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the-thief-of-dreams
the-thief-of-dreams
New advancements in consuming and experiencing data/entertainment has me trading in my rare collectible Walt Whitman first edition for a good surge protector. / / Poetry is dying. / Long live Poetry. / For what it once was / For what it could still be / For what it should never turn into / May it live forever.
Poems2
Words527
Fish is the worlds problem Fins and gills a and poisonous jelly Resting in the crevices of their more vulnerable kiddy-make-cry To slice at young flesh is exquisite Knowing the scar you're leaving behind Will vanish within hours Yet Will remain fire-hot and ****** For the rest if the kid's fish-hating life It's a small pond they took you to The deepest water beneath a lunky wood and metal bridge E Which creaked and groaned begging to give in We say on that bridge, poisoned legs hanging and dangling Looking at Aunt Terry coming up out of the water much too quickly Gravity deciding it wasn't through yet with her swimming suit top We laughed from emberassment But even the rowdiest among us clammed up Breathing harder and deeper than they had ever done before On the cusp of puberty every single ***** heretofore shrunken and shriveled from the unfortunately cold water in that unnamed pond Every flaccid, dripping **** , when the brain sent down the message concerning the incredible size and girth of Aunt Terry's **** Ever little immature Ramma Lamma Ding **** got a fresh infusion of prime hemoglobin straight to the juju All we knew to do was hide in bushes Pretend we're taking a **** while in reality we were expending the last couple of minutes it took to coax out that tiny gelatinous goop. We spit it out of our manhood, unconcerned with where it may have Eventually fallen. It had lost it's novelty long before we hacked it Terry was embarrassed, to be sure She knew what the boys were doing It didn't bother her at all There was a time when they fought for it. As if were spoils of war That delusion didn't last for very long What could she do? Her swim shirt was ruined. She had to get out They jerred her as she found her way to the door On one side freedom, albeit bogged down worh mamy many secrets This could be the last time anyway Rumor around town is that the slaughterhouse bought the land and all it's water ways. They planned to use it as  a reservoir for newly killed swine within six months you would not have recognized the ole fishing hole The hooks baited with frozen shrimp Grown ups helping sons find minnows gone, ahh, long gone, like the best years of our lives We stood up as one in order to survey The carnage, carnage even at this early stage wasa harbinger of bad omens to come In every inch of the pond, diluting it if possible, Pig's blood swine blood The rats that ran with the pigs As if they too had been specifically sent to insure that enough blood was let into the swamp Dead swine, harder than a hobby horse, eyes still open, hopin' there's been some mistake A lack of regulations combined with forced apathy kept us from caring Much about what e believed was an injustice . We were children. It was enough hell to see the clean waters replaced by pig blood, pig guts. offal, intestines and other items that remain inside the body for a very good reason May you find streams and brooks Lakes and. Oceans Of baptizing water May you remember with great fondness your toes playing in the sand Remember, my children, how crystal clear and pristine were the waters Good, well tended salt water for catfish Not a pool full of crimson stench. This is my childhood. Shouldn't someone have let me know a long time ago that you were planning on turning it into the slaughtered pig open grave It can't be It just can't be (And yet, it is)
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Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
the-thief-of-dreams
Our Fishin' Hole circa 1966
Fish is the worlds problem Fins and gills a and poisonous jelly Resting in the crevices of their more vulnerable kiddy-make-cry To slice at young flesh is exquisite Knowing the scar you're leaving behind Will vanish within hours Yet Will remain fire-hot and ****** For the rest if the kid's fish-hating life It's a small pond they took you to The deepest water beneath a lunky wood and metal bridge E Which creaked and groaned begging to give in We say on that bridge, poisoned legs hanging and dangling Looking at Aunt Terry coming up out of the water much too quickly Gravity deciding it wasn't through yet with her swimming suit top We laughed from emberassment But even the rowdiest among us clammed up Breathing harder and deeper than they had ever done before On the cusp of puberty every single ***** heretofore shrunken and shriveled from the unfortunately cold water in that unnamed pond Every flaccid, dripping **** , when the brain sent down the message concerning the incredible size and girth of Aunt Terry's **** Ever little immature Ramma Lamma Ding **** got a fresh infusion of prime hemoglobin straight to the juju All we knew to do was hide in bushes Pretend we're taking a **** while in reality we were expending the last couple of minutes it took to coax out that tiny gelatinous goop. We spit it out of our manhood, unconcerned with where it may have Eventually fallen. It had lost it's novelty long before we hacked it Terry was embarrassed, to be sure She knew what the boys were doing It didn't bother her at all There was a time when they fought for it. As if were spoils of war That delusion didn't last for very long What could she do? Her swim shirt was ruined. She had to get out They jerred her as she found her way to the door On one side freedom, albeit bogged down worh mamy many secrets This could be the last time anyway Rumor around town is that the slaughterhouse bought the land and all it's water ways. They planned to use it as  a reservoir for newly killed swine within six months you would not have recognized the ole fishing hole The hooks baited with frozen shrimp Grown ups helping sons find minnows gone, ahh, long gone, like the best years of our lives We stood up as one in order to survey The carnage, carnage even at this early stage wasa harbinger of bad omens to come In every inch of the pond, diluting it if possible, Pig's blood swine blood The rats that ran with the pigs As if they too had been specifically sent to insure that enough blood was let into the swamp Dead swine, harder than a hobby horse, eyes still open, hopin' there's been some mistake A lack of regulations combined with forced apathy kept us from caring Much about what e believed was an injustice . We were children. It was enough hell to see the clean waters replaced by pig blood, pig guts. offal, intestines and other items that remain inside the body for a very good reason May you find streams and brooks Lakes and. Oceans Of baptizing water May you remember with great fondness your toes playing in the sand Remember, my children, how crystal clear and pristine were the waters Good, well tended salt water for catfish Not a pool full of crimson stench. This is my childhood. Shouldn't someone have let me know a long time ago that you were planning on turning it into the slaughtered pig open grave It can't be It just can't be (And yet, it is)
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Jericho, at fourteen Lifts heavy the light snuggie around his arms Forgets some of the women standoffish with his numbness Beaten into a craggy duff box As an old man Set free every morning in the dream door, sleep as empty and numb Drowning in light Out and up from the heights To the glittering spires of an exalted city To a raging wildfire slowly snuffing itself out around the edges Then, a young man learning the back of his head and what people called him His death then was a shiny new pane of dark frosted plastic His nights then much organized plastic Dull as dirt 'neath the evening moon Each star hungry for sun to give it brilliance, something for us all to forget His thick toes gun for a thousand None Carving his face in the dirt with water None Stalling for a long time while away from him None Scribbling content hieroglyphics to forget her lying eyes None Descending ever deeper, reaching for the nets That are hopelessly out of her reach He rubs his fingers along the smooth surface of the tumbler once a year Against hope and hoping against a chance to ignore her face And he won't eat anymore from the split pig And stay in the oxygen town and stay awake for weeks at a time As if the hoot owl didn't have enough songs to sing.
0
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
the-thief-of-dreams
Jericho Breaks Free
Jericho, at fourteen Lifts heavy the light snuggie around his arms Forgets some of the women standoffish with his numbness Beaten into a craggy duff box As an old man Set free every morning in the dream door, sleep as empty and numb Drowning in light Out and up from the heights To the glittering spires of an exalted city To a raging wildfire slowly snuffing itself out around the edges Then, a young man learning the back of his head and what people called him His death then was a shiny new pane of dark frosted plastic His nights then much organized plastic Dull as dirt 'neath the evening moon Each star hungry for sun to give it brilliance, something for us all to forget His thick toes gun for a thousand None Carving his face in the dirt with water None Stalling for a long time while away from him None Scribbling content hieroglyphics to forget her lying eyes None Descending ever deeper, reaching for the nets That are hopelessly out of her reach He rubs his fingers along the smooth surface of the tumbler once a year Against hope and hoping against a chance to ignore her face And he won't eat anymore from the split pig And stay in the oxygen town and stay awake for weeks at a time As if the hoot owl didn't have enough songs to sing.
Continue reading...
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