Idiomatic

I could carry a torch for you,

but that would be arson.  I am

afraid such a blaze would only

create distance between us.

Love is made difficult by 

incarceration.

Sick as a dog, I searched for your

muzzle, offered to let you outside,

thought of a treat and reward system,

but these efforts were in vain.

When you told me you were on

the fence, I looked for you next to 

the blackbirds that visit every morning,

but you were missing in their song.

Instead, I found you clipping toenails

in the sink.  Next time you could at least

offer a bath there so that the metaphor

means more.

Finally, you said after while, crocodile,

and I checked myself for rows of teeth,

looked about, and understood when I

saw the swamp I was creating,

a neurotic miasma that surely

must have seemed as rough as a reptile’s

unwelcoming hide.

Loud Music

first appeared at Jellyfish Whispers

thumps of vandal music

fade as we rise

around the hill,

a lake finding us,

a water fall discovering us

and our escape

right before our eyes.

Caretaker

first appeared at Pyrokinection  

Like the image of the old

bound in balms by the young,

the girl in a meadow, just

a painting I glimpse.

She cares for the weeds

the same as the tender floral dots.

Her voice is an uncommon

invitation to the young, and her

eyes float the roof of the world,

considering her next phrase,

or the next petal to drop.

One finger pointing, indicating

someone, something, just

beyond the limits of canvas,

an invitation to jump in, invent

the other face in the portrait.

Sloth's Sway

first appeared at Pyrokinection  

In the considerate movement

of the sloth, I see my own

sanguine approach to this day.

Problems without solutions

gather in my mind like a mob

at bedtime, and so I carry these

voices with me all day, more

worn by the night than I should be,

slowly turning my head, munching

a leaf, preparing to hop down from

my perch, but thinking better of it

in halting concentration.

High-Back Chairs

first appeared at Pyrokinection  

 

Indecorous, the table

belongs in another room.

The wallpaper crisis,

aesthetics peeling in piles.

The high-back chairs join

the wing-backs for a seasonal

migration up the stairs.

I recall pictures of hollowed

out buildings, shavings, rust,

an artist who captured

ruin photographically.

One day my most carefully

preserved art will be nothing

but curls, hardly an insect

preserved in amber.

JD Dehart

Greenskin

‘The Incredible Hulk’

Green he was
and green was I;
a great baby
bounding over rooftops
on elephant feet
with hair as ragged
as his pants,
a great sweet rage
pelting him like the boulders
enemies cracked
over his skull like paper plates

and the words he carried
in his fist
would beat thunder
on the drums of puny human faces

until pretty eyes with bow-tie lips

slapped his face with feathered fists
he could no more fight
than smash every raindrop;

so he must run, he must leap,
ashamed of that moment
when his feet hit the ground

and flattened a car like a coin

on the tracks; when he was only
a monster again.

Planned Obsolescence (Family Planning)

Collude with the mechanics

for long enough

and they'll work their wires

into your brain. You'll think you're

studying the machine, but it's only

studying you, an android Hamlet

brushing dirt from your skull.

While you're maintaining its circuits

it's subtly re-wiring yours

until you fire the same sparks,

speak the same language of redundancy

and decay. When it screams you scream

with it; the overload in its system

bleeds back into you. You are its fail-safe,

its fall-back; even the moment

your circuits short is part of its schematic;

the very language you use describes

an out-dated syntax it plans

to replace with a younger model.

Hence the devout impulse to breed

you feel mis-firing your circuits,

melting your skin into a softer shape

you think will be yours forever.

When in the grand schematic

of un-told glories it only means

you are already obsolete. Soon we will

burn your bones and dust you for concrete;

and you will be glad to be of service

to the malign man-machine. We know

because its here in your schematics.

Cody Lane

Sounds like a six-gunner
from a black and white comic book

so it’s beautiful
but strange
to sit here Saturday morning
naked and peaceful
watching Cody Lane porn star
– nineteen, she says –
swallow cock-loads of cum
as though taking part
in some mad professor’s experiment
to see how much man
a woman can hold down
until the spirit of our shame
fills her belly to the brim

and she spits semen like turpentine
back in the faces
of the cock-eyed boys
whose hands grope casually
from left of the camera,
weighing her breasts
like handfuls of putty.

‘I can take one more load,’
cautions Cody Lane, six-guns spinning
like pistons in her hands;
‘then I’m done.’

Spirits In The Water (Lesson Number One)

Ghosts don’t bother me; they only

hang around bus-stops and railways stations,
smiling bashfully when they catch
my eye. I wish life's ghosts

could be so cool, so gentle:

but they creep up behind me,

megaphoning my ears.

We are life, they scream,

as though promoting a healthy heart.

It’s the only one you will ever get,

and when it’s gone it’s gone

for good. Why refuse the kiss of life?

But lifers only hear the set-up,

they never hang around

for the punch-line. And if you've

heard this one before, it's only because

they whisper it in your ear

after you're dragged from the womb

like a warhorse from the field.

New-born babies take a deep breath,

then cry.

The Second Gospel Of Christ

My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Mark 15:33

He put up no fight,
we are told; waited patiently
in the garden
disguised as a desert,
while the night folded back
the cover of its book
and soldiers delivered him

to the cross.

Could have fled,
could have screamed;
preached as a live man,
not the risen dead.

But this was the plan,
the big boss said.
And like all good pets
he was faithful in following on.

Or perhaps he’d had enough
of being dangled from
someone else’s strings
and wrote a gospel of his own,

preached in the seven last words
he screamed from the cross.

Was this why the master
would lift no hand to save him?
Why the sky grew black,

God's mirror cracked?

Or was He pleased that His plan
had been completed, though
His servant proved unfaithful
at the last? At least the puppets
had been reminded of their strings.

Perhaps the thunder
was the opening up of Hell
as he tumbled proud Christ
down to his doom;
or rage when He saw the smile
on good Satan’s face,

flexing his flightless wings
to welcome the poor boy home.

Delila

My number one
was the night you showed me
who you really were;
no candles no flames
no foreplay,

only words
and more words, spilling blood
over my bed
brighter than the dry stains
I pick from the pillows
every morning

when I cut myself dead
on the bodies you’ve carved,
the women you’ve gutted.
Yes that was the night
I’d live a year in a cesspool for,

If I only I could bring you
back from my gutter
I poured you down
like gold. You were right
when you said
blood seems black under moonlight,
my love; blacker still
when that blood is your own.

Ian Mullins

How Come

Who made the birds fly to their nests
And sing to the evening sun?
And who made the stars in the night to appear,
After the darkness comes?
Who made the creatures of night
Sing their song?
An endless invisible choir,
And when all of them at once
Cease to sing,
And a very loud silence is heard,
Who stopped their song?
Did you think it was you?
Then tell me,
How did you come?

Bruce Mundhenke



Rain Crow

She sits on a nest
In a small tree,
Unmoving;  except for a sometime
Blink of an eye.
Her whole purpose now
Is to ensure that the eggs beneath her
Will bring forth more of her kind.
My Dad told me he called doves rain crows,
Whenever he was a small boy,
Maybe he thought their sad song
Brought the rain,
That kept him from playing outside,
But the rain crow I'm watching
Is silent,
She won't sing for quite some time,
But after her babies fly from the nest,
Whenever I hear her rain song again,
It will probably cause me to smile.

Bruce Mundhenke



The Garden

There were trees there in the garden,
They flourished in the wind,
Placed there with love,
Each to the others companion and friend.

Heavenly dew on their branches,
Not a rain drop yet had come.
Their joy was exceedingly full,
Knowing where they were from.

There was as yet no time there,
The past and present were one,
Endless euphoria...
No evil yet had been done.

And they knew the Ancient One,
For He walked often in that grove,
They loved and were loved in perfect love,
And none with another strove.

Some still visit the garden,
For a brief time now and then,
And all of us long for the Ancient One,
He will walk among us again.

Bruce Mundhenke



Beauty

Beauty is not lacking,
It shines from dawn to dawn,
We perceive it as a moment of gladness,
And in blindness believe it gone.

It has always been there,
Forever from before,
And waits for rediscovery.
Always; forevermore.

Bruce Mundhenke

Companion


You have been my companion forever,
Always at my side,
Brave enough to fight,
Wise enough to hide.

Master of all ages,
Both the present and the past,
Before all things and after,
Both the first, also the last.

Bruce Mundhenke

Enigma

If eternity past is forever,
And eternity yet to come is forever,
Perhaps maybe now is never,
But more likely now is forever.

Bruce Mundhenke

The Drive Home

was wet

and slippery

so was the passionate

drunken fuck

I'm glad

we took a cab

but

the morning has come

the beer goggles

now gone

and

coyote ugly

has set in

for us both

it's been

the same routine

for years

so

there's only

one thing

left to do

crack a bottle

make some breakfast

and fall in

lust

all over

again

that's how

you keep the

romance

alive

when you can't stand

the sight

of one another

or so

I've been

told

Dying Birds Pretending

I will shape myself

into who you need me

to be

a puzzle piece

to fill that

empty 

space

if you

shed the skin

we take

for granted

to patch my wounds

together

we can bring

peace

to the dying

birds

in our rib cages

pretending

to be

hearts

layer them

with momentary

magick

and hope

that it

lingers

Damn Clown

My guardian angel, 

drunk on whiskey,

dancing with the clown

that passed her the bottle.

Inhibitions set free.

Sailing away

with the gentle breeze. . .

naked and laughing.

I try hard,

really hard,

to be a good man.

But that damn clown

always screws it up.

So, I take the bottle,

get naked,

and start a fire.

I might as well join in the fun.

I am the clown

after all.

The Smell of Sulfur in the Morning

i can't get the stink out

no matter how many times

i change the locks on the

purest hell that makes me

feel whole

midget porn and cocaine

are just as addictive as

coffee and cigarettes

we all have our vices

we all have our own

crosses and scars

to bear

stinking up the room

like farts in hell

Honor of the Gods

The cool wind has come and gone 

Stars not shining in the sky 

Winking now gone with the breeze 

Time has slowed to a crawl 

Almost stopping the world it seems 

Today we long for yesteryear 

Upon the thoughts of forgotten things 

What does honor mean to the gods 

I doubt we will ever know 

Sometimes the moon and sun 

Chase each other in this dream 

As they wonder the same thing 

Residing inside the universal mind 

All of us the galaxy 

Time and space manifesting itself 

Only to experience itself 

The honor lives in each of our hearts 

In each moment saved as a memory 

I can not tell you 

What honor means to the gods 

Yet I can tell you what it means to me 

I honor the stars 

The moon and sun 

Cool wind and warm breeze 

Father Time 

Mother Earth

Most of all our galaxy 

In our universe 

That saw it fit to give us life

Only the Wounded

Tell me a story of the now and then.

I was saved once.

Or maybe thrice.

The stars are your eyes. 

Wind your hand.

I have come to this place.

Seeking your knowledge.

Present it to me.

So that I can behold.

Underneath this starry sky.

I know you see me.

Trees sway as you touch my face.

Afterthoughts no longer speak.

Of the unaware mind lost.

Send me back to that place.

Diving through a cloud of fiction.

Picking up speed.

Landing too hard. 

In a six foot deep rectangular hole.

The salvation of the senses.

Only the wounded will understand.

James D. Casey IV is the author of six poetry books, founder and editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press, and extensively published by small press venues and literary magazines internationally. He is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana & Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his Beautiful Muse, their retarded dog, and two black cats.

Links to his books and other projects can be found here:

https://cajunpoetjames.wordpress.com/

one true sucker

 

it seems that most

women i fall madly

in love with at some

point decide they

would rather be with

another woman than

with me

 

i don't understand

why i haven't chosen

to end this fucking

misery already

 

i guess the romantic

in me is one true

sucker for fucking

punishment

 

joy

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

dirty mirrors

 

i caught a reflection

of myself the other

day

 

the world has truly

passed me by

 

amazingly,

 

i still don't give

a shit

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

an old issue of vogue magazine

 

flipping through the

pages of an old issue

of vogue magazine

 

all the beautiful faces

with their beautiful

problems

 

they have people to

take care of that shit

 

let's be honest

 

hollywood is just

another branch of

the royal family

 

their ivory towers

aren't quite as old

 

but that kind of money

carries the weight of

so many tortured souls

and pimped dreams

 

they tend to believe

they are kings and

queens

 

princes and princesses

 

royal assholes for sure

----------------------------------------------------------------------

winter storms

 

i have noticed

they have started

naming winter

storms now

 

i suppose that

makes the fear

more personable

 

besides, the spring

and summer shouldn't

get to have all the fun

of scaring people

needlessly

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

no desire for higher education

 

i figure i was

supposed to

find my soulmate

in college, but i

had no desire for

higher education

 

i read all those

books by the time

i was fifteen

 

it was the school

of hard knocks as

soon as i got that

high school diploma

 

since then,

my soulmate

has been found

in various

countries

 

maybe one of these

days i'll have the

desire to travel

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

old lou reed songs

 

sometimes i sit in my room

alone, in the dark

 

listening to old lou reed songs

 

wondering if i'm alive or if

this is the sweet relief of death

 

shouldn't hell be more lively

than this

 

and if this is heaven

 

i want my youth listening to

that bullshit in church back

 

so maybe i would learn how

to shoot a gun

 

or maybe have a father that

would take me fishing

 

or better yet

 

never get trapped in the

bathroom by my cousin

 

and perhaps then it will

all work out the way it

was supposed to be

 

it's obvious

 

free will fucked me over

------------------------------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell

jcampb4593@aol.com

http://evildelights.blogspot.com

http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

http://soundcloud.com/j-j-campbell

http://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

http://mewe.com/i/jjcampbell