"potshots" poems
They seem to me
to have to live
in a public nightmare
of being known
even though nobody knows
and it seems to me
to be a surrealistic hell
of flashing lights
and strangers
who know everything
without knowing anything
and people want
a piece of them
and people even
take potshots at them
so us little people
should probably be happy
that we're not famous.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:37 AM UTC
What do you do when you're feeling so blue?
And you are under blue skies listening to the cries
Of the terns and the gulls.
The heart constantly pulls
Me to the oceans shore
Once there I'm not blue anymore.
I stand skipping the stones
Dreaming of lost sailors bones.
But it's the battles I love the most
Off the Cape of Good Hope or the Ivory Coast.
I can hear the cannons roar and see broadsides score
And I transport with delight into the thick of the fight.
I drink *** with the matelots
Take potshots at whatnots
Those enemies of the crown I say let them sink down
Into the cold arms of the deep
I will not lose any sleep.
But once more I find myself stood on the shore
And I'm soaked to the skin.
I hadn't noticed that the tide had come in.
I'm such a dreamer.
John Smallshaw 2011
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 7:27 AM UTC
Shes next
the one
The Bait dangled in my face
Followed her from Beetle's to Market St.
She stopped at the state liquor agent
Her reflection in the bottles
Strange and obtuse
I trail in her shadow
As she hits the main drag
She's taking potshots from the brown bag
Pitch black dress and a red purse
Looks like she just woke up
In the back of a hearse
Cunning
Taking to the street backs
Like a cat to the fence
Through the ghetto directing traffic with her hips
Her pheromone trail has me licking my lips
In the gaslamps I can make the outlines
Of her unfinished tattoos
The naked torso
the bicep
Weeping willow
I gave her a million chances
But she never answered the phone
Galvanized by a single conversation
Eyes
An itch on the frontal lobe
A fire in my chest her screams act like billows
Steel grip on the nape of porcelain
Anaconda uncoiling from the ****
Naked
I stand above her
Lying all blue lipped against white sheets
Gently
I pose and photograph her
This one's a keeper
They say I hate women
Nothing could be further from the truth
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
O where
O where
can my baby be,
is she a dead mystery,
now just ancient history?
I have million dollar questions
& I stand alone,
holding the bag
with an empty billfold.
She wore swastikas
on her forehead like scabs,
etchings that perhaps
blinded her heart &
the bitterness did flow,
a lifeblood
hardening her sweet-soul.
She acted bold,
took wild risks,
pulled people from the line-up,
taking potshots with their emotions,
play-acting with other humans,
as if she were the only one
with heart break.
Well,
little did she know,
she had no monopoly on pain,
I did.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
"Fake news, fake news!"
The boy cried fake news every time a story
failed to paint him in the most positive possible light,
neglected to deify him in the most sunny way.
He denounced, decried and denigrated
reporters who would check with two more sources
if their moms claimed to love them
the way their ink-stained forebears did.
He attempted to discredit truth-seekers
who actually had stricter codes of ethics than doctors,
cops, actuaries,
any profession really.
The callow boy cried fake news so much that
his most loyal followers shouted “fake news” out car windows
at TV reporters reporting on alligators that crossed the street,
fired drive-by potshots at newsrooms out of sheer lunacy.
The boy cried fake news so much
that he did protest too much, that his cries sounded fake,
that his credibility strained
against the press corps who produced
backing documents, audio recordings and multiple sources.
The boy cried fake news so much
it degenerated into cliche and ceased to mean anything at all.
The boy cried fake news at a time when the news
felt financial pressured into running clickbait articles like
“Eight Hanukkah Lessons I Learned from
Smoking a Menorah ****
or the “12 Most *** Days of Christmas.”
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
beginning:
playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.
memory;
taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.
unlearning;
to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.
end;
i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 8:17 PM UTC
sharing a dilapidated porch and shrinking fifth of jim beam
with my friend pete
we’re in maine celebrating his fourth novel
eagerly awaited by his ten fans
the sun is sinking and pete has his ruger 380
taking potshots at a statue of cervantes on the lawn
“what’s your issue?” i ask as he clips cervantes’ shoulder
“jealousy?”
“no,” he drawls, casually reloading
******* never wrote a followup to don quixote”
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
I don’t know what to make of this. The half-naked Russian model rupturing in the tub, one hand rubbing salt from her habit of weakness, another clutched a swill of wine. Her pill-loaded lover, always blurring. Both too young to bear the death poem of lullabies. In another room, in another town, a redhead stranger sits soaking next to me, governing my drunk body back to senses with her mouth. Outside, a gaggle of youths perch the water’s edge, lapping beer from a spillage of shadows. Soon, they’ll beat their wings madly and rush the night air, running on nothing but *** ***** and lace. Giddy and octane. I won’t know what to do with it or make of it, still, years later in life… an even more ragged crackpot, taking potshots at poems.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 8:43 AM UTC