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:
