"backroom" poems
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard
Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low
Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in
Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
There is a state of existence,
where a person is neither A nor B
he's inbetween--
he's the addition, the subtraction, the shove and retraction,
I've spent my life "+"ing and "-"ing
building empires of handshakes,
floating from bar to bar with drinking pals,
crowbarring ice off queens of black venom,
I'm the distortion in the middle, but I can't see the end--
I never promised answers,
but the soft hands, the wet eye'd, and the widows
cry out for closure,
I get edgy and the "+"ing turns to "x"ing
Instead of answers--
I take the As and Bs,
I inhale their the white-knuckle moments,
I simmer in their fading passion,
I glide through their dying beds,
Instead of clear answers--
A x B x A x B x A x B x A x B
=
(unfamiliarperfume, missingherwedding, socialnetworkwindowshopping, backroom, thestoplight, theschoolzone, dirtylaundry, rejectedphonecalls, hisgirlfriend, herboyfriend, hisboyfriend, hergirlfriend, otherwives, otherhusbands, blackout, clenchedfist, animmatureandirresponsibleflirtationwithaddiction, howlingatthemoon, gettingoffonthepast, leaveherinthenursinghome, makingthewake, mowingthegrass, droppingthebouquet, tooold, tooyoung, toolate, toosoon, toosweet, toocruel, toofat, toothin, toonosy, toodistant, toobad)
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Best Laid Plans
And in the grey of early morning,
they look at the equation,
they look at the proposed solution,
and inevitably the As and the Bs
say to me,
"Now, simplify it."
I get edgy
I get edgy
I get edgy.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
I see your hand waver, now you're faced with a ghost,
not the raw, killer features that were nailed to a post.
Just an old, dying cowboy, trying hard to play host.
There's a chair if you've mercy, and a story...come close.
The liquor of youth lights a fire in you, son.
Puts that flame in your eyes and the heat in your lungs.
I wore that expression, before your thread was spun,
so let me unload, you can shoot when I'm done.
Growing sore in my saddle as the nag became lame,
I sold off my shooters, then re-mortgaged my name.
But tease out the creases, we're exactly the same;
two felons of fortune, wanting someone to blame.
See, I never got settled, didn't take me a wife.
Sailed a ship in a bottle, on the edge of a knife.
I put stock in misfortune and invested in strife,
took diminished returns, paid no interest to life.
But corralling cattle won't hold them for long,
they're born to roam free where they know they belong.
Soon the lipstick and whiskey begins to taste wrong,
as the backroom piano sighs its monotone song.
By a tangerine sunset I scraped off my boots
and considered an orchard as it set down its roots.
As a buzzing of insects idly nurtured its fruits,
I was deafened by silence. My own garden was mute.
So I clutched at the earth as I fell to the floor,
to ask for forgiveness, as you darkened my door.
Seems redemption's eloped, like a gold digging *****
Just a name on a tombstone, for a few dollars more.
Quite an end would be fitting for a fool so innate,
who has squandered his years until the hour is late.
Son, unholster your weapon and wipe off the slate,
I beg execution, swift vengeance, But wait...
Did I catch my reflection as it fell from your face?
Like a hound in a heatwave, too tired to give chase?
Son, the trail that you're riding is easy replaced.
You can stand in the sunlight, or come sit in my place.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
I have a vision of you,
Fresh shaved legs,
Smooth as silk,
Nylon stockings,
Gartered neat and snug,
Gliding effortlessly,
Across your skin,
Your slow moving hand,
Feeling your legs curvature,
Clean well-oiled scented skin,
Ready for a soft touch,
Of gentle hands soft caresses,
Velvet black high-heeled shoes,
Slipped upon your feet,
Dressed in black velvet dress,
Clinging like hugs,
Everything is just so,
Hungry red lips,
Outlined perfectly applied,
Disguised a sultry smile,
Of one not yet kissed,
Eyes lined dark,
Shaped like night,
Made up in dim lights,
Bedroom eyes they say,
This way no tears are seen,
Sleek painted red nails fingers,
Reaching for courage,
Brushing across your lips,
Wink of your eye,
Blow soft kisses across backroom,
A fresh spray of perfume
Long strides across a stage,
Music starts to play,
Fresh shaved legs,
With glittered oils,
Gleam with every move,
Closing misty night eyes,
Getting lost in trance,
When music stops,
Open your eyes,
Once again your still waiting it seems,
High-heeled shoes,
You are not alone,
Your smile wide,
When music stops.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
Where skin meets pole,
In low society.
Is where I thrive.
This isn’t the right choice.
Singles hustlin.
Join me in these dollar days.
This is your light switch entrance.
Sitting at a marble bar
Loveless love, pay by the song.
Selfish fun, ***** talking on the jukebox.
Jazzin’ to the music.
Standing up on that marble stage,
Showing the world whats yours is ours.
Drunken memories lived to the fullest.
I’m out trying to discover America.
Stripped down to its rawest form.
This road is laden with fallen philosophies.
Tasting of ***** money.
Bitter.
Fully **** girls flashing. (lights)
Blow in the bathroom.
The nightlife you’ve always wanted.
Movie star lifestyle.
Dimly lit.
Have some backroom privacy.
Conversations with strangers.
This is naked in all sense of the word.
Sensual seduction.
Classical redemption.
Primal ecstasy.
Trying to make amends with myself.
This is a haggard lifestyle.
Society frowns upon us.
Shameful scandals.
Fake lovesick mannerisms
Paid for in advance.
Exposed on stage.
You’re in love with a stripper.
Kitty, Desire, Destiny, Velvet.
All the love you’ve been looking for,
For the price of admission.
Just sit back and watch the girls on stage.
This is it.
We’re searching for love.
And if we cant find love,
We’ll settle for lust and luck.
You’re well taken care of here.
Don’t you worry about a thing.
Just don’t run out of money.
Superficial lover for a pay as you go one-night stand.
Never lonely here.
Late night tonight.
In the back of the club.
Are we having déjà vu yet?
You’ve been here before.
You’ll be here tomorrow.
Just a little longer now.
Climbing up the pole to the ceiling,
Only to slam down in the splits.
Don’t worry it can only get better from here.
This is the right choice.
Bright light flashing.
You’re finally in the spotlight.
Sold out, checked out, cashed.
“Let me do all the work sweetheart.”
We must live the way we feel is right.
We’re all trying to make our way in this world.
Lets not forget each other.
Cocktails anyone?
Is this wrong?
Living in this life.
This party
that never ends.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
she came in out of the dark rain
her guns hanging loose at the ready
her worn leather death hand just driftin above
the handle of her colt
eyes searching for the hard glint of steel
in the faces of the saloons crowded floor
but none had noticed her come in from the storm
she walked to the bar and called out
for a whiskey
leaned and let all but gun hand rest
as one of the prettiest bargirls came up
and smiled for a drink
without conversation the girl lead her
to a backroom
and this gypsy's night was filled with hot passions
and the gun hand was forgotten
in the sweet arms of virgina citys sweetest rose
but morning came with the rolling
of the steamtrains whistle
and the sheriff calling out the gun hand
she had laid some dog of a man low
for putting his hands on his woman
now she got to hang
cant be shootin our law abiding folk
we don't take kindly
this gunhand
this leather clad hard riding woman
with the softest sweetest heart
the kindest of souls
wasn't gonna let em hang her
for shooting down a ***** dog of a man
so she kissed sweet rose long an deep
and bid that sweet girl fare thee well
took up her colt
out into the dusty raw heat of
noonday sun she stepped with
her gun hand driftin over the **** of her colt
eyes blazin for the fool of a sheriff
who had come to lay her low in the name of justice
in the name of their lie of a town
they faced eachother and drew pistols
both got off a shot
one fell to the dusty earth
never to rise again
the other laid down pistol
and walked away
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks
I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me
Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper
Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.
I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or arse-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.
© M.L.Emmett
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.
In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.
Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.
A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
*"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."*
A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:
"Recognize the perfume?"
The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.
Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.
*"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."*
Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.
I never heard from her again.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
*With two water cans
she suddenly emerged
from a backroom..
Watering lobby plants
in a medical place..
Broad-leafed
tall and green
thriving inside
knowing not winter cold..
She brushed and clipped
at watchers she smiled..
Viewing each plant
with quick becoming
a glancing OK..
Arrived and departed
leaving trailing glow..
Plants whispered of
brushed love
grace-full care...*
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
I liked how you talked once upon a time.
But beauty and the beast is black and white.
I'm an all or nothing kind of guy.
Guess I'm not really what you like.
Burnt matches for kindling.
Ashes with embers only painted orange.
Thought we felt a similar thing.
Cigarettes in the moonlight talk a lot more.
So it's over, I know you now,
A body is all you're worth.
So it's over, I know you now.
A little piece of heaven, tasting like dirt.
So it's over, I know you now.
If there's a crowd, you'll say the words.
Found out why you sit a lot by yourself.
Two trains of thought and mine's running out.
Away from you, I hope you're burning,
I won't feel those flames by the morning.
Burnt matches for kindling.
Ashes with embers only painted orange.
Thought that we felt a similar thing.
Cigarette tips in the moonlight talk a lot more.
So it's over, I know you now.
Just a girl.
So it's over, I know you now.
A backroom museum piece.
So it's over, I know you now.
No pictures, please.
No pictures please.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.
© 2011 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Temptation
all around me,
I want to hug it
with a middle finger.
Place your hand
on my stomach,
feel the wash
of digestion.
I slide my fingers up
her
rib cage
strumming
them
like chords,
until I hear a giggle
of music.
I let myself
in
that night.
As you waited
in the backroom
bedroom,
with all your backroom
sexuality.
All the latent
passion
that crept during the day
is let loose
when I unlock
your neck
with my tongue.
Shivering
neckbones
make a noise
like ornaments
caressing
on a christmas
tree.
The gift
of your body
isn't lost
on me,
but the gift of love
can't make it through
this process of unlocking,
unraveling
and
**********
Love
straps her bra
on,
pulls her ******* up
and closes her legs.
And I don't even miss it,
because love speaks
with a tongue for talking
not
*******
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
No one ever asked me
if I wanted to be shackled, instead of being free
no one ever asked, but decided anyway
to turn and bolt the open doors
tie me to the dusty concrete floors and work me to the bone.
No one said,you'll never own a home and if you do
we'll steal it back
and mortgage you instead,
one day we'll all be dead
'so what's the rush?' is what I said.
Brokers in the token towers endowed with powers beyond our 'ken'
and if or when they do decide to let the status quo remain
the status quo will automatically, register it as another of the same old krap
it's something else that they'll steal back.
I've got to tell you, that I'm pig sick
of make it fast and spend it quick and sod the rule of law it never did apply , to the hotshot, potbellied, suited city guy who has his eye on articles one to five and in any case will most definitely survive against the odds by burying away us poor sods in backroom books,stirred slowly into microfilm by corporate crooks who cook away as if each day a different menu was on sale.
Beyond the pale where riders sit and watch the scenes unfold, and it is foretold that judgement day will wash the wicked clean away and save the righteous.
Yes,
well don't I just believe all that
another bunch of total krap.
The pious in their pious world could not foresee that greed alone would be the fall of man..and in the fall,where man has done it all and nothing of it done remains
the register clicks on two more games to play
one tonight
and one the day to come
a bonus ball for everyone except Mario because he's on heroin,you know it,I know it
the moguls in the mighty towers blow coke into their nose and they know it too.
Not a thing I want to do
should I do, would I if I could do,do?
I wonder where it's written that
we have to go there to get back
and if we go why don't we stay
one day we'll all be dead.
A thought as going ,when to bed arrived in and another trial that I survived through
one more dish of microfiche that never swam in any sea
and small as anything you see
or smaller for all that
a status bit of ***
for tat
and let the gnats and hounds of titled lords and ladies give the peasants rampant rabies, who cares but the undertakers undertaker,the sombre funeral formulator?
and I don't give a ****
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Sue took my hand
on a saturday night
walked her home
when she told me with all her might
About her rock n roll boys
and her school shenanigans
how she found her voice
in the backroom with her toys
She seemed to be a bad girl
out of my league
so during the way home
i could only look at her rosy cheeks
Got to her doorstep
where she whispered goodbye
kissed me on my cheek and said
till monday, you magpie
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
what i write
here,
now ,
is truth
condensed, distilled
into poetic moonshine
to be consumed
by a creative soul
and then
for that soul to begin to dance
the exotic fandango,
or
the quickfire foxtrot
or
the haunting vienna waltz
whichever,
whatever,
beats,
within the willing heart
that dwells with quiet,
wistful wanting
in the backroom
of their psyche
so,
ignited
and
on fire
they dance
then,
they laugh
a joyous
unbound sound
producing
an exuberant euphoria
and a destiny of such
wonderous flight
so that,
they, you, me,
would see
the cosmos
from above at night
and marvel
at the stars,
stitched against the cloth
of darknest blue
then,
learn to love them
one and all,
as they,
those bright, shining things
float,
fly,
crash,
burn and fall,
for
as scribes,
we must learn
to write all the stages
of a
star's plight.
not just the
dizzying ephemeral heights.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
with military precision
is always careful
At every bridge she
breaks step
to avoid foolish
oscillations a peeking midriff jog
pounding shoes
on asphalt pavement
hard could these send infatuated
hopes to destructive swing
Who knows what chasm
fantasized are crossed
Who knows what war
wages and what broken
battle of bulges lost
Why burn another Leader
ego living in some
Downfall Bunker
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
in boots bare run faster
than legged strut
Every night she comes
through a backroom window
protected by a silver
Spoon at best
and every morning she
survives as golden tongue
poetry written on
our wired cages
There is a Soldier I know
Her name is Eden
and her hands are hot
with Dante's inferno
Her adolescent face is cool
and on each ear
a ring of Blue Herons
Every day her short cadence
brings rouge life
to our clay complexion
and every night
her milky whey
lips wonder lost
in our King Lear
kabuki song
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
I remember a time when my brain was flexible, elastic;
like a good rubber band.
we would unwind all of the messy, pulsing coils and stretch them out until they became
one long grey intestine.
we jumped rope with it, and swung through the trees, laughing until our voices surrendered
yet as all intestines will do,
it has become sluggish, bloated with ****
and is wound tighter than a corporate watch
now every conversation is the devils Rubik's cube
and brainchildren don't come from a barren womb
so I've taken to adoption
and thrown em all in the backroom
where they lie cramped in bed
with little to eat, and less to do
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
The invasion of other countries
Has to come to a full stop.
You’re making us the Evil Empire
By playing at being traffic cop.
We are stuck in a sick cycle
Of meddling in the internal affairs
And financing revolutions and wars
In countries where nobody asked us there.
You’re evil
And even more so;
Pure evil
Because you don’t think so.
At least that’s what you claim
But you’re as phony as your fame.
You tell the voters one set of lies
And secretly agree on others.
Your backroom manipulations
Kills our sisters and brothers
While hiding behind patriotism
The overseas battles of duplicity
Are not about threats to us here,
But are about oil and ethnicity.
You’re evil
And even more so;
Pure evil
Because you don’t think so.
At least that’s what you claim
But you’re as phony as your fame.
You take advantage of the state
Of poverty out nation is suffering
That you politicians caused
By removing our safeguard buffering.
You are doing your best to remove
All the national checks and balances
So you can ***** our world at large
That has no recourse for grievances.
You’re evil
And even more so;
Pure evil
Because you don’t think so.
At least that’s what you claim
But you’re as phony as your fame.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Saddled up to a bar-room stool, at a place on the East side of town,
drinking beer from a can, sat a dangerous man known as One-Punch ***** Brown.
The gals all sidled near him; the guys seemed to leave him alone.
We all knew his reputation and that ***** was bad to the bone.
They say he once knocked out a horse and his hands could move faster than light.
We all knew how he came by his nickname; with one punch he could end any fight.
I sat at a game with five cards in my hand. I was hoping to fill in a straight.
With a gamblers face, I threw off an Ace and I hoped for a King or an eight.
Now, across the backroom at a table, all alone, just observing the scene,
sat what I'd call, one hell of a lady, with the dignity of a queen.
It was clear she was taking great interest in One-Punch ***** Brown,
by the smile that swept over her features when he signaled the bar for a round.
Though you never would guess he had noticed the lady all dressed in blue,
***** winked to the barkeep and whispered, "And take one over there to the shrew. "
I took it all in as I played out my hand; reading faces was part of my game.
In a moment I saw what most men would have missed; ***** cringed and his smile seemed to wane.
Now, from where I was playing the hand I was dealt, there by the backroom door,
I suddenly knew, as my Ace I threw, they had somehow met before.
I knew by her smirk and by his crooked grin, before this day would be o'er,
that the lady in blue, called by ***** "A shrew, " was intending to settle a score.
My blood ran cold and the tension grew, as I waited the luck of my ruse;
I saw tears wash away the makeup that covered a hell of a bruise.
I realized now why the lady was here and what she had come to do.
God! I wondered why he had beaten her so and I hated what I now knew.
I raised the bet, and sorted my cards; I noticed the hour was late.
I filled my hand with a Queen high straight, for the dealer had passed me an eight.
As I made my spread and collected my win, the lady played her Ace.
She shot three times and, as ***** fell, I saw he was shot in the face.
A hush fell over the bar room and ***** now lay on the floor.
No one else seemed to notice the lady in blue had already slipped out the door.
When they ask if I knew what had happened, when they wanted to know what Id seen,
I said, "All I saw was the cards in my hand; I was holding a Straight to the Queen."
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 3:28 AM UTC