"billiard" poems
the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mind looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings
then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.
The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,
your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood;your *** squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself,as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses
he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.
45k
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.
Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.
Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.
Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.
A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.
And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.
I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running thin
URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN!
M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
one
by
one
they
came
no
light
no
candle
to
smudge
the
pure
darkness
children
of
the
shade
revelers
of
midnight
there
to
view
the
event
in
the
womb
of
blackness
moons
were
cocooned
awaiting
the
push
of
labor
~ stars ~
spent
with
their
urgency
await
the
impetus
that
will
send
them
spiraling
out
into
blue
and
gold
galaxies
to
scintillation
with
nebulae
and
so
the
event
the
faces
of
the
creatures
of
the
crepuscule
evaporate
the
moons
are
birthed
into
fire
the
stars
are
scattered
like
a
billion
billiard
*****
the
fabrication
that
was
matter
energy
space
and
time
is
no
more
^
< >
\/
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
May we all fall into the cave of despair
Where darkness visible holds us within
We all deserve to go there for some reason or another!
To have Grendel greet us,
Would be a privilege
We would all roll the billiard ball to our enemies
Mon-fere what is your calling?
Do you have values anymore?
May religion take your soul
I hope Gods judgment is lighter than mine
O’Brian knew you as I do
I will follow you to hell, but not back
If only to make sure you burn
Chiron will take you across, but not like Dante
Like St. Judas, or Moloch or every fanatic alive
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:40 AM UTC
Juxt
Easy bucks
Market flux
The democratic peace
Imperial caprice
Praise be to lord and Savior
Sacrament, scandal-flavored
Legion of dissenting voice
Treason in the use of choice
Give me your teeming tired, your huddled poor
Bones with to festoon the corporate door
And if you could turn to me, adoring
I’ll check my busted magic billiard ball
All signs point toward what I’m ignoring
Burnt the bridge to your heart, land, deed and all
When time is right, we secretly confide
What should have lain bare in our first report
Our ideal homes of mental cards collide
Seems, in comparison, we all fall short
Glory in history contiguous
Gory details, a bit ambiguous
The equality of man
******* Ku Klux ****
Only with the best intent
Rubber bullet malcontents
Perpetual motion
Toward backward notions
Money flows
Deathly throes
Oppose
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
Of man’s creations there are many,
A well cared for mature orchard
Is certainly one.
Be it generator of fruit or nuts,
Their perfect symmetry is bless,
Row upon row, standing tall,
Branches almost touching one,
Tree unto another,
Filled out and lushly dense,
As to block out the sun,
Ever striking the earth.
The ground beneath, around the trees,
Swept and manicured clean as a
Empty Billiard Table, awaiting the harvest.
Walk among these umbrella like trees
A tranquil quite abounds,
Recalling the peaceful interior of a church,
The songs of nesting birds the heavenly chorus.
A cool and shaded location, to be alone,
Well suited to meditation,
Or even composing a Poem.
Yet, oh how sad it truly is,
When an orchard goes abandoned,
Becoming the embodiment of apathetic neglect,
A bombed out city ruin of good intentions,
**** choked and cluttered,
Rotted Harvest and blackened branches,
Littering the unkempt ground.
Gone now from tranquil perfection,
To a dead and dying blight upon the land.
With no human hands to tend it,
Its glory is gone and the end is near.
Similar now to a spooky Cemetery,
No longer a space of serene splendor,
Or a place one might desire to undertake,
A meandering reflective stroll.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
#
Are you sad or unhappy
Depressed; Feeling lonely
Each day dark and dreary or blue?
Do not worry my friend
I know just how you feel
I have all the right answers for you
So to counter the downward
You start thinking upward
Bad thoughts will stick to you like glue
It takes more than just effort
You must remain strong
Fortitude; So this trip you'll see through
Now I want you to think
of a time you were happy
When things in the world all seemed new
Full of love and carefree
Innocent; *Truly pure
Crisp and clean*; Much alike morning dew
When inside of your mind
you project types of thoughts
that are positive; Like "dreams come true"
*It rewires your brain
Generates* new connections
Gets rid of the old residue
But you must stay the course
Don't give up in distress
And in time it will start getting through
It is hard I confess
But would never attempt
or could make a false promise to you
So if happiness is
what you want from your life
Yet it always finds ways to elude
The change comes from inside
Must have faith; Must believe
Make a batch of fresh "positive brew"
As you drink this elixir
In time you will see
Billiard ***** have all left but the cue
A blank slate to create
What you want of the world
Every color no longer just blue
Disagree or debate
If you finish the race
Like a big gust of wind that just blew
All the darkness now gone
Feel like 'here I belong'
Peace of mind; Life that's filled with love too
#
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
The clash of billiard *****
Bouncing off the walls of their sheltered existence,
Echoed down the bar
Cutting through drunken laughs and senseless toasts
A man with an empty paper cup
Mumbles through the gaps in his teeth,
Asking for change
As he instinctively pushes up his glasses
And pinches his nose.
A girl with curly hair that blows in the air conditioning current
Sings at the top of her lungs,
Dancing and drinking,
Grateful that she probably won’t remember this in the morning,
And she wont
I’m sitting at the bar,
Surrounded by my fellow strangers.
Drunkards, wynos, and suicidal fathers.
Buying rounds of sadness and painful consequences,
As they Balance upon their bar stool thrones,
I hate them. And I hate humans.
But so do you.
And that is why when I walk through your wooden doors, and up your fragile stairs
I’m home
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Turning screws
That twist with a croak
A hammer in square nails
Boots echo down the stone staircase
Tall machines made of brass
Perfectly greased gears twist against
Bright red tune of strings
Twist tunnels in the black of my mind
Underground trees
Billiard ***** tap in the next room
Where men hunt weak women
With long black teeth
Collars stained red blood
Go to sleep in my family name
Someone taps nails
In my coffin
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
A warped neck on a Fender Strat , a broken bottle of Johnnie Walker Black . Torn felt on a mahogany billiard table , catfish fillets scorched on the fire , rendered inedible ..
A marvelous , precision tractor engine seized from loss of oil , a bumper crop of peaches killed by frost ..
An empty bottle of malt vinegar , wind blown lovely cherry pipe tobacco lost forever ..
Red ripe homegrown tomatoes shredded by hail , soft shelled pecans dropped in the well ..
First snowflakes of Winter melted on warm city streets , green grass left to die beneath a cloth sheet ..
Concord grapes dried on the vine , watermelon picked before it's time ..
Homemade biscuits burnt in the oven , true love within reach left undiscovered ..
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
Goodbyes are so hard;
Sticking needles into my eyes--that kind of hard.
I want to hang on in desperation,
Dragging you through the slow, thick water of my love.
But you are quick silver, and have no taste for my molasses rich love.
How easily you slipped through my fingers!
Scuttling off with your geometrically perfect form,
Scattering my dreams like billiard ***** struck hard
By the cue stick of 'this is all too real'.
Oh love, you gathered the shattered pieces of my heart
And blew them into the wind.
While all along, I had been lost in the notion
That you would meld me back together with bits and pieces of yourself.
Oh love, Oh dearest!
I had thought you would last forever.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.
Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong
Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”
So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.
“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”
So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.
“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”
Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.
When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”
“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”
“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.
She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and
fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is
with friends of his.
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want
to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends
not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
pushing wheelbarrow
of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she
imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is
out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight
to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends
held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol
breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,
and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from
the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her
breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open
and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,
no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.
Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Something that stopped me in my tracks
was the weight of the air around me.
we're all sitting in traintracks on a baseball field
and we dont see the cars driving past
but we can **** well feel them
the balloon of pressure
air sprinting away from the grill of a two-ton hunk of metal
glass
rubber
knocks you back just in time to get hit by the train you never saw coming.
jump off the tracks and dive into my opened chest
the sea is swelling and it will swallow you whole
You're just standin there.
You look stupid.
Wonderin' why..
Why, man?
be the tide and raise these storm waters until they crash your levies
leveling your time-built empire
your stockades made of billiard *****
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
I wish I had never met you.
You are Apollo, Zeus, and Hercules. You are midnight lullabies. You are drunken fists turned to open hands. You are the one constant presence in hotel rooms in Barcelona, Ibiza, Budapest, New York, everywhere. You are bloodied lips. You are gentle kisses. You are post-nightmare reassurance. You are a bullet to the head. You are toppled sandcastles on Massachusetts shores. You are white walls. You are the brightness of a phone screen in a dark room. You are a bruise that doesn’t go away. You are cold, rosy cheeks. You are morning coffee. You are yellowed pages of forgotten books. You are razor-burned jawlines. You are the crack of billiard ***** You are the hand on my knee beneath the table. You are the moon flooding through thin curtains. You are phantom limbs. You are a foreign name on a foreign tongue. You are the sunrise. You are a memory that doesn’t fade. You are every ******* poem I write.
I wish I had never met you.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
Loves pile high as credibility falls flat
as my heart after another "button" is pressed
Impossibility creeps to the front of mind
wanderings in the shape of a girl's secrets
Summer haze cannot strip away things
present long before I met your mouth movings
(Poetry wreaks havoc of minds unaware
of my privy billiard and/or therapy sessions)
This heart does not move in halves
but moves out of a sincere need for shelter
that is built from something honest
within the self but has yet to be found
without the help of another moving being
So Teddy, Delano, Chagal, and Holy Ghost be mine
only loves and lovers and leaders till I meet my miracle
From
"no more rosy gardens
no more craving curving
Let craving call
and beg and bawl
and face it tall
Let my soft skin have more sweet soft air on me.
Let boulders drown."
To
"Because everyone that I know
Every place that I go
Every story that I’m told
Its love
Its love
It’s love that we’re looking for"
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 11:36 AM UTC
*In a society that has destroyed all adventure,
the only adventure left is to destroy that society.*
Is graffiti
written on an
abandoned bedroom,
what children occupied
this space?
I ruminate then dissipate.
When society falls
burning around us
hold my hand
and watch the
mesmerizing flames
dancing about
the Comcast building.
*It's all just cheap trash and ****** developments. All the real things, the authentic things, the honest things are dying off. Intellectually and culturally we just bounce around like random billiard ***** reacting to the latest random stimuli.*
But who, what kind
of creature would
want to destroy
all we have striven
and driven to obtain,
was it all really
a mission in vain?
I ruminate
Then dissipate
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
we're standing at the corner of the
bar and for the first twenty minutes i'm
scared I didn't lock my car door.
I'm wondering why people are so fragile--
how some feel like staunch walls and others
bone china, how when you hold them, some
feel like they have been here and others like
they have been nowhere, as if you might
fall straight through them because you
should know better than to lean on a shoji
When I touch people I feel their sadness--
bodies have shields but I've missed that
stair step, forgot there was a ledge there,
groped for the light switch and found air
he isn't a body, he's a hurt, a walking,
talking, immortalized pain.
Sometimes I find myself desperately searching
for something witty, for a laugh, for an old topic
we've already discussed. I ask did you get home safe?
by default because worry is the only place to go that's fair
territory, to care is to succeed, thrive in your propensity to brood
I'm still standing at the bar in a peach cardigan
the bartender squeezing in and out of the opening
and some biker with a gnarly gray beard buys us
shots of jameson which is pretty fitting but there's
still a full 4.30 worth of Redds in my hand that I
won't much touch--
Greetings from Inside My Head, a postcard I should
have sent out years ago, halls and halls of literature I've
written about each day, catalogued in scenarios, in fantasies
in trucks beds, events that lasted no longer than ten seconds
I've written monologues about people's fingers and how the
sunlight falls on different shoulders, every moment is a
stanza, every Alpha state a macrocosm, I'm in a room
full of well-oiled people and they're made up of tea
leaves, soot, black leather and molasses.
it's 11:33 and everyone's facing away from me for a moment
I keep telling Jessica she looks like she's crying, ironically, I didn't
know that's what happens when you're hammered. I shake
someone's hand, my name is somewhere out there on the pool
table, knocked around and lost down a hole like a billiard ball
like with anything, comfort requires the right kind of place
with a specific time zone, the one that comes with certain
people and my clock keeps spinning,
spinning
spinning.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
They are all the Stonehenge slabs waiting
to topple over, granite foundation
of the cosmic cardhouse.
Expressionless: blank stares
Like the ceiling of the sky with
wall-to-wall cloudless gray
Warmed over with a vague upset -
The sun still tries its damnedest
Underneath the folds somewhere
Some of the grim flock re-picturing
bedspreads they snuck under with
lovers passed on long-since
(Stop, dash, as good as dead
Dash, stop, resume again)
They felt trapped,
they motioned Your Honor for bust-out.
New apartments, new partners,
new town centers eventually
seemed all the same and they
were stricken apathetic:
dead end
New installations of municipal plotting
erected in a Cold War mindframe,
Brutalism put to shame.
Rising above an alma mater
Those who stayed pass by,
Itinerants late-stage en-route
To spiritual tent cities to remain.
Rising above the rest of town
Squinting producing the pitched
Concrete walls, the barbed wire vein
Circulating among borders
Teeth of ******* razorblades.
Another life they’d never graduate
Now all that’s left is ponzi schemes,
billiard hellscapes accented with
deep-discount tobacco flames,
greasy spoons caddy-cornering
shuttered gas stations with their
mummified attendants left
moaning with desire from
beneath the boards:
Broken glass glints on felled horizons
of the ever-present post-industrial plains
What a waste slog on what a waste
What a waste slog on what a waste
Your Honor we request another stay
Your Honor we request another stay
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
Beer freed inhibitions
Blue tobacco smoke , half -
price Monday nights
Inebriated , lonely locals venting -
frustrations on aged billiard tables
Southern rock blasting through house -
speakers , music legends come to life for -
a little while , small town cliques
Their table becomes another time brought -
back to life tonight , if only for a few tearful -
hours
Time controls .. Hurts .. Brings needed venting , laughter ..
Reveals shared pain among quick , one night friends in stale bar room surroundings
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
Eye *****
Snooker *****
Footballs
No *****
Big *****
Snow *****
Kick *****
Rugby *****
Small *****
Tennis *****
Billiard *****
Hairy *****
Shiny *****
Squeezy *****
Cheesy *****
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC