Tuesday, January 29, 2019

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 Im 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:

Monday, January 14, 2019

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

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