that all knowing glow
Yet you lose yourself in intoxication
In enchantment
She buzzes to herself
The only conversation she cares to carry
She reminds me of that woman you eye
In the local watering hole
Too **** hot to be all alone
But you know if you approach
She’ll crackle and pop
Her beauty is electric and fatal
Don’t worry honey, I’m just a transient
On this Tennessee night
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
We all get to deal with our little own slice of hell
Mine just happens to be a woman, a fix, an empty bottle of bourbon
And a mind that thinks too much
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Ah, so she’s
Got that mincemeat
Mumbo jumbo
Going on
The Biloxi banality
That girl knows the proper way to get toasted
I’ve seen those types tapping their toes
In blues house ho-downs
But this little Mississippi mugger
She must have made off proper
Skinned to the bone
I got no money no more
Cash strapped and wallet gone
****** if I didn’t get taken
By a Podunk prom queen
You gotta watch for them mudslingers
***** sly and mean
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC