Filmore Townsend

Filmore Townsend Nov 2012

gentle rolling tones
with a knelling as of
old Westerns in ominous times.
when a hero rode up,
hat half-cocked,
ready for his life to be taken.
     but we know that won't happen.
he'd slide off his horse
pistol readied at his waste
and holler,
Come on o'er 'ere now son.
    then gunfire.
          (the Villain always shoots first)
and life is taken and
happiness returns.
the mines are no longer dry.
the cattle are no longer starved.
and the blood feeds the Earth.

- - abrupt ending.

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

of the Shores.

we sit here
wandering, pondering,
quandring
away the life.
awaiting the flood of
the Universal Ocean
to fill lungs of carbon
with sodium -
salinity in the tissue rising.
we sit here
awaiting Lot's wife,
to be pillar'd in a sense -
to be brined from the soul out.
we sit here
awaiting to be marbled and
pock'd with time,
to rest upon the Ocean's bed
and dream in lucidity -

and dream of the Shores.
and awaken of the Shores.
and feast of the Shores.

we sit here
awaiting in waste, in haste,
in repetition that our feet draw us upon.
we sit here awaiting,
healing of wounds thru time -
and the brambles wrapped tight
and tore of the flesh,
poxing.
limping, hobbling, waltzing on
and a blooded foot drew us home -
drew us onward.

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

to Lawrence

a man once wrote
   ‘bout this cat –
         the hip cat,
   he said,
           one hip to the
                true scene –
then he wrote
   ‘bout this cat’s
             Tree.
      He hung there
   to cool –
         on His Tree –
      when people thought
          He was too hot.
             He cooled alright –
     in fact –
       that cat became
             so cool
He’s still
                 the
                            hip cat
          ‘round some parts;
               though,
      no parts remain.
some claim to be
       that hot –
          that hip –
     but only those
          truly hip to the
                 scene
        don’t share trees

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

Untitled

ambience was communal and jovial,
you sat around. kinda down.
thought flowed through ears and out mouths,
you sat around. inhaling ash.
music was skewed by the white noise of voices,
you sat around. silent to death.
our cooridination had since failed us,
you sat around. eyes focused.
a few egressed, said their goodbyes,
you sat around. exempt from kindness.
more to leave and quietness came,
you sat around. eyes to the ground.
end had come, only we remained,
but you sat around. just around.

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

trials

factions warring,
numbers dwindling.
deceptive,
     lustful,
her body is the keenest weapon.

               time spent in guise of enemy,
she becomes one,
is one,
has always been one.
rebel and free-thinker,
turned infiltrator,
   betrayer.

seduced,
lulled,
a kiss as distraction.
a hand embracing body,
pulling her closer,
driving both weapons through the heart.

crimson stains,
                       life flows free,
          a heretic ******.

“In the name of His Ever Vigilance, this one dies alone.”

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

girl with the cat nose

experience
                           through the senses,
        an example of distraction –
a façade –
                                           colors swirl,
            (twirl)
         ethereal fog of the mind

             words in place of thought,
         never sufficient.
                 yet forced to be
with a loss of meaning.

sitting,
            waiting,
                               wasting away.
     Apathy,
       antithesis of time
        for us beasts of men –

a hiss,
a smirk,
   a smile and a laugh,
                          she turns away
      a last time –

indecision
                                 strikes at the soul,
          “im lame”
      “youre lame”
           “my horse is lame”

meaning fleeting,
           purpose created,
        forged through loss.

Filmore Townsend Oct 2012

cheshy kit

particles flitter through the air,
their ending here to be.
those who went against –
i swear –
committed heresy.
ashes of the individuals,
now lay within’ the soil.
Martyrs nurture bodies now,
thankless ones do toil.