"tenderloin" poems
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.
No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.
The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.
I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
i’m boy with broken jaw
my face and flesh of citrus
fingers dripping resolute
by weight of sweetened tendon
the motion to which i descend
i last resort upon thy tenderloin gloss
touching me under sublunary breath
he melts darkness to sugarfisted ******
i taste of all he ever wanted
it’s a dirtyparadise out here behind the neon nickelcade
day-glo slithering below my belly
just ten bucks, and you’ll get your turn
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
replacing white lines with gray ash and sleeping in beds for sleeping in bathrooms and you wonder if you had any self respect in the first place because this afternoon you tried to think of your happiest memories in the past year and it wasn't when you were in someone's arms or thinking of your successes in the mirror while you flexed your kickass young *** it was when you were smoking bummed menthols and your friend commandeered a miniature tractor in the tenderloin and conducted two drug deals in less than 30 minutes and you watched her disdainfully with her girlfriend and wondered where on ******* earth you could get a three dollar old fashioned and let a forty year old flirt with you for coke and you wouldn't even have to do anything for it wouldn't life be nice like that
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in ***** houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps.Chicago, 1915.
1.9k
it was the
summer
of 13
when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave
amped
the tenderloin
slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen
packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers
their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End
getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society
Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....
the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps
America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers
a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed
Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels
washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe
Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters
millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast
Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours
9/8/13
NYC
jbm
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
When he speaks, I hear the sound,
a president who's been around
speaking of the wife with cankle
not that she could care to rankle
Yo, BT, he fights for freedom
Rocky would be pleased to meet him
late at night when lights are lunar
on the road back home, a crooner
fools rush in, no longer Bing
the king of rock, old Pop can sing
a whispered line from any song
but suddenly I'm in the wrong
and one tough stooge I hear he bought a
tommy gun, and "why I oughta"
tell you something you don't know
it's Ahnold Schwanal ** dee doe
and then another voice will join
it's Raymond with his tenderloin
this sailor's gal has quite a name
he cooks his spinach in the same
a wealthy man on distant isle
who's wife is Lovey, makes me smile
Every single voice he's got
is good but when he's best it's not
the person he'll impersonate
but his own voice...it's getting late
but wait, there's more, but I am spent
on telling of the way it went
or so it goes and what'll come
the truth is, well, I love the ***
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
Oh, thou art the dawn
Of they servant’s nature,
Thou that must quench the fire
Of they servant’s thirsty marrow,
Thou that the arrows
Of thy servant’s eyelids cannot sleep over,
Thou that the malaise molten
Nutrients in thy servant’s veins,
Erupts at thy glorious countenance,
Oh, thou art the guardian
Of thy servant’s soul,
Thou that sour and sob
At the nakedness of evil,
Thou that speak for the bees
That provides for the other class,
Thou that make the wicked blood flow,
Oh see, thou art the tenderloin of the devil indeed,
For thy heart, mind and soul are
All blank with no other value
Except manipulation and loneliness,
Insecurity and the terror of death
Are now accompanying thy cruel destiny,
Ah, the hour of thy selfishness
Has faded thy glorious tenure,
Thou have learnt to appreciate
Taste and sight only in thy dying days,
The Abosom deserves an answer
And thou shall produce it,
Thy liquor and chicken and incantation
Cannot please the ancestral spirits,
They have no pleasure in what
Thy hand has acquired by their grace,
We are now under the siege of June,
But the mighty walls are no more,
The woes of war and torment
Ahead are mightier than the former,
Famine and pre-mature death
Must also be a caution,
Oh yes, thy sense of judgement
Is well appreciated by the priest,
Thou that have corrupted
Thy present and future glory,
Thy past cannot pacify thy present,
For the current cyclone of Uganda
Has eroded the sweet-scented rose
Of thy scattered devilish soul,
Thy hymns are as evil as thy goodness.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
Remember that time when somebody
died and somebody else brought us food-
all the people are irrelevant-
but you complained that the tenderloin
wasn't up to your standards.
Hearing you say such things about
a perfectly acceptable meal
sent me to the place that makes
me a barbarian to my most intrinsic core,
so I grasped the smoked log of meat with
my bare-heads and hurled it into the rain.
Say something about it now-
now that you have nothing to eat.
People say drugs killed him.
You killed him and you still haven't learned.
You killed him because you never
told him you loved him after he ran away from
home that one time or the time after that.
And I believe that the reason
your photographs are always
tinged with a hint of
the most aching and indescribable regret
is because deep down in the
pit of your greasy, swollen gut
you already know this,
so I don't have to tell you.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
I wish I could explain it to you, but I can’t.
You’d have to walk around with me for a month
or so for it to make sense,
to seem like a real thing.
Sometimes, it’s not even real to me;
but it’s my life and
I’m the one walking around in it,
so there it is.
In the fall and winter,
particularly around the holidays,
it gets worse. Some days,
especially during the last two weeks
before Christmas,
it gets really bad.
(Why do I think it’s a bad thing?)
(Is it?)
(What is this about?)
They come at me like zombies
when they see the crutches
and yet I refuse to blame my Cerebral Palsy
for what they do.
Really, I believe that they’d show up anyway.
I think that they, and I to a degree,
feel some sort of cosmic pull
toward one another.
The drunks come to me.
(the developmentally disabled too.)
They tell me stories of how they ended up
in the same place that I am.
They tell me that they know also
that our paths were supposed to cross.
They tell me about their relationship with God
and how Jesus loves them in spite of their drunkenness
(or impairment.)
They tell me how blessed we are to have met.
That one always leaves me flummoxed.
All I wanted to do was eat a tenderloin and some fries.
All I wanted was a cup of coffee or a beer.
All I wanted was to occupy a small bit of
grey space for a couple of hours.
These cohabitates,
these space-stealers
always go straight for The Bible.
They talk of rapture
And the wholeness that I’ll
find in The Kingdom of Heaven
and I want to tell them that they’ve
taken some of that wholeness for
themselves, but I can’t.
I always say: “Thank you.”
And speak to them in
bumper-sticker platitudes;
telling them that we’re all
making our own ways
down our own paths.
And, it’s true, but I don’t want
to have to say it.
I don’t always want to believe it.
(And, I don’t always.)
I wish I could tell them that I want to be more like them,
to work in a factory,
lift the heavy stuff;
to work steadily on the line
or over the road,
inside the grey spaces
with more time to think,
to be quietly oaken
and iron.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
Your sky is pink.
They're eating yellow grass.
I'm at the epicenter of chaos
Syringes for the sick and
Banks robbed by viruses
*** in the palm of my hand.
The streets paved with lies
are decorated by death.
And buildings built
by policies
to build policies (to fill prophesies)
Wicked water, and open wounds
Saturated diets and broken wombs
Your sky is blue
Their water is black
Children's eyes close and never look back.
There are snakes in the sand
Lightening strikes in the distance
I can't see where I stand
And the wind smells of something vicious
Your sky is grey
The loudest one in the room is the TV
Candy and coffee for breakfast.
I'd brush my teeth
But I haven't the time, dearest Siri -
Seriously though
Sometimes I question if I'm the canary
in this binary equation
wondering when it's going to cave in
But its cool, I can be patient.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
I think Women are Hot and.
Should be shown respect
And all though I get *****
I take time to Listen
Can't get into Sports Teams
Know's what fashion is a Dream
Of Bob Mackie, Calvin Klien
Versace, Chanel, and Ralph Lauren
In the Kitchen I create with Panache
Tenderloin of Beef with Marsalle Sauce
Vintage Recipe Chocolate Cake at
Proper Temperature I Bake 'til Perfect
And shopping is a Spree as
Long as its not for me
Rather Shop a Bra for a set of knockers
Then Shop for a Pair of Kahki Dockers
When it Comes to Culture I am Allured
To Poetry, Art, Music and Stage
And so ever fond of thespians
Could it Be I'm a Male Lesbian
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
Can a pretty girl
in a short red dress
take away
this emptiness?
Hold me close
squeeze me tight
fill my soul
with rays of light?
Used to be that
the prettiest girls
were actually boys
but no more,
for nowadays
there's a whole mess
of the most gorgeous women
in heels & short tight dresses,
standing on the corners
as offerings to the ways
of men,
some so youthful
that their long sweet legs
totter & tremble
in their fancy shoes
as do the steps
of a new-born
upon the vast
plains of Africa,
& strutting jazzily
their tender flesh
to catch an eye
& then lean
in provocative geometry
into car windows
to state terms
& size customers,
with small handbags
squeezed tight
to their sides,
as they gather in groups
emanating an ****** power
seemingly enhanced
by numbers,
& yet to stroll by
& listen in
reveals nothing more
than simple gossip
& observation,
for after all these
are only working girls
not goddesses at
their ease.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
the center
of The Universe
and
the center
of
nowhere
at all.
This city...
Saint Joseph,
Missouri.
like an apartment
complex
or
a cul-de-sac
built by
The Hand of
God,
right
in the
bottom
left-hand drawer
of The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.
we walk
our dogs
on
long leashes
making sure that
they can ****
in our neighbor's
yard.
we cultivate
red-state
politics
and blue-plate
specials,
complaining
that our crime-rate
and our cholesterol
are too high.
we're the tenderloin
capital
of the world;
and we closed
the door
on that debate
as well as
several
others.
once,
not that
long ago,
we put it
to a vote,
whatever
it was...
it hardly
matters
anymore,
but only
18%
said: "aye"
and only
37%
said anything
at all.
the ballots
must've been
kept in the
lockbox
in the
bottom
right-hand drawer
of
The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.
***
-JBClaywell
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
The night is dark and dangerous,
For monsters lurk from dusk to dawn.
Hunting for a beating heart,
They stalk, each step in time with their deadly song.
Listen to the howls,
And you will soon feel the tune.
This is their deadly beauty, Their alluring choir.
Spreading emotion through a soulful hymns fire.
Chanting for another voice to join,
So they may dine on tenderloin.
With beauty and grace,
The Sophisticated beasts begin the chase
You are the prey
And you see the face
In splendour and awe.
Your emotions, prepared like your flesh,
Raw
The Wolf is howling,
With her beauty and grace
This,
is loves first taste.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 3:47 AM UTC
my shirt barely fits over my stomach
my belly is a bag of granny smith apples
**** and plump
misleading in their sweetness
underneath growing ten-fold each week
all the different fruits for growth
leave me anemic for heartier things
tenderloin heart, blood steak
there's a biting pain on the side of my hip
that feels like what I imagine a dog nipping at your heel
could feel like
and I hear it
the small squeak at the bottom of a storm drain
a miniature kitten trapped in the middle of concrete and hot cement
it hasn't rained in months
and my mouth starts to water imagining
the dehydrated lungs of an animal
that's destiny has been sealed
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 3:09 AM UTC
Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a cheque and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick/messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolour night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
I’ve said only half-jokingly
I’m a slow learner
of life lessons.
I was wondering about snails
if they learn as slowly as they move
but does our species
ever learn
really absorb
even the basic how-tos
of saving ourselves and our planet?
I might never sate my appetite
for ice cream, tenderloin, or fried fish
but sometimes
it’s hard to empty myself
and make room
for the other fella’s little world
or for God.
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 12:12 PM UTC