poem
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TASTE OF DEATH “Come back with your shield – or on it” (Plutarch, Mor.241) the parting cry of Spartan mothers to their sons. It’s hard to think when the dogs sniffing the floor, yard mans lawnmower whining, the hydraulic crush of garbage trucks, the radio playing trip hop and your old lady’s massaging your nuts.
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Waiting for the Miracle. Watching her barefoot body moving to invisible music, she is a sentient flower dancing with the wind. And “I just want to destroy something Beautiful.”
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The Science of Poetry I Einstein’s incendiary ideas words arranged in an idea of order mathematical sequencing it is the intellectual alchemy of the dead watchmaker thoughts boiled in time reduced in a nanosecond of synaptic flash to the ashen essence of humanity the pure black symmetry of silhouette in shadow tarot cards tossed into
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True Bromance He was my first hipster hat on his silver head, harmonica in hand 2002, 50 year old Mike on the mic Clay man takes the stage at the velvet hookah, a genuine too cool for Sunday school house rocking stray cat scatting our grateful dead white and blues period. This is not another
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My Goth Name Is Becky a Blues poem for Sarah Vowell. I sing the suburban American girl electric blues. I sing the red haired, white skinned, blues eyed girl bottom shelf vodka tonic ice blues. I sing the suffragette, subjugated, suppression blues. Harmonic wail of the locomotive steel slide upscale dive bar blues. Twenty first century
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Drunken Muse Date Raped: Gives Birth To Out Of Wedlock Poem Tonight the poems come Like the girls who fall over with their legs in the air. Sometimes the poems come quick as a school boy on prom night Drunk on sweet wine, another sordid stain Added to a rented tux. It’s like that when
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All I Want is to Write The Poem All I want is to write the poem that makes the mute girl sing. All I want is to write the poem that frightens cherub faced girls. All I want is to write the poem that gets me excommunicated by the pope and I ain’t even catholic.
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A Triptych of Poems for a Dead Poet Dead Baby Blue for Robert Trammell Beware, Life is not a dream even when dead birds lying drunkenly in the gutter suddenly straighten Verona feathers stand on broken feet of poems vomit a gut full of idealistic maggots eyes swimming against the … bone, (alabaster, ivory, eggshell,
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TRAMP: White Rabbit Season “One pill makes you largerAnd one pill makes you smallAnd the ones that mother gives youDon’t do anything at allGo ask AliceWhen she’s ten feet tall” -Jefferson Airplane The bullet from the old man’s 22 caliber semiautomatic pistol must have clipped its spine and its little rabbit brain was terribly confused
Joey Cloudy online 