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A L Davies Mar 2011
humble beginning (born from tree)
--free
young body pulp-smashed
into thin white sheet
bleached & cured & sliced.
hundred o thousands o lines like
little blue prison bars.
thin, but too close
to break out of.
written in feb. after reading week at pat's while thinkin' about the process of manufacturing paper. (and the unnecessary waste involved)
A L Davies Oct 2011
shifty-eyed sundays/summer smiles.
green backyards child-full,
meat eaters meat-eating,
bellies & throats conversation/food-filled.
young families flocking fawn-eyed to communion barbeques,
sweaty raspings/of feeding minds;
living-room, reading-room, lessons & phonics
shortwinded swindlings at tables of breakfast (equal portions)
---sub-divided.

categories..elements
systems of classifying,
lessons limping/near succeeding.
trekking inglorious [tired] track laps---round laps of track,
tried feet feet-walking
sleep-talking
waking, taking rests.
@ intervals,
(splashes of time) clock/clock-time.

sleep, repose, health profits;
restless prophets. word-of-mouth.
strange tongues, th'creaking of breaths,
classical forebodings---brow beating, war breeding.
wrist flickings/blurred strokes

markings/carvings---letters/numb3rs,
communicating---language speaking.
(overhearing.)
positive consensus
> press play.

un-buttoning buttons
soirée is overfinished, overture.
shirts come up/over/off---
bath's running---taps run-running,
clippings clipped from papers,
---snip-snipping.
crashing/slicing blades of scissors,
point-on-point.
television evening sign-off/lights off.
interestingopenwindowenergy,
an elegy..
under_scored.
wrote this a few years back on the 1933 underwood, was playing around with a coupla things:
1) how much punctuation i could include in the piece without detracting from the flow and keeping the pace i desired,
and 2) trying to write a performance piece as suggested by good old Erin from the karma marketplace.

any thoughts? i'd love to hear 'em if you have a couple..
A L Davies Mar 2011
pigeons calling on the balcony
become unwitting poets
as their coos take the form
of haikus somewhere
in my third eye.
higher place
A L Davies Apr 2012
the
castillo alhambra            a
watchful brown *****
on  the hill
smiling crenellated un
                                       der grey-silk skirts of cloud &
in wicker chairs mouths
—open (talkin’ bout last night’s walk home from vogue)
—close (swallow morsels of tapas: paella)
                                      
                                       & lips shut ‘round cigarettes.

          …

          … past inactive fountain where children play their various jeugos next to the riverwall and distrustful, rail-thin cats peer from brickwall dens to watch flitting finches bounce on vines & budding branches. it is very warm; the air is heavy as is the ground. man is stuck between like a roach ‘twixt two ***** mattresses // three girls looking at me writing smoking drinking beer eating that paella don’t know what to think.
saturday afternoon in granada/RE-WORKED
A L Davies Feb 2012
i heard your clear deep
                           voice     (singin’)
last year in
                 evening san antone
bleeding from truckstop P.A.
where i                                  bought cactus burritos &
                  1 basket
                                  heavensent peaches &
thanked you
for ev’ry one b/c only
someone like you could                              send a gift

so humble
    .
R.I.P.
A L Davies Oct 2011
what do you think of
when the sounds around you end up as
                                                              ­                                    one thing?

in little quiet morning towns i hear it most
and i call it "silent noise"
because nothing is recognized
individually/but rather as a whole.

the anchorswingingseagullboatnoise sound,
wavelapping canvas-sigh
garbled coffeedrinking speech of wharf-walkers
is all one.
                                                all one in the void
                                                   all together in noise
                                                   ..
nothing
A L Davies May 2013
i am on the beach /
waiting for my resurrection
with the sand in my bad eye and
the smell of goose **** pungent and intrusive, uninvited.

2:30 pm , friday of may 24 weekend;
the beach is flat and empty of girls
(for whom i am waiting)
                                                (will they know
                                                          **­w to save me ??)  .

so far i have avoided sitting on a 3.5" nail, rusted, protruding from the duneside,
and several shards of a broken bottle beer,
keen to shred my winter-softened feet with their angry brown fangs.
i will pick up as much of the glass as i can find and go home, calling myself
a good samaritan.

"you're a ****." some seagulls say from the lake.
i pick up a rock and let fly; they are just out of range.
"you're a ****." they repeat as i walk back towards the footpath.

and yeah, they are probably right.
may 24
A L Davies Apr 2012
spanish sun shines on parkbench leather coat cigarette in mouth / (attn.) passing girls:
*da ya think i'm **** ??
sugar, ooh baby sugar
A L Davies Oct 2012
wednesday  ..
                      is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front)

glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer
sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work.
the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields)
is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise
patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light
(there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain)
to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick,
somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his *******
tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap.

saturday // 1:15:44 pm
i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4
                                                               ­                                       hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and
hauling pallets.
daylene from dispatch brought in donuts.

i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online.
—there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked.
                                                       sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead
and it's not so bad.
you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers &
they keep me company on long rides to and from leases,
asking about work. hoping that i am well.
(once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can
take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not
a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has.
would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?)
(temporality.)

15/10/2012
there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the
bathroom door which i will drink in the shower.
it was sort of a long day.
oil field poems though.
A L Davies Sep 2011
1)*  *MORNIN

lake glass-still/somewhere a loon is calling;
coffee smells spiralling upstairs.
my bed (piled mattresses/wood floor)
is warm & the little birds
trill in the frontyard by the dodge
while in the woods
foxes/are wakin' up.

2)  EVENIN

[dock beers] . . .
on the water
shadflies squirm,
ignorant & simple & doomed.
jackfish tack lazily up and gobble
--taking their meals.
heron stands in the shallows
and from downlake the wind blows
sweetly/and in my head
i hear girls singing.
snow lake is a lonely place to think of girls/but you learn to keep busy (open your eyes)
A L Davies May 2011
might move to SoCal for a bit.
live in a place near the ocean, with big windows.
swim a lot and sling on the beach or from home if there’s demand.
wear loose clothes all day and maybe write that book.
*(see you!!)
california dreamin'
A L Davies Oct 2011
loud now but fading
                 in-&-out,
one big long shhhhhhhhhh
taps of water on leaves                                          (the spirea bush)
as they bend more & more.
big cat in a dark porchcorner
yawning. tired but up she gets
for a quick pat.
porchsitting/my cold bare feet in the night.
sounds from out the door
A L Davies Oct 2012
you could perhaps,    some n
ight come
up to 3rd flr           &
entertain. you know
.     split
words in 1/2 with
silver straight razor kept in
yr mouth. loving to
chastise mundane things i do —
grip th' railing
white hands
as petals of obscene flower
that makes feel    ...
one's everything  ...
o phelia.

and why when siren wails
past the mercadona at 3 AM
while i sit on the curb
as you buy
some-thing (i forget. wine i hope).
do you come out and stare
at my shaking hands?
your very eyebrows contesting
my innocence?
the way the fully-loaded hips ****
with the asking of your unspoke question and
legs angle to the sidewalk left foot turned
slightly inwards,
a heart attack in roberto verino.
might seem familiar to some. original written may 2012, granada. re-worked for submission to a friend's publication, keep a look out for it if you live in toronto, name of Grey River Zine.
A L Davies Nov 2014
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.

that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****.

that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
i haven't written a ****** thing in two years, so be patient with me.
A L Davies Jun 2011
the great garage door of life
slowly opens and
reveals death:

dreams of a rusty mower
& recurring grass.

broken records & not a
clean plate in the house.

a girl who moans &
never wants to stay in.
"the great garage door of life" --lyall davies
A L Davies Mar 2012
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
    along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
product of reading dylan thomas overmuchly
A L Davies Oct 2011
another construction friday:
                                                 smash, lift, grunt, clean, sweep, collect, empty . . . (grind)
lift up (hup!) doors, hang 'em, nail 'em in.
rap up the stairs, feet heavy in big old boots
                                                           ­                   thighs aflame --- heavy--****
           clomp
    clomp--stomp. swish.
stop for lunch: sandwich/grapes/arizona
sandwich only cheese so not satisfied full..
dusts in the mouth
                                  (and nostrils) so i sneeze & sneeze
raw-nosed in the attic cleaning
---brooms and dust dust dust.

good view to the bay up second level tho:
autumn vistas and panoramas and waves on white shorelines
giant's tomb in the deep, breast heaving

big wide windows w/wasps buzzing eternal
buzz
whack each with rolled window installation guide
grind with the heel
                                  grsch
each one dead is replaced with one more
crawling from odd upstairs nest
---from rest.
feel guilty & awful killing them but
so aggressive in their slowness (compensating) this time of year that
moving material presents good risk of sting.
                                                                ­              ---zing.
      hope they will forgive me.
see also: workin' man blues hoo-ee
A L Davies Sep 2011
"who taught you to look so good?!"
says a thought *[shot]
in the dark.
--- this to no woman in particular but to
all womankind i suppose.
outside there is a dog haranguing me,
saying WOOF (that is, "where d'you get those old clothes?")
i tell him the sally ann but good luck
getting in there, dog . . . he takes off, complaining ---
but i pay no attention to the bellyaching of an old mutt...
"nay," says i there's not a ******
thing of any real importance in this
universal dustbin/save the dharma.

yea i could live in a woodsy cabin
deep down a valley-ay shoutin' "HOOO-EE!!" out the open door
to anyone who comes by and
be thought a crazy young ('ventually old) ******
off his rocker in the trees.
--- and why not!!
chop logs/cook bread 'n brew potsa tea
'n otherwise lead a silent but meaningful old existence
out there with weekend friends/girls/wine/talk.

--- tell all that to a bookish pal
who scoffs:
"some dharmy of yours, boy. all that work.
where are the café sittings & sunny youthy days of
readin' sutras on a lawn somewhere?"

"bah," i says. *"bah..."
la fôret: ca c'est ma dharma
A L Davies Nov 2011
down a canyon where
a giant redwood grows
a mile up & out--
and on it like veins or
some wild turnpike
the whole
"mauvaise histoire"
of humanity:
all the thousands of years;
the hunger & strife & *******
(the poisons & spears in the back)
of this monkeycousined race
drowning in sewers
of wine.
an attempt at bringing a little more ****** up-edness to the [my] table
A L Davies Mar 2011
books (kerouac/suzuki, d.t.) on & off the lap,
thick black coffee . . . cup after shaky cup
the ninth floor air humid and clinging;
do some sketches and think
about the fat magnums of wine laying
chilled in the freezer;
waiting for dave's party.
stephanie street grange poems
A L Davies Sep 2011
late september down at the docks
is always fulla sadness.
closed up in the civic, parked with
steve stills shoutin' "love the one you're with" over the radio,
car otherwise quiet like a long sleep.
little rounded waves lapping
empty moorings,
the boats all dragged out & shrink-wrapped
'til next year
and fall comin' on in earnest now
with summer gone;
skies grey but sunset stains the clouds red like
th' cheeks of a drunk who cannot brave sobriety
as the cold settles the hills in full & even
a good book (big sur - duluoz)
not doin' any good b/c that old wino jackie k. keeps makin'
a mess o' things and goin' back to the sauce. worn out.
~
O this silence! (O this awful ******' waiting!)
car poems 1
A L Davies Jul 2011
there is no better time
for one's hooks to be unlucky
than now--
balmy with the lake like glass,
a round, fat sun to sweat under,
full pack on my shoulders,
& some backwater cabin to
rest this humble set of
hot, tired bones
when the fishing's done.
written up lake tramping with the blackflies at my back
A L Davies Jan 2013
outside my apt. ,
life passes
one bus at a time.
A L Davies Jul 2011
curling red & white post outside a barbershop
entices me to enter for a shave.
i put the follicle-filled lather in a bag & express-post it
to a friend.
(she collects **** like that.)
i estimate the date of arrival to be
2 days 5 hours from current.
*(will it get there/in time for her to use in in that exhibit?)
sometimes i get high when i write poems.
A L Davies Jul 2011
you know,
not all poetry has to be about
love, your sad heart, entwined destinies
or how much you miss that boy
or girl.
if you stop thinking about all that;
say "**** it"
and let the words come to you
you might be awfully pleased
at the simple rawness of
what comes out.
way sick of love poems.
i find the word "love" is thrown around so casually by people and it really gets to me. you're sixteen. you've dated the guy for two months. you're not in love. don't write 50 poems about how much you love him, and then 100 about how much you miss him when you break up a month later.
...alright i'm done.
A L Davies Oct 2011
nightsong/fallsong
nippy nightfog, dark drive (solo)
breathy windshield, elmvale driveway defog,
a naked girl/thru the house panes
whose bareness
is shown teasingly. (full aware)

homestead.
lamplight, "goodnight!", golden readlight.
bowl of noodles -- broccoli,
darkly pacing silent upstairs/eight-track recorder loudsound (genesis/trick of the tail)
weedpipe outside cold fresh nighttime.
outdoor *******/rockwall/hosetap,
posters/scotchtape/pins
(troilus & cressida pages taped to th'wall)
alone with thinkcap, lady dreamin'
(that ***!---ahh!) (sighs)
ragged joint thru windowscreen . . . baked-up mouth pasted---ice tea sippin' (glorious)
warm blankets & an empty bed;
need to get out of this ****** old town
empty; lonesome songs.
---but, think better . . .
this pre-spain hometown transatlantic waitin' sadness won't last
forever.
& tripping gets you nowhere. (snoop dogg)
smoke again and maybe put on
more genesis.
. . .
*(tho it is fleetwood mac instead
that i slap on/toss myself into bed.)
really high.
A L Davies Sep 2012
this being
dedicated to wicked woman hiding cold eyes
behind overlarge sunglasses;
sporting blackest velvet dress coat firmly buttoned smoking
long, cruel cigarette lit from glare off your cartier-replete wrist
as hordes of men in line to perhaps hold your parasol
while you read tedious course material are turned away
by singular lazy wave of the unsympathetic hand,
ashes falling & cherry red nail polish flaming across
the patio panorama like hellfire;
with hard, rangy body and cut-to-shoulders
blonde curtain to hide behind, safe upon your wicker throne;
wary of males & their hidden, bursting sexes.
granada university afternoon mountain-top crowded solace
A L Davies Mar 2012
howling idiots (myself) who
spat on store windows ****** & still half-drunk,
leering strangers in cars & stars
creeping from the sky to show teeth in wry grins
while
balancing nimbly on balcony railings
gazing thru heavy curtains to watch                     russian
                                                         ­                girls
******* on cold leather couches
shedding bulbous slavic tears which
ride crests 'f ghostly, high cheekbones &
at th'same time off some
where in drumheller, alberta
                                                             skeletons of ancient
kingly lizards rise & rattle like
                                                            ­ 1000 triassic maracas
recording spanish mariachis in
                                  bloodbath bullrings.
this will eventually be a part of something else
A L Davies Oct 2011
I
a fly
on the beachsand
washes his face.

II
a southerly wind blows
scratching at
my towel.

III
from downlake:
the sounds of a hundred gulls
fornicating.

IV*
this little sandy spring:
hissing & *******
over black stones.
more to come as i let the beach take me along.
A L Davies Nov 2011
there is something
damningly ******
about sitting in a
walmart parking lot
waiting for your
family to stop buying.
to stop bloodsucking.
(local delis, local bakeries, they're dying!)
(WHY do you shop there??)
(i won't go in ... )
i daren't give them my money,
my two cents,
a sideways eye.
(only my father agrees w/me)
---what else to do, then, but read, facing away in the car.

truly the worst of the box stores
springing like mushrooms from holy dirt,
shooting like bamboo on
the outskirts of any
[even slightly] metropolized
town or hamlet.
*(---good Lord i need mountain forests!!)
illegitimi non carborundum.
yhr
A L Davies Jun 2011
yhr
o' well i know
that birds of a feather'll
get folded and old
like grandmother's towels.
~
o' and all of these crows
hang out in the backyard
in piles of dead grass
spit out by the mower.
i swear i hallucinated the words to this in the blackness when i closed my eyes for a bit in american lit tutorial today.

— The End —