TJ Struska

TJ Struska Apr 2020

At the impasse
I Cluadius
Blinked in the moonlight.
None taken I'll say
To the neo ******
Come home to roost
Twice round the maypole,
Once round the clock,
It take one more revolution
To beat me fair out
I got a power surge
Down in the pinions
I got this puppy all locked down.
Boy Howdy, none taken,
So said once round the cusp.
Eros, punk sandwich
Lettuce and fries.
Post time in Baghdad
One Big Time surprise.
Here comes the late show
Loving One Up,
Its all so contemporal,
Lost on the moonlight.
I see you come Sunday
Come hell of high water,
It out poops Dresden
One dream door today
I'll see you in Scranton
One light year away.

Well folks I just made this up as I went. Is Thomas C my only friend now? Tom this one's for you.

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Beggar's Death

The Queen
Of
Spades
Looks
As
You Die
A
Beggar's death
In a
Calcutta
Street.
You
Lay
Down
7's and 3's
And
Nothing
Is less
Than the
Sum
Of
Its means,
Between
That
Which is
Grace,
And that
Which is
Ruin.

A short mystical poem to no one out there. This site has turned into a ghost town Jen Annn where'd you go?

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Real Gone

Real Gone baby,
All zithers and strings,
A rust bucket special,
A killer of dreams,
Shh- ***** kitty,
I'll **** ya with love,
It's quiet as slippers
And fits like a glove.
Real Gone baby,
It rattles the walls,
It's a snake that slithers
And a bug that crawls,
Crawls up the alley,
Crawls up your dream,
Its a cat in the curtains,
A mouse on the floor,
A midnight special
And a ten dollar *****.
All riff-raff to Cairo,
Dark hills and coal,
Junk cars and shanties,
Straight time in Sheol.
Real Gone baby,
You won't miss a beat,
Worms in a bucket
And crime on the street.
Real Gone baby,
It's a real drum down,
Its hillbilly heaven,
One hell of a town.
Come on pretty baby,
Give me your hand,
Real Gone baby,
Down in the whale,
Down in the sand.
Real Gone baby
Give me your hand,
Down with the sinners,
Down with the ******.

I am a Spiritual person. A follow of Jesus. But I'm a writer, I have a light and darkness,
Goodness and sin. This is a poem exploring that dark side we all carry

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Anger Kills

Its little,
Then
Used up.
Sent packing
To the place
Where
Imbiles
Reside on couches
Reading
Nietzsche
Digging fodder
From the dung heap.
I've sense
Cut the throttle,
Brought it
All
Crashing
Down,
Gave up
Blue vistas
For
Orange sunshine,
Gruel
From a tepid
***.
Clouded dreams
I'll never
See.
Tisk, tisk,
So much
For
The sellout.
Hack,
Cheap swill,
Nothing better
Than
This cheap
Ending
Sputtering
On fumes.
With
Nothing left
In
The tank.

I hope someone likes this.
Someone anyone?

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Blind

You pull down the shade
In the arc of the sun,
And nothing happens
And everything does.
And it's highway robbery
With stinking trucks
Grinding up the street,
Whil fan blades whir
And Madagascar
Sinks to the sea.
You learn out the window
Sliucing dreams in moonshine.
This symphony
Of broken bottles,
Shadows and fences
And garbage can lined alleyways.
And I'm thinking
I'm on to something-
Beyond the region,
Some revelation
And the addle minded,
Those saddled to the outskirts
It's really circular sensors
And half moons
And Christmas
And Thursday before payday,
As the moon pores silver,
And I dream
Like a Persian cat.

Well, have all my readers blown away again? Is anybody home?

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Drunken Festival

It ended up a free for all
After the hotdog eating contest,
A maylay to the left of the stage,
As Steppenwolf
( one blind guy and four nobodies) sputter through
Sookie Sue
As someone jumps onstage
And turns it into a real Fourth of July
7/ 04/ 2005

Just a fun little poem. By the way STEPPENWOLF ROCKS!

TJ Struska Apr 2020

Fill They May, Fill The Fulcrum

Fill They may, fill the fulcrum,
Fill the feather dream.
And my bane is my doom,
And my dream is the desert,
And the horses blaze beyond
El Dorado,
13 months revolve in the moment,
And the moment is calculated
In that thereof.
As bees circle flowers
Erupting the earth,
I fall into a new type
Of madness,
Drawn in spires and suns
And dark whirring clock towers.
Ghost ships in fog dream the doldrums,
They creak and yaw
Their dead sailors inside.
And the moon never shines
In the blackness of noon.
Corolla, Corolla,
What do you bring?
Candy dirt, black lillies
And bugs in the sun,
A relish, a treat for boweevles to sup.
A stir of leaves,
A wish of wind,
One house below,
One house above.
What dark matter,
What sensuous core,
Red dreams of roses
Spread on the floor.
Alone at last, my name the dust,
I construct this tower,
A tower of rust.
Here I burrow among
The twigs,
A being asleep in the fulcrum of dusk.

This poem I wrote on Tuesday. I had a sense of the mystical,
Of deep woods on late fall,
A bit of Blair Witch imagery..TJ STRUSKA