The Last Poem I Ever Wrote

I’m slurping down my ghouls with whiskey shots

Suppress and deny

 

Suppress and deny.

 

I finally found out what is wrong with me

My face isn’t symmetrical,

 

My face isn’t symmetrical

So how dare you expect me to contribute

To society.

 

The left eye is lazy,

The crows feet are different heights,

There are already crows feet,

One eye is sadder than the other,

The hair doesn’t line up,

There are already crows feet,

One eyebrow is intense

And it ain’t the right one,

Or the right one,

The left eye is lazy,

My face isn’t symmetrical.

 

How can you expect me to contribute

To society?

 

All the friends keep saying,

“It’ll be good.”

But I never was a friend with smart folk.

This will have to be the last poem I ever wrote

Until I drink whiskey again.

 

 

 

Even then,

My face isn’t symmetrical

And these ghouls keep sharpening my teeth

On their way down.

Two Bottle Ballad (Poetry)

Two Bottle Ballad

 

Like Christ my blood is wine,

Each sip a fuzzy caterpillar crawl

To the fruit end of the tree,

Barely flowered, tart,

I let it consume each new possibility

Before its time.

The only other route being

let them grow fat and drag my branches

Across the ground,

Creating a whole new generation,

A grove of mistakes,

Thorns and vines

Stealing away light that should be

Mine.

It Gets Dark Early (Poetry)

It Gets Dark Early

 

Round this way it gets dark early,

So all the people follow suit,

Antler crowns and flowers in their hair

Amulets designed to catch the solstice sun

And faux Orion belts round their waists.

 

Never enough light around this way,

So our eyes adjust and pupils get big,

Chakras aligning with the shadows cast

By all the bigger figures of imperial history

And them chains they got tangled in.

 

Round this way celebration requires fire,

So the hands are always sap stained and cracked,

The axes have constant existential crises

They are the only ones singing and swinging

And that just doesn’t seem fair.

 

Never enough good around these days,

So we just wear cloaks plucked from ravens,

Better to blend into those smoky bar walls

While sticky hands pass ciders and meads

And all the voices mumble apologies.

 

Round this way superstition reigns,

So all the sovereigns lean on the entrails

Cast about by lazy shamans with red hands

Despite them never picking up afterward

And claim truth is theirs alone to create.

 

Never enough round this way,

Yes, round this way there is never enough.

Wolf Eats Midnight

Wolf Eats Midnight

 

Ever sink your teeth

Into the Moon’s candy coat

 

Ever exhale frosted breath

The color of cosmic expansion

 

Ever sprinkle sugar

Over your bowl of asteroids

 

Ever clean your plate

Of all traces of northern lights

 

Ever sip a cupful

Of black hole tea

 

Never ever eat

With a wolf like me

Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

Prowling the Isles of the Muse Store

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store.

Sloth eyes slithering stoned

Over packaged people

And dragging my lead indecision.

 

All the self-advertisement

Trying too hard to be a freak,

Individuality stamped right next

To the certified organic stickers.

 

Amble through the rows of

Manic pixies and strangers,

Running my hands across all the molds

Waiting for some sign of life.

I know artificial sparks by now.

 

The newer models, with their drawstring

Dialog and whimsical factory settings

Say it all right, and that perfection

Is the problem.

 

Of course, the clearance rack

And hand-me-downs should

Be where I find what I’m looking for,

And I’m fond of tracing the lines of scars,

Yet the familiarity scares me.

 

So instead I wander and touch

The cold plastic, double-checking

Price tags with the online retail prices,

Another shambling mound

 

I scuffle and shift, careful not to

Bump elbows with the others,

The Ginsberg’s and Whitman’s

And all them bearded poets

I see at our weekly meetings.

 

I’ve seen the looks I get

When I prowl the isles of the muse store,

Illuminated under that neon sign,

“Poets Must Pay In Cash.”

Hoodoo

Here’s to those

Capped by special rocks,

Holding it all on their shoulders,

 

Here’s to those

Dancing the three-six-five waltz,

Gyrating and shoe gazing,

 

Here’s to those

Silent observers stuck

In knowledge’s gloomy shadow,

 

Always here,

As always, here’s

To those

Who are here forever

 

Here’s to those

Who conspire with the rain,

Born from weeping cumulonimbus,

 

Here’s to those

Desert dwellers and

Inanimate Northwest golems,

 

Here’s to those

Casting oblong shadows

Without a audience to care,

 

Always here,

As always, here’s

To those

Who are here forever,

Those who are here

Holding it all on their shoulders.

Late Night Double-Feature Creature

She was getting real sick,

            Gotta give em what they want boys,

Of being asked to the late night double–feature,

            Gotta make lots of noise,

The on with the monster flick first,

            Cars spilled like popcorn convoys,

She was looking for a real reason to apply lipstick,

            Gotta wear that sweater she enjoys,

The kind of kiss to confess to her preacher,

            Gotta fight the urge to be coy,

A fella with Coca-Cola eyes to quench her thirst,

            Yawn and stretch with perfect poise,

A hand on her thigh totally unrehearsed,

            Gotta drop the cliché ploys,

Pushed up against the dashboard heater,

            Gotta tune out the Mummy noise,

She was tired of feeling like a lunatic,

            No matter what her heart destroys,

Of repressing her inner creature,

            Gotta make lots of noise,

Of silver screen laws enforced,

            Gotta give em what they want boys,

 

 

She was getting real sick of being asked to the late night double-feature flicks,

She was getting real sick of being asked by those protagonist boys,

She, the only real late night double-feature creature.