Archive for poetry

Terrible Instruments

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 7, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The sunlight today is an act of violence,
Arrows slicing the clouds to ribbons
Such awesome and terrible storms of light,
Bright and ragged banners streaming
Battle cries thundering along the channels
Of the raging winds.

I once laid in a fever, between dream and vision
The roof above my head ripped away
The vaults of the night sky split
As overripe fruit, edges ragged as wounds
The pulp and pith of the heavens
A yawning, hungry, pure flame.

Angels peered over the edges,
Mouths bloody, teeth wicked and sharp
Wings of blackened, pitted iron spreading
A rustling of edges and rust
Hungry, feral, carrion birds eying their feast
Beautiful the way a naked blade is still lovely.

Frozen to the sweat soaked sheets
Bones the kindling for the fire set in my flesh
Unmoving, tears burning canyons into my cheeks
For the first time feeling the death in me,
Printed upon each cell as blackletter,
A whispering mirrored by the watchers’ lips,
As threads sewn beneath the skin,
Tied and knotted, a skein, a tapestry.

The fever broke, yet still I feel the tugging,
Still out of the corner of my eye
Wings beat at the shadows
Pinned beneath all my words,
All the brutal blood and sex and mortality
Tainting blue skies and sunlight
So that I will never not see the tooth marks left
By God’s terrible instruments.

Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.

Bill Of Goods

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2016 by beautifulimposter

A landscape of scarred pew backs
Faded under used up onion skin sunlight
Sweat and salivation
Something hungry and panting lustful
Beneath linen suit and tie,
Hollowed out eyes glinting feverish bright
The cut and fit slim difference
Between any other carnival barker.

All the things you want to hear
Slow comfort honey drip, drip, drip
We are right, we are good, yes
Nod your head easy, meek and mild
It’s them what’s wrong, big scary them
Growling at the threshold, oh little lambs
You’ll be perfectly safe, long as you’re afraid.

Think not on this world’s woes
Let the wounds suppurate and fester
The stench just angel baby’s breath
A grave made of this world
For the empty dark hole of the next,
You know it folks, step right up
All it takes is evetything you’ve got
From now till forever and ever amen.

So the dirt clogs lungs,
Clots beneath eyelashes
Lips sewn shut by scarabs and worms
Isn’t it lovely, the next life
So cozy beneath blankets of fruitless earth
Barren and threadbare bereft
Choking on aspirin bitter
Ashes under the tongue, we all fall down.

Storytelling

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 19, 2016 by beautifulimposter

Everyone always wants to get to the point 
Yet the point is the start, no destination
Just what you hang from, a pendulum 
Until the scissors do their filthy job
First lesson, sharp steel and what it can do
To such vulnerable flesh.

Hey ho, here we go,
We’ll figure out the words as we go along
Turn about, turn away, every season in a day
Page upon page filled
What were we saying, doesn’t matter
Breathe and blink, pausing stutter…

Click clack film reel snicker
Footsteps tapdance tattoo, a billion pavements 
Stitched closed by boot heels
Worn out at the knees, momma please
Not so fast, caught up in the turnstile 
Left holding ticket stubs while the stage staggers on.

What’s your story?
Tangled tongues and breath
Lipstick in the creases
Four mysterious keys and a watch fob
All the million billion tiny bits
Swirling upwards, outwards, all the points
No point whatsoever, except, maybe
The story folded so neatly
Between palms with the lines just beginning to rise

Jury Rig

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on October 13, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Coffee and cigarettes
The means to maintain
Self medication
Chemical marinade
Achieving something
Like normal
Like function
Like human.

The machine
Needs servicing
It runs
But poorly
Stuttering cough
Piston misfire
Timing off
Unplanned obsolescence.

More duct tape
Temporary fix
Keeping appearances
If it looks good
Must be well
Another bitter drag
Here’s a smile
See, nothing’s wrong
Yet there’s yer problem.

Do I Write Poetry To Know Or To Pretend That I Know?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on August 15, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Can you write poetry for someone you don’t know?
Is it enough to describe the form
Define the shape of a body
In arabesques of frenzied adjectives
Collisions of metaphor, tangles of mad
Breathless images drawing her outline
No matter how perfectly
Knowing that it would be hollow
Without the hues and subtle shadings
Of what lies beneath the flesh?

Is it just lust, something venal
Simple chemical urges feigning higher intent
Am I spending nights dreaming of her lips
Because they are hers, mysterious
Subtle, hiding volumes beneath their lushness
Or am I just so long bereft of kisses
That these brilliant curves have burnt
Raw crimson staring at the sun after images
Behind the lids of my eyes?

Of which am I more afraid,
That she say no and I am left no more
Or less than I was, a skin stretched over longing
Or is it a yes that has me trembling
That what is in my head will be real
With consequences, disappointments
Expectations that I can’t fulfill
Are there answers in these lines anywhere
Have there ever been
Or am I always writing poetry for the unknown
Defining a shape I can live with.

Amber

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 29, 2015 by beautifulimposter

  

Amber and bitter
Five o’clock come down
Haven’t been up yet
The thoughts strangle themselves
Umbilical cord nooses
Throttling everything
Decorating the trees indecorously
With still born poems.

Time is a lungful of smoke
The flavor of mortality
Tastes of heated tin
Dull metallic
Dragging upon the dregs
Fumbling for anything
That doesn’t sound
Like the last song you heard.

Broom handle dance partner
She’s swaying with the breeze
Light lithe limbed
Scattering the dreams about her feet
I could watch this elegant sadness for hours
Wondering if the gleam of sweat
At the base of her neck
Would taste of something other than regret.