May Day

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.

 

 

Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward.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.

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Dog Head Impressions

(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.

 

Samson

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.

War Song (Sonnet)

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

I wish I was born after pop-punk

It was the incestual bleating of banjos and the girls with daddy’s disappointment on their breath that brought me to this town – I wish I was born after pop-punk so my pseudo-sadomasochism meant something – do I self-deprecate myself? I self-deprecate myself – wanting to be useful, I made myself into a hammer and hid amongst the rust at the back of the shed – with a river for a cock I freeze each winter and let Spring’s breasts tame me into a child again – my kind are rotting, after years of salt water and blood – I only drink to wash out the taste of Pompeii – while the cool kids learned how to make it I just begged for forgiveness – something about jazz makes me wish I could just scream about how cold I am – If I died tonight my death rattle would sound like train cars locking, a yawp to blow the house down – The wind of my eyes sets fire to all the pine beetles, whose sour pincers have embedded in my tattoos – All burnt up, I stumbled into a community garden and spread myself over your mother’s artichokes –