Day: February 8, 2012

The Speculator.

poetry

I am the speculator,
I am mixing your words with cloudy water,
then pouring them over the pavement.
I am mad without delay, my lips are frozen fingers.
I photograph the dying fish
that wreathe in greasy splendor.
The table has been set for hours,
a candle dribbles idiotically.
I am padding the insides of your cheeks
with blank cheques; you’re coughing on the telephone –
monotone. Wash it down with bourbon.
I’ve filled a bath with sulfuric acid,
set jazz upon the radio. I’ve
emptied out the garbage.
A flight to Puerto Rico
leaves in fifteen minutes.

Tomorrow I am washed like bed sheets,
set exposed to the afternoon,
flinging myself like a dancer in the airstream.
I am a merry-go-round in summer,
my joints are oiled
with ecstasy
and yet my heart grinds
like an aged boiler-room,
my stomach corrodes like playgrounds
and my eyes are as vacant as winter.

Where shall we go for dinner?
They can wait on us until midnight trickles in,
until glass clinks against
glass and glass slips into
rubber and rubber smells like
decaying mammals.  And people would know
that something died; or so she said on Mercy Street.
There is nothing left to do, but cut ourselves off
and walk home like children.

When the crystal ball
spits into your ogling eye,
what do you do?

I stay up late.
I drink like no one’s watching.
I like to be atypical,
You’ve got to be disarming.
A jury mingles outside the convenience store;
chewing gum exchanged for story.
And the heat will turn to dusk.
The five o’clock drinks roll in,
along tongues, down, down, down
throats of boundless secrecy.
And the outcome will be polluted,
by a cigarette butt thrown by the woman
with long brown hair and a son by
the name of Lucifer,
who likes to make Churches with
cereal boxes – just like Daddy taught
him.

Hunger

poetry

My stomach growls,
it’s rumbling call,
beckons for sustenance,
something to fill it,
bread and hard cheese
with wine. I never knew
how much of a void
was within me. But,
no matter how much
I force down
my gullet,
no matter how much
I chew and swallow,
the void grows wider.
Blacker. Deeper.
The delights I craved,
no longer slake.
The delights I crave,
will not abide.
Lodging in my throat,
compelling controlling chokes.
Christ it burns…
But it’s worth the effort.
And one can hope,
that one day I’ll be sated.
Fat and happy.
Dozing,
ready for a nap.

a poem about shutting up

poetry

ah the phoney drunk on
god’s greens in this modern
age they’re much easier to pluck
which plays to the phoney’s luck
and the critics agree
that his poetry on sitting
is of the highest degree
and his necketh doth strain
as he rigidly rambles

repeating retarded preambles

his living quarters in shambles

his bookshelf lined with candles

about hypothetical rain.
this, with none to gain
but the lull that come with refrain.

Poets should be rockstars

poetry

So it’s a little past midnight
Right?
And I’m on winter’s stoop
Listening to 4 attractive women
Asking me to write poetry about them
(they tell me they are muses)
And although, Yes
It is more or less in jest
I’m going to take this moment
To pretend I am Mick Jagger’s
lips and hips
Gyrating unendingly and
Demanding to be kissed
Every body
Needs a moment like this. I
Bottled my drunken rock star dreams
A long time ago
So, honey
If you need poetry written about you
Just ask me slowly
You know
I’ve written a million poems
About brown eyes, and long necks
And soft hands
All in secret journals that
I’ve swallowed whole so
When somebody
asks me
to write them a poem
I have a hard time saying no
And this
Is my poets poem
The one moment I’m going
To revel in knowing
That last night four women
Wanted me to write poetry
About them
Goddamn that’s something this kid
Never expected
That Mick Jagger moment
And yes it was jesting
But for five brief seconds
I let myself pretend
Again
That this stick is a microphone
And this dirt is a stage
And that tree is a stadium
And the leaves are all people
Watching me
Just watching me
And wanting poems about them