in town tonight
pink and black
plastic heart
shred by light
pray to fat god’s
hexagon sluts
worship and tribute
in three chord struts
strung across pit floor
fish net thigh
dreams of
anoxic brains
po-go-d high
hot topic lockstep
dyed black crush
into the underground
liberty spikes mush!
Tired, hungry, and frankly unappreciated
Masks do nothing for this infection
It’s in the culture
Chinaski: “The myth of the starving artist was a lie.”
Whiskey and women fuel me too
But I’m not published
I don’t wanna write I just wanna be a writer
Here’s a check for my dues, consider them paid
Just don’t cash that for about thirty years
I’m between credibility’s right now
I’m not worried, it’s temporary
My break’s on the way, writing the novel
Gonna bang out 5,000 words after work
It’s like if Fitzgerald wrote Catcher in the Rye
But with Hemmingway’s pen and Kerouac’s cool
Shopping it by August, mingling in LA by November
Riches and respect to follow
brazil nuts
fall
from my
hand
costa rum
from
my glass
to cook
in hot
virginian
sun
the ants-
feast
like kings
This poem is a response to this weeks Read Write Poem prompt. The site posts a list of words and challenges poets to create an original work including all or some of the words. I managed to use all except for to or three of the words. Read Write Poem is a great community and a great resource for poets and writers.
Stars are meteors
only when they fall.
Plucked from the celestial shell,
pierced by our neglect
of their glory,
none are moved by their curled descent.
Our backs turned
we feel safer contemplating
telephones and radar,
things built of precious hands
and abiding minds.
We are struck numb by fire
in front of the moon,
confronted with a reminder of
Icarus’ failure.
There is no greater lie than new fallen snow,
covering hard ground and dead gardens.
The spring thaw
leaves nothing but muddy boots.
I want your blood.
You OWE me blood.
Why Stewart why!
You lied to me.
Kept me blind with half
thoughts.
You’re all hollow.
Joe told me to know my rights.
Okay, memorized ‘em.
Tim told me to give ‘em the boot,
But two black eyes is enough thank you.
Jack said go, go, go!
Fucking where Jack!
I should have done this years ago!
Liberated myself from your words.
It’s for the best.
Close your eyes, it will only hurt a second.
There is a darkness in this play
Words and rhythm
Lead me down the wrong rabbit hole
Wounderland has scars I don’t remember
Alice doesn’t look quite right anymore
None of this world smells familiar
Pluck out my eyes rather than sully childhood’s memory
Nonsense seemed much funnier as a youngling
The need for sense and meaning burrow into my self
Slipping slick tendrils around my brain stem
I dance to their logical beats of
Meaning and direction
Purpose finds a perch on my shoulder as we walk
Slowly back through the looking glass
Too certain too look behind
I slip into the warm embrace of the
Madd Hatter’s 9-5 logic
Addicted audience, give us your ear! MediaVirus Magazine enthusiastically presents our new Issue #5! Featured in this month's issue are poets Casey Quinn, Ben Nardolilli, James Eric Watkins, and Phil Lane. Author Cindy Rosmus graces our fiction page and emerging graphic artist Erin Descoteaux colors the art page. Stewart and myself offer selections from our libraries in the editor's corner, and poet Holly Day is this month's editor's pick. Relax and breath deep, MediaVirus Monday is here!
Have you ever had
a sunburn so bad it
blistered?
Once
but it wasn’t
too bad
considering.
Considering what?
Considering
the sun is
50 million degrees
fahrenheit.
Is there any
history of skin
caner in your
family?
I came here because
I have a wart on my foot and
I want it removed.
The foot?
The wart.
Please just answer
the questions.
No history of skin
cancer.
Thank you. Have
you ever had a mole
removed?
What does this have to
do with my wart?
Please just answer.
I’ve never had a mole removed
but here’s one for you.
Have you ever woken up face down in someone else’s pillow with last night still wet on you. So sick and sober the only thing that can save you is one more whiskey?
I’m not really comfortable…
Really?
then let’s dispense
with the personal
questions and get to
removing my wart.
Lifetimes away a star pops
Dante’s nightmare made manifest,
As worlds burn to dust
Pregnant clouds seeded with
Heavy elements draw new life
From gravity’s embrace, falling
Toward stellar nursery’s rebirth
Lavoisier tells us
Nothing is ever destroyed
Even in a star’s death furnace
Mass to energy, energy to mass
In an endless life giving decay
Today’s dust is tomorrow’s Earth
Waiting for Sol to deliver a similar fate
We’ll be dead before the nova’s light reaches us
Seven minutes for goodbyes
But even in those last moments
As space boils around us
Would it mean anything if we weren’t there to see it?
Sixth grade the wolves came out
leapt for the throat but got the ears
music changed, the radio died
jangly guitar with whisky delivery
cigarette riffs and three chord sex
mom thinks I’m too young for this
too late, damage done
educated on six inches of plastic
I’m pulled in by muted horns and ecstatic neon
A smooth old bar patrolled by rough old men
Blue smoke and earthy piano just past the door
The brass screams, greedy for attention
The sax growls low anger
The beat pushes me deep into a chair
Crawls slow up my spine
And settles with envy at the base of my neck
I never could turn air to song
Get up says my brain, you need a new drink
But the band won’t let go
I turn to a hazy eyed patron
Hey man what club is this?
This? You’re in the Pithos, and that’s Pandora up on stage
My Uncle’s description of Vietnam:
Hill 281 was ma’ war
charged up through jungle
and flies and all kindsa shit
animal shit
shit covered pungi sticks
shit from the dead
when you die you shit
that ain’t no bull
whatever’s in you
you shit
fought on that hill for three days
it ain’t the dead that smelt
it was the shit
left 32 men and 4000 shells
on that hill
still can’t get that smell out
My Father’s description on ‘Nam:
Guard duty at Fort Bragg
army reserve baby
watchin’ the brass and
smokin’ some grass
sounds easy but you know what
we had to clean the Generals’ toilets
and boy could they shit
The night ignites as the final rays hide behind the mountain
Sun down, bottoms up
Firebrand swill
Dark corners of darker bars
Made bright by insight and staged rhythm
Loosen up, just let it flow
Who the fuck is talking to Kara?
Uh-oh, not again
Beer muscles and tough talk lead to
Mayhem in the street
Duck back inside before the real trouble starts
Cops and cracked skulls
Beer washes out easier than blood
Is this the same place?
Somehow not, different walls same stink
Shoes stick to beer and vomit
New corner, same swill
Deepening haze brings out better stories
I’m Kerouac
Bullshit! I’m Kerouac!
But I’m the one who travels like him
You drove to the Outer Banks
It’s like 10 hours!
It’s not on the road!
I’m Kerouac, you can be Burroughs
I don’t do enough drugs to be Burroughs, have you even read junky?
Fine, you can be Ginsberg but I’m still Kerouac
But I hate writing poetry how can I be Ginsberg?
Jesus! How about Gregory Corso?
Who’s Gregory Corso?
This isn’t working, let’s start again. I’ll be Hemmingway and you can be Fitzgerald.
How are you Hemmingway your sentences are way too long!
You’re an idiot, I’m Hemmingway for sure and you can be Ezra Pound
Again with the hating of poetry
Oh my god! Just be John Dos Passos
That name sounds made up
You make me tired. Last try, I’m Hunter Thompson and you’re Tom Wolfe
Hunter Thompson? Getting a little full of yourself aren’t you?
I’m sticking with Thompson and you get Lester Bangs
Did you really just downgrade me from poet to music critic?
Dark lord give me strength! You get to be Norman Mailer, last offer
I’ll mail you my last offer, and it’s Kerouac
Why do I even talk to you
21st century swashbuckler
Hit and run
On the USS Fileshare
Tells self:
Fuck major labels!
Yuppie execs count cash
While bands roll flush
Tour stops and t-shirts
Keep wallets fat
Music shop manger
Local legend
“Going out of business”
Massacre on a digital scale
