What is one to do when
Their insides, their kosmos,
Their chakra, boils over, leaking
Essential nutrients onto the hot
Coiled salamander of the post
Modern world, what is one to
Do when science and spirituality,
Who were about to kiss
And create alchemy, turn face
Last minute and leave the room
Empty, what is one to do
When every snare, line, and
Plan only bears old boots
And heavy clouds, what is one to
Do when the tide becomes too
Clingy and the moon decides to go
Find itself another planet?
Grab your maypole and let’s protest,
Crown a spring queen and drench her
In chains, the masters treasure chest
Is full of gold and spider whispers.
Grab your maypole and lets dig
Butcher a spring fowl and drench it
In butter, the people deserve to jig
While blind men sing holy writ.
Grab your maypole and let’s stay,
Plant a picket fence and drink liqueur
Each morning. We need to decay
As proper mademoiselle and monsieur.
Grab your maypole and let’s protest,
Take the nepotist’s boat to the seaway
And swim in tropical waters, all soaked Sunday’s best
And sunken stolen pay.
Round and round,
We must be faster,
Hands in the ground
Digging graves for the master.
This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.
(put on track as background noise, grab a microbrew, and read slow, please)
Blocked by a stand up bass,
A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting
Received no benefits from the skylights
and my fifth beer that midday.
A sickly, blue, purple and red impressionist dog head painting
Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,
And my fifth beer that midday
had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.
Staring out over the conversations in Spanish,
A mousy barmaid whose smile
Had the bubbled, copper scent of the river out back.
I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes.
A mousy barmaid whose smile
Received no benefits from the skylights,
I caught a glimpse of the trumpet in her eyes
And my fifth beer that midday.
More of a reading, but this was a truly wonderful event and big ups to all the poets and Tahj for putting on the event. Snaps all around.
For John,
The day prior to Christmas Eve,
He had one of his fits. Norwegian stubbornness
Had made him contumacious, the variety of which
I hope to one day obtain, He asked
For help to his own bed.
Countless grey entities enjoy dragging liquid flesh across my chest at random intervals in my life – I decided to be like Samson and never again cut my hair – Christmas Past and Present keep trying to tear me apart while Christmas Future offers me mangos and sex on the beach – I will look like a lion if I’m not careful – of my ghostly tormentors, the worst are the foxes – The beard is always the first to run the crucible, the awkward stages drawing in the razor’s edge – The biggest challenge was getting all those Philistines into my bathroom to watch the act – The bottle of wine helped guide Delilah’s hand along my ass of a mandible – The ghosts offer me honey and aftershave for this most excellent feat.
I cried into the petals of a flower
On the bank of Echo’s lake.
The debris of my tower,
sundered by sour drake,
line my burial mound
and, how I long to lay down.
Please select the serpent you crowned
Gurgled the jester’s nervous breakdown
So I grabbed the incarnadine blade
Of the patron saint of drunk vomit,
A True renegade aimed for the stockade
Where children sing of the burning sodomite
And I began the trek to dragon’s lair
Curious about winning a intellectual post-mortem Croix de Guerre
My friend took a heavy dose of
Magic mushrooms and sat on her couch.
She tried to get to the heart of it all,
She tried to figure out the meaning of life by
Going in, in, in…
And she woke up on a lawn screaming
Obscenities about her landlord who watched her
In terror from the top story.
That’s the thing about trying to figure out everything.
You are doused with nausea.
God lets us circle the great mystery,
But he won’t let us in.
People’s minds
Idle in front of you like gods full of
Judgment and torment…
Humming a hum that is silent yet dictates
The atmosphere
The weather
The taste
The feel
The life…
