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The boy watches the stars
  with wonder holding breath.
  The man plots the stars tedious
  any breathe maybe certain death.
When jealous boyfriends
get away with killing girls
fence posts breaking skulls
blood paints grass in swirls.
Two piece Patty at the pool.
We've changed, we're old.
If I had another chance
to taste you I would.
Give me a glance
see me young again
backstairs ******
escapades reaching
stars and breaking
time's limitations
old, fat, forgotten.
Let's not just retire.
Waiting to die as we
live diminished and
more bored each day.
Let's run away to the
night we met and fell
into astonishment as one
and never looked back.
Let's go to the photo booth
where we snapped proof.
Travel to the night we made
our daughter against all odds.
That time way back in the photo booth
when you kissed my cheek in love and
I was grinning like a man in love and
I keep it near and that's who we are.
We fall apart and fall in love over again.
We are different. We are the same.
I'll die with you in that photo booth
kissing me as my only lover could.
A picture from a thousand kisses ago.
We were so in love full of desire we
knew would last forever. We are always.
Until we aren't. What broke besides
our hearts? We never understood. We
just blamed boredom and each other.

A picture from a million kisses ago.
Older and wiser we still broke our
bed and didn't miss a beat. We were.
Then one day we found others to break
more beds and lost sight of love. ****
was what we did. Until we didn't bother.

A picture of me on my 90th. Wrinkled
and alone in assisted living with a
cupcake and candle and little cardboard
birthday hat aching for youth and
beaches and bars and young lovers
again to break more ******* beds.
I dreamed I was a lesbian
stage frightened thespian
infinity inside a clock
a manikin but with a ****
blindfold at a firing squad
playing racquetball with god
Einstein teaching ABC's
an atheist on his knees
a poet ******* in a tree
a monkey typing poetry.
Piano can break my heart like
  first love lost in youth's chaos
  or have me cry with joy at our
  first child's birth. I hear Dad.
  "You've been at war with yourself
  far too long. Come home, son. I've
  loved you all along. Nearly out
  of time my end is coming soon.
Metaphors keep burning us down."
Fire hisses like snakes in the rain.
My eyes are ****** sideways
staring on a twisted face blue
and grey not round a triangle
ears like trumpets listening
kiss my lips if you find them
hang my heart on butcher hook.
When my brain implodes,
my Irish heart explodes
the entire Earth erodes
I was here for a breath
my birth to my death
a tiny piece of flesh.
Midnight and I see black umbrellas below
silent waiting to see their dead monarch
in his coffin in His grand state funeral.
I **** disdain white on the fierce dark.
I'm a lowly pigeon subject of the King
above pomp and circumstance living life.
Midnight and I see black umbrellas below
silent waiting to see their dead monarch
in his coffin in His grand state funeral.
We drop disdain white on the fierce dark.
We are lowly pigeons subjects of the King
above pomp and circumstance living lives.
The brain is a verse of poetry, not flesh and blood.
         She always said the oddest things. Are we real?
         Love's color is green, beautiful Irish deep green.
         I got drunk and climbed into the tree house and wept.
         I got sober, found Jesus and climbed into your arms.
         We had a moment of passion that I had to pass on.
         We went to our uncle's bar for free beer underage
         but found we had to pay a visit to his death bed.
         I ran into traffic and broke my leg chasing Dad.
         I believe this will end and start all over again.
I chew a bit of this pill
and feel a little less ill.
I swallow a blue moon
sleep through a typhoon.
A tab of acid in my tea
the world bewilders me.
Pills make me happy when I'm sad, and tired
  so I can sleep, and wide awake in mornings.
  Pills help me when anxiety steals my breath.
  Pills  save me from a cuckoo's nest lobotomy.
  Pills make me feel normal like the rest of you.
Pills let me feel lust on our special date night.
Prescription pad addictions make doctors bootleggers?
I'm stingy with my praise.
Please forgive my thrift.
I read so many poems I
wish I'd written. I want
to swallow every line like
Alice's pill in Wonderland.
It's a fragile thing I cry for.
Mommy and Daddy are long gone.
A million drunken mad clowns
storm this circus of my life.
I don't live in a straight line.
I live inside a pinball machine.
The Floyd, *******,
brought my soul to surface
I finally felt home again
sit and rest from a rat race.
I've been mad for years
swim against the tide
ocean drinks my tears
I find your coves to hide.
Pink Floyd
     Pulse Concert 1994

   The drummers insane
   so glad that I came
   light extraordinaire
   alive in the atmosphere
   Pink Floyd troubadours
   cleanse us in abattoirs.
Strip our skin from within
and feed the devil our sin.
The whole **** bunch of you
drag me down a rabbit hole
with more lost hope insane
Xmas morning lump of coal.
Let me be eaten by Haitians
surrender of all the nations.
Angry every time I wake
Xanax first thing I take.
Nightmares electrocuted
on the throne executed.
The king smells like ****
in the end that's just it.
I'm *******
I'm sick and tired
I want to burn this
all the way down
gas cans defeat me
and matches are rare
you touch your sacred heart
and bless us with your hand
I thought you'd be darker
coming from the desert sand
I trust you on my dashboard
to keep me safe from harm
through thick and thin you
are my jesuz plastic charm.
Plastic picnic
plastic spoons
plastic love
plastic moons

plastic vows
plastic years
plastic ******
plastic tears

plastic promise
plastic flowers
plastic fuckless
plastic hours

plastic hospice
plastic dying
plastic caring
plastic crying

plastic boxes
plastic keepsakes
plastic palaces
plastic mistakes

plastic bride
plastic honeymoon
plastic false alarm
plastic lover soon.
Plastic picnic
plastic spoons
plastic love
plastic moons

plastic vows
plastic years
plastic ******
plastic tears

plastic promise
plastic flowers
plastic fuckless
plastic hours

plastic hospice
plastic dying
plastic caring
plastic crying

plastic boxes
plastic keepsakes
plastic palaces
plastic mistakes
'Til death we vowed
heads fervent bowed
We'd been drunk wild
belly full of child
18 and 19 naive
tonight we believe.
My parents never saw eye to eye.
They loved happy hours and we
ignored them best we could.
Mom was proud of her china plates.
Dad hated them. He broke them
year to year until one was left.
It was their final piece of love.
It's buried in their shared plots.
What about the children? You **** a new ******
  and leave us in a dustbin. Dedicate your book to
  your worshiped *****. Soon enough we'll be dust.
  Children's cries are mute in lust's thick walls.
  She sealed the children’s room with tea towels and tape,
  turned on the gas in the oven, and laid her head inside.
Sylvia Plath
February 11th, 1963
We were children playing house.
    Always on our knees for our lonely
    praying to keep the monsters away.
    We grew up and married one and only.

    We are older no wiser playing house.
    We have kids. We say 'cause I said so.
    We drink and take pills our romance
    with cliches and no where else to go.
I fall in love easily. A heart,
biology, chemistry and **** if
I'm not in love with you now.
In bed I'm intense carny rides.
Lust is a vacation for a month.
Seaside makes me want city life.
I'm riding the edge of my mind
2 kids and a fat wife I deserted
before I played house with all
you other disappointed lovers.
Playing House When a young, unmarried couple buys a residence together with the hope of living out their dreams of an ideal home life. In most instances, the immaturity of the young couple and harsh reality of their home life soon sets in, causing a stress related failure of the relationship.
We wired kids drank coffee
   in Kroger's and stoled fire
   and cigarettes. We were free
we were open to inspire.
   We kissed girls felt fears
   something like young desire,
   warmth we'd chase for years.
I pledge allegiance to the flag
of our founding warriors
constitution verbatim
forget today's horrors.
Rockefeller was a villain
back in the olden times
until he gave away all of
his pockets full of dimes.
A gentle kind old man frail,
caring, generous to a fault
sold his soul on newsreels
to an adoring sheep like cult.
I'm stunned by beats and rhythms
created in seconds in madness.
What's happening to the creature
I've become? I can't stop the poems.
They own me as I own them. We're one.
A poem is born from my being.
I like order but thrive in chaos
    I'm a thousand volt naked wires
    bleeding into each other's thoughts
    when my poem is birthed on the page.
    My fingers are pistons on the keys
    beating each letter on the innocent
    paper. I want you to bleed when
    you see razor lines of empathy.
    My newborn will suckle us all,
    find strength in our passion.
Poem For People Who Are Understandably Too Busy to Read Poetry

A poem by Stephen Dunn




Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's *** you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.
He was a kind, gentle man.
Soft spoken and in the time
of Aids and he told me he
was on death's path with
a disease unknown. I said
doctors will cure you.
Don't worry.
I never saw Rod alive again.
I stitch memories into poetry
seamstress in abject poverty
words upon words in lines
we live with our tiny crimes.
Break my ***** in love
with your manly shove.
I have poems for the dead
flowers around caskets.
I've apologies for the living
sincere notes in fruit baskets.
I hold my pen too tight as
I strike the page in pleasure
and put the alphabet in order
to scream ******* in a poem.
It hurts so good to be heard.
Make a collection and submit
it for consideration
forget the apprehension
each poem bleeds
of it's own beating heart
we all have poem seeds.
Selfish words born
  from a wanting womb.
  Crying for attention.
  Seeking a final tomb.
poems scattered around the room
in my never ending fool's errand
as poet laureate of Watercolor's
perfect world of happy accidents.
We drool and weep out of context
but scratch a portrait of Sexton
asleep in her car in the garage.
We copy Plath's ****** scene of
geese escaping winter to warmth.
We suffer cures of lobotomies.
poems scattered around the room
in my never ending fool's errand
as poet laureate of Watercolor's
perfect world of happy accidents.
We drool and weep out of context
but scratch a portrait of Sexton
dead in her car in the garage.
We copy Plath's ****** scene of
geese escaping winter to warmth.
We endure cures of our lobotomies.
Brilliant light was smothered.
Grey men 4 years old on knees.
We don't write poetry.
We give it birth.
It's been inside us
bits and pieces in dreams
nothing as it seems
We are kilns sun hot
melt your whole ****
life and pour it on
cooling trays and
hope for the best.
Stab me with your pen
in my poet heart amen
hate my poems of truth
so **** real and uncouth
bury me among my poems
sacred graves truth owns.
I submitted a piece of me
for your consideration.
Weigh me on your scales
compare my ugly creation.
It lives in squalor with
other poem ****** ignored
forgotten forever until one
of us will finally be adored.
8 Ducklings through Mom
are enough to astound.
6 Alcott Lane, Greenhills.
Winton Woods playground.
Christmas Terry loved a TV
I loved Beach boy record
Kevin loved math books
we shared Umbilical Cord.
Each poem I write always seems less than your poems. Love won't leave me alone.
Drink alone at noon
in my tiny attic room
of a boarding house
with a noisy mouse.
Lamp, chair, ashtray,
small bed I can lay.
I write poems musical
on paper with classical
music on a tinny radio,
in Dylan's blessed glow.
I drink alone
in the attic room
of a boarding house
furnished minimal.
Lamp, chair, ashtray,
a small bed to crash.
I write my Collection
on paper with classical
music on a tinny radio.
I'll die young like Dylan.
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