Green mint breath,with a predator’s thirst,her hot steamed plunder,spanked to affection;some candy man love.Her tom-tom palms,such smooth pony thighs;candy requires perfection,ride, boy ride.The monkey house screams,call it a wild girl whisper,her hot scripted words;I believe in love.Candy riders, where’s this going?Going to slaughter,touching her thighs;riding the animal slide.My candy girl,little steamed fluffer,she sweats warm venom;I feel her love.You’re pretty slow, if you still don’t know.It’s called taste of the savage,for ponys and monkeys,a sweet attraction;for candy boy love.She was hired to please,to guard, above the knee.You got it now.It was ‘62 and I was hot.2010 Barry Comer

With the sweat of icons and glistened pearls in stone,
she wept for lambs lost, generations plowed under and
sweet potatoes that sun themselves.

This south, sweet heritage of folds, of historical nuance
and terrible crimes.

Lay with me tender, find coolness of the sheet and
breathe the mist of sad songs and foolish loves.

2010 Barry Comer

Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.It’s ****** man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.

Amazon heats her burning waste,

she’s tickling time with paint squint eyes.

With a sinkhole grip of uncertain hold;

she just babble talk babble, babble just blah,

blah and blab.

She dropped the room flat cold -

down so down.

Stole the show, priced the surprise;

little to show and much too nosey,

mind your business, it’s all go go.

2010 Barry Comer

We sail smooth

runners iced and swelled,

in teas of black

with Chinese talk-talk.



Lay your hands on me,

such smoothness tickles;

my fuzz and temptations -

you feel.



It’s our room on

Boulevard Saint-Germain

where hush-hush is

our language of

blushed romance

and foreign lip-lock.



Les femmes de la noir -

tenez ma queue et tordez.



We watch the sky

and count the drops and

swirl our fingers over cups

and sculptured hair.



Saturday afternoons on

Boulevard Saint-Germain.


2012 Barry Comer

Such a polished act,“who you mean”,your obscenityand crawling nails,they scratch the sidewalk,we lost all hope for Youand walk with dark eyes;thrown from Your arms.You held the tickets,of children whose dreamsand whose tune…feet with pepsi caps,the smiles of night.“really?”Willingly plunderedin dark brown or kool-aid lime,holding the smokesand shivering puffs,that pass from lipto mouth.We look 6:30 in the morning;we are your Lounge.“yeah I know, it’s voodoo”Our paper dryness andshaking palms,we high and low,ritual blows,who work the Lounge,who adore your obscenity,the comedy, the pages of scribble;our perspectives of absurd value.We adore you andthat sketch, stubbled erasingsin the Lounge.“you mean the voodoo lounge?”“yeah!”2010 Barry Comer

… the beginning.With purpled haze and showered stars, the crowds heaved toward heaven, and bared their chests, with savage eyes that screamed alarms, who played with notes and placed hypnotic words, into colors embracing their nightly rage. I dreamed this ****, when all soothed purple; in mysterious beat, that stalked our moment in time; at the edge of our enlightenment.America! America!God mend thine ev’ry flaw,Confirm thy soul in self-control,Thy liberty in law.These apparitions danced, while the crowd drummed black, and with jungled code they conversed, lashing fiery tongues, until our black faced angels; loosened their hold. Oh worshippers, it was his ******-ripped hands, who captured our hopes, who demonized our little tap dancer; the Sermon Dream.And it was replaced, our faith, our faith, our faith; with marbled bodies morbid, with murderous overtures, and hooligan priests, their despicable acts, the white barbarism. I saw these heavenly angels, who drank us drunk, les foules fâchées, je prie pour nous; poor mobs of seer poets, who lived in filthy hotels, with the distracted ghost of Madame Rachou.Among the ancients, the artists, the Egyptians, injections of brutishness, and smoke from burning testaments, our moment reflected black to back, that found us huddled under hair, that warmed our skin with naked lightning, thrown from one hit peddlers, the movement went downtown with snickered grins and bust line pimps who fed us our chocolate dust. We ate their scraps and drank their ****, sipping to salvation, without the blood from He, who is never coming.… the acts of violence, unspeakable joy.The Angel birthed a disciple to wait, to sip his grace then dance below, to visit our tombs, and pray for He, whose second act, a delayed departure, flashes Broadway’s darkened corners.The showered stars, the rancid thoughts, the hollowed chests; tracks of pity and fallen words, naked on porcelain lambs, cracked with hope that someone scratched; the King of hearts, the purpled belief, the tap dancer’s Dream.Our faith, our faith, our faith; our bodies become the overture, the awkward rhythm, the Blood and Bread, the grace from He; who dreams of armageddon, then pleasures Himself with hymns of praise.… the waters encroach.Our fingers plug the desert, while waters gently pour; we lap dance grunt, panting to the written testaments; in mud, in blood, on the skinned infants who lost their chance.We danced with a beat or three; to the rolling blankets; the humanity lost, and the gentle touched, by cold and rigid toes; crossed for the Calvary and furious charge.The priests of marble, who prayed to Him; were found holding the lanterns, sweet trinkets, fast bullets and fresh water boogie; while the dark was lit, as a guide to His arrival. Hallowed by The name whose eyes openly screamed, who played with notes and fed the words, into colors embracing his nighttime rage.God shed His grace on thee,And crown thy good with brotherhoodFrom sea to shining sea!2010 Barry Comer

You float with blue, tinted eyes;oh, Simone.Dreams of your strawberry toes,hanging between moistened planks;dissolving, diluting in current.Smiling from a photo,your eyes are gauze;behind glasses anddampened hair.Leaning forward,receiving me;looking upward;hoping for approval.You float with blue, tinted eyes;but cannot tell.I push the water,with prayer shaped hands;warm and dark.You fell into my mouth,warm and salty;whom am I tasting?2010 Barry Comer 

We stand outside and bathe -

in starlight and glow, of

histories in context

and roots.



Lives begun and deaths upon,

stream showers of

eternal end and story.



Les lumières in canopy

holding essence and finds -

us who seeded the ground,

that planted stories told;

from generation to single child.



The paths we take and roads

walked long, my pitch pipe

***** amuses.



Bellow the bloat and waste

the lamb.


2013 Barry Comer

This is the song of girls
who pressed themselves close,
and tried to be, my friend.

The softness of hands and
golden sweet lashes, that planted
seeds of memories.

They gave their songs of giggles and
breaths, whose sweet drawn, never to
capture again.

In memory of them and their smiles,
the passing of time reveals just
essence flickering back
of my head, whose scents unique.

Beautiful women who nursed and raised,
but move so slowly for me, the air and
the temperature, the thoughts;
they float on water.

Give them peace with time,
give me one more taste, a tint of
hue, their drawn lyric,
before floating away,
ebbing in slow rhythm.

2010 Barry Comer – www.blackcatpoems.com

Born dead with blinding light,
we escape the mouth of time tugging back.

Riding the light and the charge,
it is a one-way straddle feeding the volts.

Look up, gaze down – it’s where we end,
a discharge in dirt.

2010 Barry Comer

We turn around

and find  pinholes,

water streams of light,

from stars

who swallowed

and took our lives.



With sounds of snorts

and whiskered,

bully throats.



Whose heart

am I searching,

in this season of

hello goodbyes?



We look

upon them long

into night,

such twinkles,

of stars

that stole our loves -

their sweet

tender smiles.



Give back our dreamers.



Lend to us more - for years

into years.



2012 Barry Comer