"roadhouse" poems
I’ll have you know that this started out
as a love poem
but then I got lazy
and distracted when the dog started biting my leg
and I decided that this process wasn’t
worth it all together
and went outside for a smoke
that’s when I tried to call you
but you didn’t answer
I guess it’s Valentine’s Day
and you’re probably
with some other guy who’s more
sensitive than me
but can he smoke as **** as me?
or cough as loud?
or breathe as heavy?
well probably ******* not
and maybe that’s a good thing
that he’s healthy
and doesn’t smell like the inside of a Texas Roadhouse
before they decided that smoking killed everyone
and no one could do it there
no
not even the good looking people
you always said I was good looking
well
above average
and I cooked good too
and that one Valentine’s Day you said
If you asked me to marry you right now, I’d say yes
that was after I killed the bat in the attic
bought you a bouquet of bleeding hearts and
brought home the puppy
since then
my typewriter has busted
and you have left
P.S.
I still have the dog and
I renamed him Juniper
because that’s what happens when you’re
drunk
and sad
and alone
but now I’m happy
smoking a cigarette
listening to my neighbor’s massive wind chime
conk and sway in the crosswind
and I feel as alive as ever
knowing that you’re
wiping off that red lipstick with a poem I wrote you
because your date just got done
and he’s not sleeping over
and you’re just about to
walk to the back patio
and smoke a cigarette
because you want to die
just as bad as I do
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops
and over your legacy you took a swirling a ****
drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid.
Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage
passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade.
You became and overweight bearded *******
weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles
with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to,
like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a ****
in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ********
Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion
the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion
as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be
the next great American wordsmith,
“Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me,
without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between.
Breaking through to the other side of madness
wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues
some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you
a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth.
Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew
but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife.
Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse
so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants
frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm
and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ******
I still love you though, with my heart crossed
dearly dearest quintessential *******
Jim Morrison.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
In a little roadhouse off the beaten tracks is where I did find her.
She was riding with the hells angels till they kicked her out for being to ruff.
And yet at seventeen the way she could down a budweiser and burb hello ******
Was a site to be held and i thought to myself
as she broke a pool cue over a man's head who played a song she didnt
like I knew i had met the woman of my dreams.
Sure she drank like a fish cussed like a sailor and hit like a frieght train.
But aside from all thoose good qualitys I like in a woman she did have her hang up's.
Its kinda bad when your first date involves knocking over a seven eleven and leading on
the cops on a five state chase.
And Im not bitter she didnt slow down to let me off.
Im mean the road rash wasnt that bad and I needed to drop a couple of pounds
of course it gives a whole new meaning to burning off the pounds.
And when I saw her about two months later I could tell there was something
there as she held a knife to my throat and looked into my blood shot eye's
and said.
Im gonna cut out your tongue out if you dont buy me a beer.
Yes this beer drinking spitfire had me at hey what the **** you lookin at ****** ?
What a true lady indeed.
Yes when i finally came outta a coma after that first night togather i knew.
That i probaly shouldnt drink outta open containers.
Or carry cash or major credit cards.
When going out with a five foot three spifire named Skeeter.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
It is with sadness and long remorse
That we entertain this curse of course
It’s most absurd, and that’s the rub
Introducing the Twenty Seven Club
Each decade we see the number grow
And wonder as the we see them go
Musicians so young, with hope and fears
Meet their demise, after twenty seven years
Robert Johnson was early, a master of blues
A roadhouse musician who paid his dues
Brian Jones helped found the Rolling Stones
And drowned in a pool while swimming alone
Alan Wilson at Woodstock played with Canned Heat
Took too many downers, his life was complete
The great guitarist, Jimi Hendrix gave thrills
But died in his sleep from too many pills
Janis Joplin, with energy and power of force
At age twenty seven died mainlining horse
The Doors Jim Morrison, one of a kind
Extinguished with drugs his poetic mind
Badfinger’s Pete Ham fortified with drink
Took his own life, another twenty seven link
And Kurt Cobain, Nirvana’s front man
Died at twenty seven, from his very own hand
Amy Winehouse, one of the members of late
Perceived a world full of anguish and hate
A talent with beauty, her hair black as coal
But alcohol toxicity soon took its toll
Not mentioned are many members left out
There is no time now to give them a shout
We hope they gather and sing in heaven
The members of the Club - Twenty Seven
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 9:53 PM UTC
Divinity of the Day lets me think I’m in the sky
But that’s alright, like to go about this blind
Exiled darling wandering in the summer blessedly long
Divinity of the Day, my whispered prayer through the dark
God, that enthralled
you read in a raindrop
before it hits the ground
sunset boulevard torch,
is up one of these bends,
waved in night
West Hollywood Rimbaud,
feathers falling into my hair,
dressed in invention’s favorite mood
with my roadhouse sheet music
written of my life’s inspiration adorned walls, slightly cold
I was lost but playing it off, until
my racing heart reached time future and
said, soul adored believe what’s in store
dose to help you forget and live
Harp in hand, each step how it rings
scammed and scorched
no lying that all this running leads to
hardly breathing
There’s smoke around you
drifting into an image faithful to the vast,
wild west
bravely standing despite the emptiness
as if guided, divinely guided
with my diamond focus on the garden path
of the muse, open, aware
just walking through, even confused, you mean
my images of paradise were drawn in too
permanent as the myths, placards of legends
Beaming with a strange and frightening beauty
from chasing the lights that ascent into the heavens
dreamy, daring, absurdly hoping, all the read claiming
Lord knows, enamored with you, so take these pretty copper arrows
good for aiming up beyond, that remind me, been on my own so long
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
Through the blue smoke
I see your eyes burning a blaze
And I feel my heart jump
As I negotiate the roadhouse maze
This isn’t just any piece of ***
Any idiot can chase that
But what I’m chasing now
Is a hurricane across the flat.
You’ve had your share of pain
I can only see those brown eyes burning
I can’t take my eyes off the three dots
By your eye that has got my soul turning
Your finger curls at your blonde brown hair
The ringlets fall thick on your shoulders
And every time you pucker your lips
I always feel my nerves smoulder.
I see you tapping away to the evening beat
The long hot Tequila nights before us
The world is playing at our feet.
I see you draw up on a cigarette
The smoke encircles my heart
Now sitting in the barroom five years on
I wish we had taken it back to the start.
I wish we had started again
On that Tequila night
Can I just ask you somethin’, mon amie-
Can you see the light?
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
'where night is....
an iron bench painted green.'
opal light
love burning,
narrow roads,
roadhouse blues,
flame of moon
city garden
cider roses
petals falling like
little red tides,
curling edges,
spells of flowers,
magic in the swinging
pub signs and the
avenues, the
cobbled streets
running forever,
little vacant space,
love in arms
thrown together,
clicking stilhettos
chips with wooden forks,
here the moon
runs with the clouds
carries in an empty
basket the fruit
of the day eaten
up, wild and high,
our love, where night
is a tide of black ink,
resting after a heavy
day, our love, sad
tonight, beseiged
by strong armies, almost
forsaken and
yet somehow survived,
a delicate kiss on
the landscape,
content at last,
reduced down
to street blues
a wish to wander,
the laughter of a pub.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
I’ve got five minutes
Then I must leave my verdant patch
On the skirt of a wind-rustled lake
hidden behind Logan's Roadhouse
Five minutes
to mentally finger with the fetal position
In which I awoke this morning,
there as the sun drew long shadows,
I, a diminutive daub of nautilus,
On a California King,
rippled plane of sand,
Sporadic shivers, beneath a chenille blanket
I, the town crier of dawn as
My own dreams ran screaming through the silence
Pointing a finger at
my sanctuary… “Here is your pearl thief!”
Men in hats, briefcases, heel-toe black clicky and shiny shoes
on leashes lugged,
Yanked by noisy hounds passing by
stop, sniff, snarl-toothed ********
then one caught my scent,
“Five minutes more sleep,” I implored
"Find another dreaming fleshy mess of bones!"
And leave me to my pearl.
But it’s a universe that simply will not wait
And suffer fools for sleepers,
not a moment more
Yet for my many sleepless minutes after,
Dusk till dawn, and still beyond,
it’s always,
five
minutes
more
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
I see you with your new man
I see how he doesn't **** you right
cuz your walkin right
and not bowl legged
cuz I gave you Swayze roadhouse ****
and hes given you fresh prince
understand I ate that *****
put a finger in your *** and ****
he gets a handy and blows his nut
You know I'm in that ***** the whole night
have you cash in sick days
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
All those others
Standing around
Sardonic smiles
And obsidian eyes
My back bent and breaking
Under the strain
Of Fender Strat
And Blues Deluxe
And a hundred chords,
And riffs and licks
Earlier, the glances,
The nod.
The flirt
And hints at even
more than that
But in the end
A key to a room
Where the janitor sleeps
Vacuum cleaner
screaming
Against my thin door
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
Sitting at the window of a roadhouse
You in front of me, wearing a silly blouse
Green and red in contrast to my purple dress
Eyes staring at us but we could care less
Raindrops racing down the glass
Someone in the back playing the bass
A lightning struck, a thunder seconds away
You ask for the bill but I want to stay
Drinking the last sip of my sweet coffee
You reaching for my hand, smelling like toffee
Warm and soft in contrast to my icy hands
I’m staying seated but you got other plans
Umbrellas forgotten in the trunk
Friends outside singing while drunk
A fresh brise, raindrops soaking my clothes
You smile and pull me close
Walking to the car through the noisy night
You humming a beat, the sky gets bright
Crooked and quiet in contrast to the mighty storm
I’m rushing to the doors but you keep me warm
Water running down my skin
Me, leaning against your chest until we spin
Stiff and not in time in contrast to the fluid drops
We are dancing in the rain until it stops
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
the big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay
soon
began to see
steam billowing
out
from under her
big fat yellow hood.
so trembling,
and idling rough
she pulled into the first stop,
a rough-looking roadhouse
to set a while and cool off.
sidling up next to
a brand new big shiny
new tour bus,
she
rather pleased,
for he,
was a
sweet lookin',
and kinda handsome lookin',
kinda thing,
till he opened his mouth.
reminded immediately
of an old song,
her enamor
did not last long.
"when i need something to help me unwind
i find a six foot baby with a one track mind.
smart guys are nowhere
they make demands
just give me a *****
with talented hands.
i go bar hopping
and they say last call.
i start shopping for a
neaderthal.
i like em big and stupid
i like em big and real dumb.”
ah that Julie Brown…
there’s a girl who knows how to belt ‘em out!
she cast a furtive glance
at Mr. Oh SO Brand New Bus
the big galoop,
waiting for his load,
when out of that rough
roadhouse spilled,
THE drunkest,
MOST obnoxious,
herd of redneck cowboys,
she had ever seen
or would care to ever
see again.
hootin' and hollerin'
shootin' off their guns,
just narrowly missing
her big fat yellow face.
a shovin' and a punchin'
blood flying here and there,
sounds of a cracking
bone or two.
shaking her bumper gently
from side to side,
quietly eased she,
her way
back on to the throughway.
and off she shot!
into the night!
pedal to the metal!
like a bat out of hell!
another
romantic fantasy disaster
narrowly
averted!
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Custom, tradition, and the twang of steel guitars
Strongly suggest I should embrace my station
As the woman done wrong,
Weeping quietly in some dark corner
At the Come On Inn,
Or, even better yet,
Wailing in a full, tear-stained voice.
Know this; I will not Patsy Cline for you,
Any man or moral of the story,
Nor will I indulge myself
In some country-crossover measure of revenge.
I will march into that bar,
And play that song for whoever on the jukebox,
Dancing without a trace of regret or malice
And I will leave that old roadhouse
In the same manner I will live
The rest of my days here on earth;
Head high, chin forward, shoulders straight
Alone or accompanied
As I—and I alone—see fit.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Divinity of the day, how true and overwhelming
But that’s alright, you’ve given me sight
God, that enthralled
Lush, sunset boulevard torch
A west Hollywood Rimbaud
Scammed and scorched,
running, but still breathing
New age wild west muse
Like midnight’s request for sweetness as music and dreams
A rageling songstress on the longest roadway, sacrificing my best
If I give you all my songs will you feel alright, lush
Take me for all that I am? That much, run with the immense
Learning everything, even how to bless
With my roadhouse sheetmusic
illustrating my life’s inspiration adorned walls, sad ending
I was lost but playing it off, until my racing heart reached
Time future and said, soul, believe what’s in store,
Outrageous dose
Beaming with strange and frightening beauty
From chasing the lights that ascent into the heavens
Dreamy, daring, absurdly hoping, all the real claiming
Lord knows, I’m enamored with the purely copper arrows
Aimed at heights, long and lonely paths for the
Songs of death, of life, wilderness and good times
With my diamond focus
On the garden path of the wise, open, aware
Just walking thru, even confused, you mean
My images of paradise were drawn in diamond too?
Permanent as the myths, legends, poetry?
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
i was too lazy to become a rock star, i chose to be a poet, and involve myself in a higher dimension of practising a constant Ramadhan, although drinking before having my one meal a day... watch out, a monk off the leash!
man, you know like
when live recordings
work magic
obliterating studio
recordings,
like the doors' roadhouse blues?
man, that's when it happens
and **** gets real, death aged
27, come the riots and myths,
when studio recordings for a sale
are worth jack-shit...
so why are these *******
the un-acknowledged beatles
based upon the decibels of
the screaming female fans?
it was funny watching the spaniard
tourists leaving authentic rolled
blunts on the grave with lipstick
and some green **** also found on
churchill's bald moonshine of a
forehead during an anarchist protest...
that parisian cemetery got to me,
i thought i heard an aeon echo
in oesophagus ripples from bavarian beer halls.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
Pack the car
Let’s go on a road trip
We’ll camp beneath the stars
Every chance we get
Wake to roadhouse breakfast
And a decent cup of coffee
All along the way
From one coast to the other
And when we hit that shoreline
We’ll get a boat
And sail around the world
Docking in every port
Taking in the breath of cultures
We never imagined existed
And try exotic cuisine
That seemed questionable at the time
But tasted delicious
As it settled in our stomachs
And we’ll know every corner of this Earth
And finally be able to call it our home
And as our wanderlust satisfies
We’ll take off to the skies
Far past the atmosphere
And into an even greater unknown
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Heard you’ve enticed fortune
All I see is that you’re much too
Engrossed on where to go now
Revelry magnetizing night into day
from your soul, telling me only a queen
could be enthralled by theses things
going absurdly like already history, croon it
going lightening like my record collection, blessed
Hiway right into daylight, wander bold to a million’d direction
Coolness leaning on a bookshelf, precious dawn lingering all around
Everybody awes to you, my ridiculous, strangely pure, strangely pure
The same gilded sun of western dreams
It shines so copper and lone for kinds as us.
Lord grant me ancient desires was on your mind.
How’d I know, well in how you live in bliss
Easily dismiss, with looking up wondering eyes
Halls here are devoted to paradise with richly intricate walls
Much like you, said it’s a journey if you’re aware
Be sagacious, take me real far, match box says welcome to LA
Queen of the roadhouse, windows inviting wild wind
Getting ahead of the dawn, we’ve long since started.
Heard you’ve always liked those
With eyes gleaming wild
Man, they say you’re outrageous
Yeah, beautiful, mysterious – reveling finds you
It’s free and lush music, my direction,
Don’t fear welcome to deathlessness
going absurdly like already history, croon it
going lightening like my record collection, blessed
Hiway into evening, writing verse as if you breathed it
Slickness on a sleek car, precious desert lingering around
Everybody loves you, vulgarly more, strangely pure, strangely pure
The lovely joys from the beginning of time
Sweet song of the blues when sung so soothes
Lord grant me endless endeavors was on your mind
Setting your sleep aside, driving in neon haze, closed eyes
Then you say, get up sunny wondering eyelashes
Glittering like a lagoon, isn’t it – jump in too!
Are you mad, like a wild cobra, pretty but I know you’ve power
I mean, they see you laughing, striking, phrases of genius
Adored with mystery like divine sudden messages
But loving the fun, dreaming of flying near the sun, arrows sent first
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Whoever said pain was all in my head
Obviously hasn’t felt any.
It’s hard to look past pain.
Dalton can say pain doesn’t hurt
All he wants on roadhouse
But this is the real world.
Pain reaches out like a bolt of lightening
To remind you it’s there.
I have learned to endure
But it doesn’t make the struggle any easier.
© 4/15/2013
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
sometimes capturing the song live
away from the pitch-perfect
engineering can leave the original
"slightly" eclipsed -
indeed i mentioned one example once:
the doors' roadhouse blues -
but there's another...
tom waits' goin' out west from
the glitter & doom album.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
alternatively known as: trying to sober up... but keep on drinking.
i remember this time,
when a girl i was ******* slapped me
silly...
because i assumely lied to her...
about getting a university degree...
and oh, what a pain that slap was,
given the ****** that came after.
throw a ******* penny into the fountain
for the last ten minutes i was trying
to sober-up,
and yes, i was slapping myself
in the face... over 6ft...
and weighing over 100 kilograms...
a slap by me... i felt it on my cheek...
i almost lost a tooth...
and i had a case for stating: my neck!
my neck!
but you know what was
agry. puzzlig, painful?
it wasn't the memory of being
slapped by a russian girlfriend,
and then her fetish for mirrors,
and how she loved looking at her herself
getting ****** in the mirrors...
oh... what an image to glare into...
no, but i was slapped on cheek by her...
so today, i was reading the newspaper,
meaning: it was a sunday...
i started drinking, and then slapping
myself in the face...
but that wasn't painful...
what was? the magazine read the headline:
100 albums you have to hear
before you die...
in the live rubric:
stop making sense - talking heads,
mtv unplugged in new york - nirvana,
1969 the velvet underground - the velvet undergroeund,
live at massey hall 1971 - neil young,
live! - bob marley and the wailers...
now... slapping yourself in the face
to rememeber an ex-girlfriend is past painful...
it's just itchy...
it's just an idea of a mosquito...
you get used to it, like love might be compared to malaria,
you can take a hundred girls slapping
you in the face,
after which you start slapping yourself
to estimate that 100 girls could slap you and
that you'd still **** them...
what's painful? the 100 album playlist...
what the **** happened to tom waits'
live album glitter & doom (live)...
which is akin to the doors', roadhouse blues
live... i really would prefer to slap myself toward
a 1000 times silly... than excuse tom waits' album
not being mentioned in the century of
worthwhile albums...
come on... live circus?!
come on! goin' out west?!
goin' out west live, is as good as the doors'
version of roadhouse blues!
the studio version doesn't match-up to it,
not even half as much!
sometimes recording music, live,
propagates the need for a judas...
you really need a thief somtimes...
i mean, sometimes the art-work comes with the audience,
rather than "claustrophobic", locked in a recording studio;
it's basically the energy, of the immediacy of feedback.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
Tell me I've the music to match a torched soul
Eyes like California mines dripping in gold
I've got that northern soul and those french blues
And you're my new age, wild western muse
Together we're nearing those iconic fires
American paradise, novel sunshine, write me my desires
Neon soaked, West Hollywood Rimbaud
With roadhouse sheetmusic and nowhere to go
The same gilded sun of western dreams
It shines so lone for kinds as us
Wandering eyes hypnotized by that cosmic, copper lust
Revelry scorching night into day
Magnetic soul, queen of the coast, blue highway
Setting your sleep aside,
Driving with those wild mercurial eyes
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 2:16 AM UTC