Friday, February 5, 2010

Please consider the following poems for publication.

Over 200 of my poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Japan and Australia, and the U.K, including: Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul,
South Jersey Underground-Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others.
I have had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, such titles as "Doors and Windows",
"Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn".
I have had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and my latest one released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud". Also this year i am awaiting final publication of "The Rushing Stream of Desires" and "A Yellow Sunshine night" (both in pre-production)
Chris is also the founder and Editor of P&W (, an online literary emagazine.

Prancing Silent

Sunrise finds the heart aching to be unzoned,
uncalled for, distressed.
Plastering billboards with advertisements
of no discernable benefit to anyone.
Buy this, buy that. Feel this way
or that. Slip into phrases
that bound the eyes.
Seeing the blind walk
across the rushing of
the cars. Making it, surviving;
arriving two steps behind the
Useless verbs that are
understood only
by the symbols of
racing numbers
in a chart.
They bind the answers.
They control the end.
The beginning a vowel
expressed by cups of
tea in a bathroom.
Ugly signs that are
re-zoned for alternative
Homosexual men prancing
their silk perversions
on an unsuspecting room.

We always buy the latest
edition of the newspaper.
The headlines announce
the arrival of
the lies.

The Door

The door is open.
Spirits race out into the dark.
They are escaping.
Re-inventing death.

I am one of the spirits.
I am one of the lost.
Escaping into the dark.

The door closes.
Slams shut
Now I am outside.
Lonely spirit lost.
Lonely voice screaming in anguish.

Horrors upon horrors.
Night upon black.

Hot wind sears thought.
I think but I am thoughtless.

Cavern of space
with empty eyes.
Sockets of disease proliferating
in jangled tones of sombre.

Grey moon.
Overshadowed undercurrents
of lisping lips.

Are they mine?

Are they mine?

I don't know how to love me.
Useless thinking wasted on
emotions that are shapeless reunions
of sliding weeds.

I am growing a skin.
It is bleeding.

The door is my answer.
Slam it shut.

Don't let the tears out.
They may define my state of mind.
But in truth,

they are shallow.

So am I.

Vanish Without a Trace

Vanish without a trace, my dear, and
I'll celebrate your funeral with roses

and wine. Jiggle like a fat man wrapped
up in his religious point of view. Speaking

this and that to a sleeping audience.
Craving the super delicious tangles of

frivolous delights. Vanish without a
trace, my dear, and I'll sing your praises to

every dead rat in the alley. Put you inside a
big plastic bag and keep you captivated in

the corner of the room. When the bugs come
out to play I'll say it's your fate and dangle

my opinions in your mind. Electric rock and
roll blasting off an old stereo, guitars jangling

to the beat of a brand new horizon. Flagrant
infractions of parliamentary rule will get

you banned from the ice cream parlour.
And we can put your smoldering bones

into a grinder, letting the smell assault
the politically correct neo-nazi's. Change

the sign if it offends the mind, change the
word and create a new perception. Vanish

without a trace, my dear, and Ill vanish
myself right after you. I'll go away and

you won't have me to hate anymore. We
can both pretend that all of this matters.

Waving Me Away Like A Dime Store Hooker

Her eyes
represent her thoughts,
waving me away
like a dime store hooker.
Pushing against
the silence
temporary distance.
Her simmering
swallow me like
a dinosaur from
a 1940's movie.
Plastic, obvious.
My blue skin
is telling
my white nails
to scratch away
the pictures.
Do not absorb them!
We dare not
stop to
ask for directions.
Men do not do this.
Women do, and it is
this direction
you have selected
to promote.
Her skin
is freezing red.
Mingled with
dozen or so
she has
inside of her.
We cannot
be the
religion anymore.
You've converted
to your
own cathedral.


That's the soul's answer to the locked doors
that confront you in the path.
Open the eyes and see
the zero that has become you.

And when the danger comes, let the
forgetting become a mantra.
Let it flush away the diseases
of yesterday's disasters.

When the yellow sun shines, ignore
the grey skies that have
defined you.

Be the empty that you can be.
It's the solution to the
falling asleep at the wheel.

And when the pencil lead breaks,
sharpen the axes to begin
the hacking away.

Let the zone alarms arrive,
and make them the purpose
of your ashtray heart.

It's the most obvious solution
to the drowning of the
sense of being.

And when the rain starts to fall,
hold the radio
in your arms and let
the electricity
snapple your brainwaves.

Leave without saying goodbye.

Chris G. Vaillancourt‏

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