"chesterfield" poems
Hey, I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader there's only one pelt I'm interested in....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled Global warming has taken all the snow away....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, i do know Partel, Kareem, Xi Chein and Steve
and they're really really nice.
I have a Prime Minister who is ******** not a president.
I speak English and a little French, not American though we like to mock southern accents...
And I pronounce it 'aboot, not about...
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack along with with motorhead and misfits patches...
I believe in peace keeping, not policing unless you count the G20...
diversity, not assimilation, unless it's the borg...
and that the ****** is a truly proud and noble animal and a bald one is truely a wonder to behold...
A toque is a hat that douchbags wear all year round, a chesterfield is a couch that my dunken friends sleep on,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' unless its Zebra because Zedbra sounds stupid!!!
Canada is the second largest landmass that can be pilfered by multinational conglomerates!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America... except vegas!
My name is Josh!!
And I am Canadian!!!
EH?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
the hi-fi plays solace to the
granular lobby upon the television screen;
as it flickers from camera angle to camera angle
(tech step moving company,
breaking down to
a white beat)
and i *****
as a panorama of ******* spasms
discharge throughout my entire skeleton
and my pulse beats lightly, kilometres
below a curtain of bloated flesh
tonguing lady lucky's aluminum lips, i'm
pickled in sea of apricot floral: meteor bursts
searing behind goo-goo eyes
and i *****
unwanted sentence structure, that gets
caught between the chesterfield and my square saturn venus
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:43 AM UTC
All my friends they smoke this things
And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac
Lyrics I tried to memorize
with my friends, while *******
on the syrup crusted
mouths of glass coke bottles.
Singing loud and off key.
On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter.
The soundtrack song when being a punk skater
was a profitable venture,
and landing a kick flip was an achievable
wet dream.
When we could play Lane’s boom box
just loud enough to drown out the whimpering
from our sprained ankles
and scraped up knees
that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ******
The music we were hearing now,
was way beyond Sunday school.
It was the sound of the sixth period bell,
and rushing to Jeff’s backyard
to smoke his dads cigarettes.
As we got older
We tried to quit the smokes
and forget the lyrics. But sometimes
we’d still proposition people
on the side of that Ralphs
to buy us cigarettes.
When we succeeded
We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing.
-Kevin Theal
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
jagged cliffs jut down into a gully
occupied by a roaring river
alabaster crests of foam
form from the friction
of flowing water
against mossy rocks
scattered along its riverbed
in reverence I stand
a mote by comparison
as the crimson breaks across the sky
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 4:21 AM UTC
Slogging through endless Whitman prose and I have to make little marks
on the pages every 8 to 14 lines as my mind will not quit the wandering roam.
Blanket paragraphs blend into infinite droll, never ending whine-fest of bull
jazz…jazz singers fill the empty spaces between
the lines of drivel.
The dog barks on the veranda looking old and sad in the wind,
The water trickles through a series of rusted and holey pipes… peeling
asbestos laden lead paint tricks the mouths of children… a sick cat heaves near the Chesterfield.
Finding myself no longer interested in freelance fodder, I real from one daydream to the next
without enough pause to subconsciously journal… a subcutaneous oak shard
gives a slight reddish bump to my well defined forearm,
slight pressure sends nearly transparent ****
screaming from its melanin tomb.
The sliver remains diligent.
The sliver holds its ground,
The sliver has a new home,
The sliver wants to die here,
and never again travel the long lonesome forest road,
The sliver shines silver in the sunlight,
I shiver at the sight.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
cannot find true rest,
all the tumult in this world,
writ both large and small,
saps my upraised arms
alternate
flexing angry fists eager to strike hard
my revived new **** enemies,
and gods inexcusable and conspicuous absence in
Barcelona, Finland and my own
Charlottesville,
and
to quiet comfort commiserating, and storing
all the pain of individual souls I've acquired willingly
and the sunset comes quiet,
trying to sooth by adding
a gentling cream of cooling breeze,
the squirrels eye me suspiciously,
sensing the amiss within,
and all perfect sailboats voyaging past,
yet none stopping at the dock
to offer condolences or solaces
my watch ticks louder
each tick,
a worrisome cursed reminder
this real life seems to be endless struggle
interrupted by small comforts of little voices and
promises that escape is inevitable
each tock,
a fresh notification
the week's approach will contain
another visit from
Hamlet's ghost,
warning of warring factions
battlefield clashing
in a chesterfield plain
between two of mine shoulder blades
constantly reminded how lucky I am,
makes me grow quiet and put pen to one side,
and try to balance accounts, using this time,
pencil and erasure
I need a break and some glue
I need reparations and a battle plan
or happily learn to surrender
and accept being a
dumb terminal,
a slave,
that doesn't ask for
peace of mind
and knock off this poet of the
no way
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
she walks from the alley
over wet lottery tickets, chesterfield butts
and empty gypsy rose wine bottles.
but truth lies in forgetfulness and
even the stars bleed dust.
I smile to greet her.
I smile as she lifts my throat to heaven.
I smile even as the razor skates across my neck...
and she's following you too...sucker...
the BIG! dream
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
Lucian ,
The unfinished dog
The torn chesterfield
View of the sky
Stillness of age
The running tap
The scattered rags
Lucian Perverse
Lucian Abandoned
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 7:01 AM UTC
Imagine there’s a painting
adorning the wall of some president’s master bedroom. It hangs
beneath a mirrored ceiling where his wife
(lucky her) gets to watch his pumping ****
wobble like a pale hairy jelly.
Let’s say it sits above a dozen nicotine silver wigs
on a perfect chesterfield dresser,
and maybe it gazes down, in lurid grey and gold:
a grinning Adolf ******
riding a merry go round of charging marble stallions,
one leather glove tightly gripping the reigns
the other waving at scores
of muscular blonde women
and heroic dead eyed men
with lantern jaws.
Let’s just say this now and get it out in the open
before it’s too late.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 4:04 AM UTC
This morning's cigarette
I bought at the airport in Rome.
It wavers in a cold district
as I question my romances.
Dear cigarette, little acid stub
on a tile, you lived your span
in a long winding fume:
May my own life stick
to her hands like smoke.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
new dynamic enters the stratus
something shifting
triangulated attitudinally
sitting on a chesterfield
brushing away lint from grey trousers
thinking about ending the lollygagging
and crushing despondency
with action akin to space flight
energetic tingles transform
particulates blend and restructure
transformer style
before unknown element
lose in society
beaconing children and religious
to eat of the space fruit
Orion’s apple
the pope wants us to be open to alien religion –
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Let blockheads read what blockheads wrote,
Lord Chesterfield once said.
Thereby inviting us to judge him
As a dunderhead.
Let wise men read what wise men wrote
Is what I say instead,
And you may judge me for yourself
Since my work’s quite widespread.
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 7:40 AM UTC
i sat on the decrepit
chesterfield near the
window with a half-empty
bottle of whiskey
and a pack of cigarettes
pondering about death
pondering about trivialities
because i had nowhere to go
the roads were closed
the churches have been burnt
the bars were filled with ******
i was lost
my soul was empty
i have walked the streets
every hour
every day
wearing threadbare overcoats
and fedoras
from the strangers
i slept with
my feet were trying to find
the right path but
i was so lost
the lights have flickered out
the birds have stopped singing
and the madness have stopped
cauterizing my throat
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC