with
come-hither visage
he worms his
way in
just under
the soil
of good
Intentions.
and plays
a god with
wanton rules.
a ne’er-do-well,
a miscreant,
a caitiff,,,
that leery midnight Lark
who haunts the dreams of
your Mother-
her sheets, a morass
of sweat-soaked avarice;
but you, all-willing,
,,,your window left
unlocked.
never before – or since
or the other -
the outre
late night trysts
when writers bloom
into readers,
has such
splendid hedonism
shone more
brightly
than in sweet Marie Jane’s
titillating nook,,,,,
soft Art meets flesh
and music bathes
it all in the
four-on-the-floor
rhythmic pulses
of a candy-lipped lass
laid bare across
her taunt
black and white
canvas of
epicureanism,,,
with lips of
ice cold,
cherry-pop soda
and a soul as
black as Night,,,
she lures me,
web-bound,
into her manic
Saturnalia,,,, gaiety
lived vicariously
across the borders
of a black lace bra strap
or a sanctimonious
songstress’
granular revelries,,,,
where do they hide such a key,,,,
hidden in the bosoms
of Romantics
and swaggers,,,,
a surfeit stage
adorned by
crowns
as timeless
as the
women (and gents) who
so oft’n do,,, tantalize,,,
***written for one of my all-time favorite blogs. The Room 22
life is the first,
and last,
chronic disease,,,
a single cure. and,,
a generation of
Treatment,,,
the change comes,
slow,,, at first,
and it’s the change that,,,
kills us when we’re old,,
as paw-paw used to say,,
only the good die young,,,
,,, only because
they change,
too soon,,,
,,and i’ll live ,
forever,,,
,,,
,, because i’m,,,,
no Good,,,
,,,
,
no needin’ to
stand s’ close
to the….
one……sagacious
…..peer.
genius, like this
..just ain’t
contagious
…..dear.
thar’s nuttin’ i can do fer you
…that’d undo what’s
already been
dun.
what can i say, Friend?
nuttin’ but to leave ya to the wolves.
no grandiosity
is required as
most heroes are
hapless…
Fortuity is
his shameless
Mistress,
yet we all
know that
no Paragon
would ever cheat,
not even on Death.
Valorous, colossal cliffs,
Like those of Moher,
Will one day succumb
To the sea and the air.
They’ll crumble away
In the wind and rain,
Just as Love falters
From it’s very own pain.
yes! sweet melody
ringing true in
these weary ears.
cover me in
Springtime with those
honey-tones of blue
Appalachian song. ripened
by the late
Summer sun and
harvested by Winter’s
arrogant grasp; nipped
in the nose
by red-eyed frost
with heart-strings plucked
by fingers so
nimble, that only
the Holy Ghost
Himself can see
the way they
dance across the
steel cords of
this old footsore
mountain man’s soul.
You bound awkward,
Always.
Destined to
Be up and
Sparkle,
With Merlin eyes
Mischief and
Chief misfit.
I understand
Nothing and
Am nothing,
But love for you.
And because of you,
Become everything.
I’ve got good reason
To look like this
That night I saw the
Devil’s two eyes
I tried to look away, but
He was so God-damned
Beautiful
fuck! this
cast
and it’s
bedeviling
i find
you beautiful,
beyond compare
eyes of
stars, and
smile, debonair
your soul
sparkles with
heavenly fare
as lips
mesmerize each
passing stare
there are
alligators
under her bed
with cocked
jaws and
lancinating teeth
they lie in
wait until
she steps
out unaware
into the
darkness of
need and
they greedily
drag her
away
forever
snap!
early summer leaves curl with caterpillars
in the dancing rays of the muliebrous sunshine
“don’t coddle them Margaret, goddamn it,” he crooned;
and hastily flung a handful of the young worms
out across the road – left to land where fate may leave them.
“i love the soft, furry smell of their spines,” she mused,
bewildered at the dulcet tones that wiggled free
as the wind trickled through their gossamer haired backs.
“ah darlin’, you know that magic’s for the bright-eyed,” he sulked,
lost in the despairing dream that perhaps it all is,
in fact, just a dream given to push the old soul further down.
“ah darlin, you know that magic’s all i got.” she sang,
as the deluge of youth sprang from fountains deep within her heart,
she ran and gathered each caterpillar from the hot pavement.
her sons and daughters. a brood of fuzz.
with virtuous mettle,
his bead drawn steadily;
our hero succumbs
to yon’ heroine’s brevity.
she slapped
him for
the truth
he fucked
her for
the lies
in that ole Book
there was
wrote a tale
of a king, long ago;
who in Midnight’s
vulgar splendor
made sweet love
to his young betrothed
such a fuss and
from those
tender words arose
a bedlam of chaste
indignation from
the masquerading marauders.
all princes and paupers
then squandered the soperose*
scenes he’d drawn in
swift dream-wisp strokes
from his bed to his
delicately damp pen.
and in whorish prose
penned a rift in
the perfect pornography
of poetry.
a murky fountain
from which we draw
a different drink.
my friend, my lover
i see you undress through the
glass; when you
don’t believe
that i’m
looking.
*soperose, a hypnotic substance or state
I shot my first true love
One sullen Sunday morn
I laid her bloody body
‘Tween the rigid rows of corn
I’d seen her through the rain
In another man’s embrace
So I wiped that precious smile
Right off her angel face
Indeed
Somedays it
Costs us everything
To discover
The Love of
Family is
All that
Matters
our family
four-part was
really only
three,
as daddy
always sung
the melody
in the bass.
we didn’t
much mind
and neither
did the
Holy Ghost.
and when
daddy’s fire
fell, didn’t no
one sing. not
a one. God
moves in the
still, small
voice. and
with eyes all
about, He’s all
in all.
when the silence
fell, we looked
to the floors,
counting knot holes
for them souls
left to face
the wrath
of a silent
God.
in a sudden choler
i pulled my own hair
and punched a wall
and broke my hand
never-you-mind the embarrassment
or ignominy i’ve wrought
against myself at passion’s
subtle urging
no, you need only
to be thankful that
it wasn’t you i’d hit.
