poetry

Seventeen


black and white stockings buried deep inside the dresser drawer
tagged on an adolescence reciting guts and miming dolls
not shamed enough in bedrooms to counteract the public toll
of pirouetting revolutionists praising bongs and Nico whores

they say “Excuse my misplaced manners but i’m afraid we aren’t the pack
of creatures you’ve been looking for — your bark is much to flat”
a cough a drag a pinch
of fabric swept away inside their faux moleskins
each face a cluster of cystic acne (smelly drop-out Rembrandt kids)

the beacon broke it’s blacklight and i’m left standing in the dark
a modern day romantic too inexperienced to play the part
a greedy teen without the means for public domesticity
if you need me i’ll be in my room – call me down when dinners ready

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3.


eager and timely from years of
corner shopping
electrical-charged motor mouth
hanging off arm of sluggish spouse
which vice could it be?

heroin, coke
a bitter toke

blossoming in her belly
another full-rich babe
lets hope this one can at least count to three

Dust


back off, unsung hero
take this beaten ego to your grave
no one likes a winner
when you’re fighting for dust instead of a name

run down for a night cap
run fast far out of this cold, cold town
of a million shrilling voices
bellowing fire at the whore on the bound

and dust will always scold us
about the good times and the bad
boiling in the midnight sun
as greedy vultures guide us back

You Are What You Wear

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he smothered his hands
in a dress all tan
wrapped around a wiry frame
made out of cotton or
all things forgotten
he had a hell of a time remembering her name

nails as white as
LED lights
the blues sung their hues in a battery flame
she walked with a sway
on the old roaring bay
surrounded by tides that never came in when it rained

his hands dug up high
in her dress, in her thighs
O the mechanics were art and art that was fine
but a subtle reminder had
cast a brief stammer
as the smitten lad encountered another man’s prize

a flutter of slaps
on the fists up her lap
caused two cheeks to redden under the lamp post beat
the woman in tan
who in fact was a man
rolled her eyes painfully as a mouth moved to speak

“Don’t be so naive-
Don’t you dare judge my needs-”
preached a woman with ideals set firm in the street
“don’t give me the stares-
I am what I wear!”
the randy man smiled, “That’s well enough for me.”

Electric Sleep

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everyone in the room
is clapping their hands
but no one can hear a sound
it’s always the same filigree ideas
swirling, and swirling around

communication
doesn’t have to be brazen
afterall, it’s just a whole lot of talk
and early every morning, there are less and less of us
taking walks

because who needs to travel
when everywhere
is right there inside your computer screen
sometimes the world is not a pretty place
as stationary as it seems

my keys are in pain from screaming out loud
i’d give it a glass of water
but I’m afraid it might drown

so
d r o w n

submerge all alerts and message boards
commit a mass murder of circuits instead
clip all of the wires inside of our cells
and drag ourselves upstairs
and straight back
to bed