I am a long-time poet. A Native from France I enjoy playing with language. I pursued my education in United States and currently I am about to receive a M.F.A in creative writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. I taught English and French classes at the University of Alaska, Southeast and currently I reside in Riverside, California. I write original pieces in both English and French and also self-translate my work.
My poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes and Cirque.
Thank you for considering my work. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Alicia Ristau
One
The
rose
bush
hears
mothers
weep
in
the
swirls
of
a
morning
rain
drop
at
the
edge
of
a
petal.
Amstramgram
(inspired by Picasso’s ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’)
ainsi, c'est ainsi
imitation of the real
reinterpretation of the human
deformed figure, face, body
squares, angles, and arrows
ainsi, c'est ainsi
the nude skin tones
roses and peaches
become amstramgram
a grape of vine
ainsi, c'est ainsi
subtle and reinvented
a game of the real
a canvas of a lost man
amongst women, body parts
a nursery rhyme
amstramgram
Nude in a Tree
I saw a nude in a tree
I touched, caressed, and massaged nude breasts
I pressed down on a breast, prayed to God, placed my tongue on a nipple,
and played with its tip. Green leaves circled my tongue, branches framed her skin, and afternoon birds. The green veins spread like forest fire.
Legs took root in the earth
water, soil, wood pulp
she had green feathered wings
let me put a crown on her head!
she is the paper to my poem
she pulls each word out of my typography
a fine page
there is my tree
there is my nude
Friday, February 4, 2011
"one thirty"
The night,
it calls in quiet refrains
and I listen,
With ears attentive
and a soul laid bare.
The murmurs and hush
of crickets
tides of wind
mourning of bark
distant hum of the earth,
spiral around in the air
in a symphony of solitude.
To exist
to revel
in this simple
unparalleled wonder of being,
it deserves the highest recognition.
There should be
grand awards,
international conferences,
late night specials,
legislation,
on the innate power
of doing absolutely
nothing,
but enjoying the whispered seduction
of one in the morning.
Where the world
takes a kind breath,
and you can talk
with the landscape
around you.
It's a nice visit
with old friends,
and they like it when you
come by.
And when the sun
steals into your eyes,
and the roar of the day
comes
pounding
pounding
pounding
with the sun,
you
and the world
smile with a secret understanding,
as time cuts through the air
once again.
"birth"
I walked down to the tree in the back
My mind was a burden, my thoughts off track
So I laid down in the palm of the earth
I let my eyes close, and dreamt
of rebirth
I counted the pebbles etched in my skin,
They outnumbered the scars of where you had been
And as the ants carried me away,
I smiled at their tracks in the clay.
Humbly,
I thank the nights
Humbly,
I thank the days
They carry me where I laugh at my body,
oh they may, they may, they may
A hummingbird sang and told me a story,
about a boy made of bark, a real forest glory
I laughed at the thought, but to my surprise
a morning dawn shown through my eyes,
Bury me soil,
bury me soon,
show me the way to the moon
Paul DeMerritt
The night,
it calls in quiet refrains
and I listen,
With ears attentive
and a soul laid bare.
The murmurs and hush
of crickets
tides of wind
mourning of bark
distant hum of the earth,
spiral around in the air
in a symphony of solitude.
To exist
to revel
in this simple
unparalleled wonder of being,
it deserves the highest recognition.
There should be
grand awards,
international conferences,
late night specials,
legislation,
on the innate power
of doing absolutely
nothing,
but enjoying the whispered seduction
of one in the morning.
Where the world
takes a kind breath,
and you can talk
with the landscape
around you.
It's a nice visit
with old friends,
and they like it when you
come by.
And when the sun
steals into your eyes,
and the roar of the day
comes
pounding
pounding
pounding
with the sun,
you
and the world
smile with a secret understanding,
as time cuts through the air
once again.
"birth"
I walked down to the tree in the back
My mind was a burden, my thoughts off track
So I laid down in the palm of the earth
I let my eyes close, and dreamt
of rebirth
I counted the pebbles etched in my skin,
They outnumbered the scars of where you had been
And as the ants carried me away,
I smiled at their tracks in the clay.
Humbly,
I thank the nights
Humbly,
I thank the days
They carry me where I laugh at my body,
oh they may, they may, they may
A hummingbird sang and told me a story,
about a boy made of bark, a real forest glory
I laughed at the thought, but to my surprise
a morning dawn shown through my eyes,
Bury me soil,
bury me soon,
show me the way to the moon
Paul DeMerritt
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
at this time & location & juxtaposition to jello-soul
this is the
kind of bar
i went to
in my early twenties
when i wore tight lycra shirts
& fisted speed
& still
ignominiously genuflected
to pussy
as a
viable
long-term
concept.
decade later
i'm old man
at a coworker's
bachelor party.
my face rudolph
my fat arms
sweaty anvils
choking the bar.
i haven't seen
coworker
or his other
penny-nails
in over
an hour.
one of the
poor little shits
lost his muesli
when i bought everyone
a double 151.
what’s this?
here comes daffodil
of razor-blade hair
& peach-fuzz midriff
for another
twelve dollar martini.
i wouldn't
fuck you
for all the olives
in italy,
i say
in deference to principle
while watching a blade
on the ceiling fan
up and left.
leather huaraches
calves like minnows
to the
other side of the bar
where she
points me out
to the tender
he
who whistles for the doorman
to come over.
good
good,
i smile to myself
& squeegee sweat
from my eyebrows
& forearms
preparing an
adequate
acceptance speech.
like cracking a beer
feeding
a stray dog
or rolling your sleeves
up past elbow
as the first eye
of spring sun
kisses the skin:
a night
of new pussy
never gets old.
man in a wheelchair in front of the VA hospital
gayle was a brick tender
his entire
working life.
at forty-five
he took a night class
in sociology
at drake.
sometimes after class
he'd drink irish whiskey
with the professor
at Flanagan's.
one night
the professor was shit-faced
he hit on the girlfriend
of drake's middle linebacker.
gayle stepped in
broke the kid's jaw
spent a week in jail.
the professor
is now an esteemed lecturer
at an ivy league university.
he's written an autobiography
and there is gayle
on page 122.
only the sum-bitch
calls me randy
and says he saved my ass
with some slick words,
gayle says
as i light his cigarette for him.
but i'll give him that
seein' as i took thirty
maybe forty
good pulls
on his wife.
Justin Hyde
this is the
kind of bar
i went to
in my early twenties
when i wore tight lycra shirts
& fisted speed
& still
ignominiously genuflected
to pussy
as a
viable
long-term
concept.
decade later
i'm old man
at a coworker's
bachelor party.
my face rudolph
my fat arms
sweaty anvils
choking the bar.
i haven't seen
coworker
or his other
penny-nails
in over
an hour.
one of the
poor little shits
lost his muesli
when i bought everyone
a double 151.
what’s this?
here comes daffodil
of razor-blade hair
& peach-fuzz midriff
for another
twelve dollar martini.
i wouldn't
fuck you
for all the olives
in italy,
i say
in deference to principle
while watching a blade
on the ceiling fan
up and left.
leather huaraches
calves like minnows
to the
other side of the bar
where she
points me out
to the tender
he
who whistles for the doorman
to come over.
good
good,
i smile to myself
& squeegee sweat
from my eyebrows
& forearms
preparing an
adequate
acceptance speech.
like cracking a beer
feeding
a stray dog
or rolling your sleeves
up past elbow
as the first eye
of spring sun
kisses the skin:
a night
of new pussy
never gets old.
man in a wheelchair in front of the VA hospital
gayle was a brick tender
his entire
working life.
at forty-five
he took a night class
in sociology
at drake.
sometimes after class
he'd drink irish whiskey
with the professor
at Flanagan's.
one night
the professor was shit-faced
he hit on the girlfriend
of drake's middle linebacker.
gayle stepped in
broke the kid's jaw
spent a week in jail.
the professor
is now an esteemed lecturer
at an ivy league university.
he's written an autobiography
and there is gayle
on page 122.
only the sum-bitch
calls me randy
and says he saved my ass
with some slick words,
gayle says
as i light his cigarette for him.
but i'll give him that
seein' as i took thirty
maybe forty
good pulls
on his wife.
Justin Hyde
Dear Editor,
Please consider poems from 'Songs of a Clerk': 'Decline', 'Condemned', 'Vengeance', 'Pettiness', 'Time', 'Greeley Square II'.
Songs of a Clerk, an unpublished collection of poetry, expresses the frustration of a young man trapped in a menial clerks job, while dreaming of a meaningful life.
Poems from 'Songs of a Clerk' have appeared in: Istanbul Literary Review, Agency Magazine, Fiction Press, Kyoto Journal, Poetry Life and Times, Rattlesnake Review, Written Word Literary Magazine, Pegasus Magazine, MadSwirl, YaSou!, Words Words Words, Juice Magazine, Struggle Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Iddie, Strange Road, Halfway Down the Stairs, Poetry Monthly, Calliope Nerve and many more.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published in by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
Sincerely,
Gary Beck
Decline
Our crippled sons
do not have their forefathers crusades.
They whine the ancient songs,
wheezing in their heated rooms.
They cry for causes,
but curse the test-tube plans
that guide us to new motions.
They would be led,
spearmen in Agamemnon’s band,
these tiring office mites,
who would sack a city.
Fanciers of fair captives,
yearning for distant glory,
not even the poet’s song
can make epic of your dullness.
Condemned
Man of my rheumatic days,
who sits at office desk
adoze, adrift
on some lost continent,
flooded by machine seepage.
The distant voices of creaky clerks,
shrill and chatty girls,
the torpor until 5:00.
Then out into that lost day’s air,
the quick awakening from canned breathing
and I am released,
until imprisonment tomorrow.
Vengeance
On this dreary afternoon,
in the desert of imagination,
I summon Gengis Khan
and Tartar host.
See my power.
I command them.
Slaughter the Boss,
the babbling secretaries,
cut out their tongues,
rape and pillage.
Don’t let that one escape,
the office idiot.
Some dire torture must be his.
Let him be crucified
by his protruding ears,
for awful jokes.
Pettiness
This fruitless job
planned by some angel of despair,
bursting his halo with joy at my anguish.
Secure in his triumph,
he gloats on his cloud,
but then I spite him
and quit without notice.
Time
The creeping, sullen fingers
of my unloving clock
point my life away,
falling with a sad droop
on 7:00 A.M.
(stumble awake, shuffle to work)
then 12:00, quick lunch,
the drowsy, mindless waiting until 5:00,
then home to watch your uncaring hands
tick away tomorrows.
Greeley Square II
Greeley Square at lunchtime
dreary and severe,
the office workers
drabber than pigeons,
the out-of-towners
lost in their clothing.
The black men
wearing radios, caps and sneakers,
pushing handcarts and resentment.
The Spanish men
read jokebooks in the doorways.
The old men sit upon the benches,
pale and flimsy in the sun
and gather newspapers and empty bags,
after the clerks return to work.
Please consider poems from 'Songs of a Clerk': 'Decline', 'Condemned', 'Vengeance', 'Pettiness', 'Time', 'Greeley Square II'.
Songs of a Clerk, an unpublished collection of poetry, expresses the frustration of a young man trapped in a menial clerks job, while dreaming of a meaningful life.
Poems from 'Songs of a Clerk' have appeared in: Istanbul Literary Review, Agency Magazine, Fiction Press, Kyoto Journal, Poetry Life and Times, Rattlesnake Review, Written Word Literary Magazine, Pegasus Magazine, MadSwirl, YaSou!, Words Words Words, Juice Magazine, Struggle Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, Iddie, Strange Road, Halfway Down the Stairs, Poetry Monthly, Calliope Nerve and many more.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published in by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
Sincerely,
Gary Beck
Decline
Our crippled sons
do not have their forefathers crusades.
They whine the ancient songs,
wheezing in their heated rooms.
They cry for causes,
but curse the test-tube plans
that guide us to new motions.
They would be led,
spearmen in Agamemnon’s band,
these tiring office mites,
who would sack a city.
Fanciers of fair captives,
yearning for distant glory,
not even the poet’s song
can make epic of your dullness.
Condemned
Man of my rheumatic days,
who sits at office desk
adoze, adrift
on some lost continent,
flooded by machine seepage.
The distant voices of creaky clerks,
shrill and chatty girls,
the torpor until 5:00.
Then out into that lost day’s air,
the quick awakening from canned breathing
and I am released,
until imprisonment tomorrow.
Vengeance
On this dreary afternoon,
in the desert of imagination,
I summon Gengis Khan
and Tartar host.
See my power.
I command them.
Slaughter the Boss,
the babbling secretaries,
cut out their tongues,
rape and pillage.
Don’t let that one escape,
the office idiot.
Some dire torture must be his.
Let him be crucified
by his protruding ears,
for awful jokes.
Pettiness
This fruitless job
planned by some angel of despair,
bursting his halo with joy at my anguish.
Secure in his triumph,
he gloats on his cloud,
but then I spite him
and quit without notice.
Time
The creeping, sullen fingers
of my unloving clock
point my life away,
falling with a sad droop
on 7:00 A.M.
(stumble awake, shuffle to work)
then 12:00, quick lunch,
the drowsy, mindless waiting until 5:00,
then home to watch your uncaring hands
tick away tomorrows.
Greeley Square II
Greeley Square at lunchtime
dreary and severe,
the office workers
drabber than pigeons,
the out-of-towners
lost in their clothing.
The black men
wearing radios, caps and sneakers,
pushing handcarts and resentment.
The Spanish men
read jokebooks in the doorways.
The old men sit upon the benches,
pale and flimsy in the sun
and gather newspapers and empty bags,
after the clerks return to work.
My biography is the following:
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
Changes
I'm looking around and searching you there,
The bright prospect lights only frown as I stare,
My heart's getting lost in the shatters.
I know you'll pick them all up when you come,
And I'll never mind if you steal at least some,
Just keep them, and nothing else matters.
Those white and green lights got my secret revealed,
I'll write it all down and cherish it sealed,
One day it will find destination.
Whoever discovers the mystery penned,
They won't guess a word, I have got it all planned,
This madness becomes my salvation.
The eyes of the suburbs will warm and appease
My heart, ever-aching, with evident ease.
Your look in the window still shows.
It's fixed in the soul, it's fixed in the glass,
This moment can linger for good either pass,
It's changing. Well, destiny knows.
Only Dreaming
My arms held so tightly around your waist
Just spoke for me, as I'd got my lips sealed.
At least they indulged in a new better taste -
Embraced by temptations, I chose to yield.
This night was a blinding exhilarant flash
Of life that's unfiltered, of love that's pristine.
You found the beauty within such a crash,
You planted some hope in the dream world of mine.
But pleasure is gone like this cherry cigar -
The dawn didn't let fortune's secret unfold
Or give me a sign, leading where you are.
A dream half believed in is all that I hold.
From The Heart
I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.
My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.
Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.
Riot Of Word
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Madness
I'm riding the cloud of bright blanket dreams,
The coconut smoke entwines with the mist,
The potion of madness in violet streams
Is carving the urge that I cannot resist.
The mysteries find me still lying in bed,
Enjoying the pleasures of drunken grapefruit.
Just several gulps, and a room painted red
Will turn to a princess' incredible suit.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
A rose with sharp yet invisible thorns
Will bloom in my gardens in endless July -
The country of fairies and pink unicorns
Beneath the enchanting and welcoming sky.
I trust in the might of the element Earth,
However, the Air attracts me much more.
I'm hovering free, and I feel the rebirth.
This madness is tempting like never before.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
I giggle and slap the reality's face,
I found salvation in madness' embrace.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
April Avalon
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
Changes
I'm looking around and searching you there,
The bright prospect lights only frown as I stare,
My heart's getting lost in the shatters.
I know you'll pick them all up when you come,
And I'll never mind if you steal at least some,
Just keep them, and nothing else matters.
Those white and green lights got my secret revealed,
I'll write it all down and cherish it sealed,
One day it will find destination.
Whoever discovers the mystery penned,
They won't guess a word, I have got it all planned,
This madness becomes my salvation.
The eyes of the suburbs will warm and appease
My heart, ever-aching, with evident ease.
Your look in the window still shows.
It's fixed in the soul, it's fixed in the glass,
This moment can linger for good either pass,
It's changing. Well, destiny knows.
Only Dreaming
My arms held so tightly around your waist
Just spoke for me, as I'd got my lips sealed.
At least they indulged in a new better taste -
Embraced by temptations, I chose to yield.
This night was a blinding exhilarant flash
Of life that's unfiltered, of love that's pristine.
You found the beauty within such a crash,
You planted some hope in the dream world of mine.
But pleasure is gone like this cherry cigar -
The dawn didn't let fortune's secret unfold
Or give me a sign, leading where you are.
A dream half believed in is all that I hold.
From The Heart
I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.
My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.
Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.
Riot Of Word
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Madness
I'm riding the cloud of bright blanket dreams,
The coconut smoke entwines with the mist,
The potion of madness in violet streams
Is carving the urge that I cannot resist.
The mysteries find me still lying in bed,
Enjoying the pleasures of drunken grapefruit.
Just several gulps, and a room painted red
Will turn to a princess' incredible suit.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
A rose with sharp yet invisible thorns
Will bloom in my gardens in endless July -
The country of fairies and pink unicorns
Beneath the enchanting and welcoming sky.
I trust in the might of the element Earth,
However, the Air attracts me much more.
I'm hovering free, and I feel the rebirth.
This madness is tempting like never before.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
I giggle and slap the reality's face,
I found salvation in madness' embrace.
I'm a swift errand girl of my fortunate fate,
When my fantasies leak, the reality hides
In the weirdest world I could ever create
With my eyes tightly shut, with my heart as a guide.
April Avalon
Monday, January 31, 2011
Bubble Girl
When she was chosen as McCain's running mate,
As a woman, I wanted her to be more than meets the eye,
Beyond designer glasses and couture duds, attractive enough,
Hopefully not a bubblehead, just not wearing a tie.
But then she opened her mouth, twanging
The same old stories and zingers repeated,
Not ready for prime time, but full of admirable spunk,
No celebratory dance when she was defeated.
Two years plus, where's the growth and expansion?
A contract with Fox News; Facebook Babe twittering "tea" to make her case,
Unwilling to venture beyond safe and secure audiences she can control,
Bubblegirl - how can she seriously think about entering the 2012 Presidential race?
TV celebrity, cartoonishly ignoring truth and consequences,
Her video reactions to "Tucson" was far from a verbal nurse,
Take no responsibility, answer no unscripted questions, live in your base bubble...
Until...until...it looks like it may have just burst.
What's that? First Dude, "going rogue,"
With yet another massage therapist giving the profession a bad name,
Where's the digital indigence, making it "all about you?"
Uncharacteristic silence, when there's the National Enquirer to blame.
Finally, a reality show Sarah doesn't want to star in,
Piercing the facade of the Palin "brand,"
Knowing "America by Heart," but maybe not Bristol, or Todd,
With this "pop," has her potential candidacy landed in quicksand?
Karen Ann DeLuca
When she was chosen as McCain's running mate,
As a woman, I wanted her to be more than meets the eye,
Beyond designer glasses and couture duds, attractive enough,
Hopefully not a bubblehead, just not wearing a tie.
But then she opened her mouth, twanging
The same old stories and zingers repeated,
Not ready for prime time, but full of admirable spunk,
No celebratory dance when she was defeated.
Two years plus, where's the growth and expansion?
A contract with Fox News; Facebook Babe twittering "tea" to make her case,
Unwilling to venture beyond safe and secure audiences she can control,
Bubblegirl - how can she seriously think about entering the 2012 Presidential race?
TV celebrity, cartoonishly ignoring truth and consequences,
Her video reactions to "Tucson" was far from a verbal nurse,
Take no responsibility, answer no unscripted questions, live in your base bubble...
Until...until...it looks like it may have just burst.
What's that? First Dude, "going rogue,"
With yet another massage therapist giving the profession a bad name,
Where's the digital indigence, making it "all about you?"
Uncharacteristic silence, when there's the National Enquirer to blame.
Finally, a reality show Sarah doesn't want to star in,
Piercing the facade of the Palin "brand,"
Knowing "America by Heart," but maybe not Bristol, or Todd,
With this "pop," has her potential candidacy landed in quicksand?
Karen Ann DeLuca
The following are three poems for your consideration: "Mind Fuck Incorporated," "Acid Reign," and “In the Little Town of Bethlehem.”
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.
Mind Fuck Incorporated
“That is what destiny is”
-- Diane Wakoski
My will is shattered.
Against the wall.
By your kiss.
Watch it slide.
Watch it drip.
Green blood.
Jealous of your whole,
it will stain your skin
if you leave.
And if you stay?
The sight alone is poison.
You see?
I may be the one
who is broken.
But you are the one
who is meant to pay.
Acid Reign
The sky is darker here.
A different shade of black,
louder than the others,
vibrates
as it follows your body
down the yellow brick road
that never led anyone home.
Or to Kansas
if the truth be known.
Still you come
with your wide-eyed innocence
for the sugar-coated needle
that will rip you out
and bandage the wound
in beautiful rainbows.
I give you
your technicolored horses
and broken glass slippers.
I give you
the future you seek.
But to know the future
there must be a death.
Tell me,
will you barter your firstborn
to ride out my twister?
And when your three wishes are gone,
I laugh at your blind guessing.
I am not Rumpelstiltskin.
That's not my name.
And you see, I can no longer spin you a golden room.
And you see, I can no longer walk on water.
And you see.
And you see.
And you see, al I have
are these ruby slippers.
Everyone wants their beauty.
Their magic
that glitters each step.
That glitters each step.
That glitters,
that glitters,
that glitters.
That glitter
that makes you forget
dancing in red shoes
will kill you.
In the Little Town of Bethlehem
"We forsake Our lone luck now,
compelled by bond, by blood,
To keep some unsaid pact;"
-- Sylvia Plath
Three gathered
at the foot of the cradle.
And the north star
shone. A spotlight
as the angel spread
her heavenly wing.
And spoke.
It's a girl.
In the dark
the wisemen nodded.
There would be repercussions.
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.
Mind Fuck Incorporated
“That is what destiny is”
-- Diane Wakoski
My will is shattered.
Against the wall.
By your kiss.
Watch it slide.
Watch it drip.
Green blood.
Jealous of your whole,
it will stain your skin
if you leave.
And if you stay?
The sight alone is poison.
You see?
I may be the one
who is broken.
But you are the one
who is meant to pay.
Acid Reign
The sky is darker here.
A different shade of black,
louder than the others,
vibrates
as it follows your body
down the yellow brick road
that never led anyone home.
Or to Kansas
if the truth be known.
Still you come
with your wide-eyed innocence
for the sugar-coated needle
that will rip you out
and bandage the wound
in beautiful rainbows.
I give you
your technicolored horses
and broken glass slippers.
I give you
the future you seek.
But to know the future
there must be a death.
Tell me,
will you barter your firstborn
to ride out my twister?
And when your three wishes are gone,
I laugh at your blind guessing.
I am not Rumpelstiltskin.
That's not my name.
And you see, I can no longer spin you a golden room.
And you see, I can no longer walk on water.
And you see.
And you see.
And you see, al I have
are these ruby slippers.
Everyone wants their beauty.
Their magic
that glitters each step.
That glitters each step.
That glitters,
that glitters,
that glitters.
That glitter
that makes you forget
dancing in red shoes
will kill you.
In the Little Town of Bethlehem
"We forsake Our lone luck now,
compelled by bond, by blood,
To keep some unsaid pact;"
-- Sylvia Plath
Three gathered
at the foot of the cradle.
And the north star
shone. A spotlight
as the angel spread
her heavenly wing.
And spoke.
It's a girl.
In the dark
the wisemen nodded.
There would be repercussions.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Hello I'm kalifornia i have about 50 poems and I have been published in cc&d magazine (in 3 different volumes) the common good press (college newsletter) and in the chaperelle (a college newspaper) I also have had over 9,000 views on my poetry on youtube www.youtube.com/kalifornia3333 and 1,800 views on my blog on myspace www.myspace.com/kalifornia3 i have also been on local television doing my poetry.....I hope you enjoy reading my poetry and decide to publish it as others have
Evil Ways
When I first met you I was obsessed
You face, your body and the way that you dressed
You smiled and laughed and gave me stolen candy
You take what you want and use who is handy
A wink and a smile in your catholic school dress
You take their existence and accept nothing less
A boy or a girl whichever you choose
They fall prey to your beauty and that’s when they lose
Their mind, their soul nothing is wasted
I love your stolen candy it’s the best I’ve ever tasted
kalifornia
Kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin Christmas drowning in our excess
presents candy and booze
some of us take an eternal snooze
we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff
when you're opening your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter
when you're butterin you're bread someones blowin off their head
happy birthday asshole thanks for all the hassle
thanks for creating a day when in order to receive love
you have to pay for a present that you can't afford
well you'll get nothing from me cause you're not my lord
but just this once I'll bake a cake
blow out the candles and make a wish
that you were dead and gone and sleep with the fish
then all over this country we'll be able to say
no longer is it your birthday
but just another day
Kalifornia
On The Run
On the run from probation
They don’t know my location
On a permanent vacation
Runnin and gunnin
Gonna get fortune and fame
Get a lawyer and sqaush this shit
I’m not famous yet but I’ll still sign your tit
So hit me up baby pup
You can hide me under your covers
We can be lovers
For a day or so
Then I gotta go
To chase my dream
So I can eat ice cream sprinkled with gold
I sold my soul a long time ago
Now I just wanna know
When’s this shit gonna pay off?
kalifornia
Evil Ways
When I first met you I was obsessed
You face, your body and the way that you dressed
You smiled and laughed and gave me stolen candy
You take what you want and use who is handy
A wink and a smile in your catholic school dress
You take their existence and accept nothing less
A boy or a girl whichever you choose
They fall prey to your beauty and that’s when they lose
Their mind, their soul nothing is wasted
I love your stolen candy it’s the best I’ve ever tasted
kalifornia
Kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin Christmas drowning in our excess
presents candy and booze
some of us take an eternal snooze
we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff
when you're opening your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter
when you're butterin you're bread someones blowin off their head
happy birthday asshole thanks for all the hassle
thanks for creating a day when in order to receive love
you have to pay for a present that you can't afford
well you'll get nothing from me cause you're not my lord
but just this once I'll bake a cake
blow out the candles and make a wish
that you were dead and gone and sleep with the fish
then all over this country we'll be able to say
no longer is it your birthday
but just another day
Kalifornia
On The Run
On the run from probation
They don’t know my location
On a permanent vacation
Runnin and gunnin
Gonna get fortune and fame
Get a lawyer and sqaush this shit
I’m not famous yet but I’ll still sign your tit
So hit me up baby pup
You can hide me under your covers
We can be lovers
For a day or so
Then I gotta go
To chase my dream
So I can eat ice cream sprinkled with gold
I sold my soul a long time ago
Now I just wanna know
When’s this shit gonna pay off?
kalifornia
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Bubble Girl
When she was chosen as McCain's running mate,
As a woman, I wanted her to be more than meets the eye,
Beyond designer glasses and couture duds, attractive enough,
Hopefully not a bubblehead, just not wearing a tie.
But then she opened her mouth, twanging,
The same old stories and zingers repeated,
Not ready for prime time, but full of spunk,
No celebratory dance when she was defeated.
Two years plus, there's no growth and expansion,
Under contract to Fox News and a Facebook Face,
Unwilling to venture beyond safe and secure audiences she can control,
Bubblegirl - how can she seriously think about entering the 2012 Presidential race?
Reality show celebrity, cartoonishly ignoring truth and consequences,
Her video reaction to "Tucson" was far from a verbal nurse,
Take no responsibility, answer no unscripted questions, live in your bubble...
Until...until...it looks like it may have just burst.
Karen Ann DeLuca
When she was chosen as McCain's running mate,
As a woman, I wanted her to be more than meets the eye,
Beyond designer glasses and couture duds, attractive enough,
Hopefully not a bubblehead, just not wearing a tie.
But then she opened her mouth, twanging,
The same old stories and zingers repeated,
Not ready for prime time, but full of spunk,
No celebratory dance when she was defeated.
Two years plus, there's no growth and expansion,
Under contract to Fox News and a Facebook Face,
Unwilling to venture beyond safe and secure audiences she can control,
Bubblegirl - how can she seriously think about entering the 2012 Presidential race?
Reality show celebrity, cartoonishly ignoring truth and consequences,
Her video reaction to "Tucson" was far from a verbal nurse,
Take no responsibility, answer no unscripted questions, live in your bubble...
Until...until...it looks like it may have just burst.
Karen Ann DeLuca
Thursday, January 13, 2011
When I see her my blood burns and pulsates as if the venom from a viper is streamming faster and faster rasing to my heart.
The moster in side overwhelms my thoughts, if not for the eternal love it would consume ever faset of my extence.
How much humanity I have left in this empty shell. My skin may be as hard as marble or stone but my soul is a fragile as and egg left alone.
greg miller
The moster in side overwhelms my thoughts, if not for the eternal love it would consume ever faset of my extence.
How much humanity I have left in this empty shell. My skin may be as hard as marble or stone but my soul is a fragile as and egg left alone.
greg miller
Wilted Petals of a Once Vibrant Rose
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Wilted Petals of a once vibrant rose
Lie restless upon the ground
like the parquet pattern of a ballroom floor.
Shades of pine crisscross the new dew.
The broom will soon undo the grime
The hall again will gleam anew
Last night’s oaths are set to bloom
Amongst the scattered streamers.
zigzagged hearts will soon find out
Beginnings are not easy
And ending’s what’s become of starts.
Portrait of a Terrier and His Old Maid
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Susan Chevere,
Sits atop a sun-sagged bench.
Dampening Chekov asleep in her lap.
Her terrier Anton wanders far off.
“Anton,” she whispers,
with limited breath.
“Anton, my love.”
She pleads to wind.
If not for Anton…
Thoughts start to turn.
If not for Anton,
Her bench goes unfound.
If not for Anton…
No more.
She labors and hassles,
Three legs to his four.
Not fit for hunting,
She remembers a time
Her husband Pierre
With veins in his arms
Held her tight,
Like iron wounding wooden kegs.
Of use no more.
He must be found.
If
By Adam Freeman Pockross
If you were here,
I’d stroke your hair,
Rub my nails along your back.
Make little letters
Upon your mane
Lodge my thumb between your vertebrae.
If you were here,
I’d kiss your ear,
Light lips upon your lobe.
A tongue stroked dab,
Your clavicle.
Guard you against the night.
I’d keep you warm.
I’d hold you close,
Safe from coming doom.
Put a blanket on your feet.
Remove one when you sweat.
I’d fall asleep within your dreams,
And with your fears I’ll wake.
I’ll stir not a motion made.
I’ll bear it for your sake.
I’ll be the bed’s least comfortable,
But I’d sleep better still,
Than the way I’ll have to lay tonight,
Eyes open, dreams of you.
Gush
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Reeling down
A closing corridor,
I hope to stay
Up near the top.
While the weight
That weighs upon me,
Makes me wish
That it could stop.
But it can’t,
And I’m a wreck,
And I sink
Below the line.
And I pray
That’s it’s beyond me,
And that soon
I will not mind.
But the truth
Is now upon me,
And the jets
Begin to well.
And the hopes
That linger in me,
Begin to gush,
Begin to swell.
And the truths
Of who I must be,
Grip tight
Their mighty hold.
Indecision
Not upon me,
My path,
It gleams in gold.
Cause the might,
That lives inside me,
Must take flight,
Cause it won’t hide.
For the right,
That one must live by,
Is the fight,
That just won’t die.
Seeds of Hopeful Ruin in the Dominator’s Plan
By
Adam Freeman Pockross
Our people will mate.
The invader plants his own demise.
Because i must become we.
But a mask of neutral society
Told i,
“Give me your rage,
So i can feel your Joy.”
Don’t paint me.
You’ll make me how i am.
Fuck you
and your globe
and your map.
i am the human race!
Till the tape is crossed.
i’ve seen baby’s boiled.
My own family shot.
So what am i going to do?
Keep walking.
What am i going to feel?
Keep walking.
What am i going to need?
Keep walking.
Keep eating.
i’ve got food.
i’ve got shoes.
Don’t wait for the clouds.
Together we’ll part.
Or we’ll die.
Apart.
Can it be a battle
if it’s only my fight?
If it’s the only sound in the world
And i’m the only one who heard
And i can’t tell where it came from?
Does it matter
if it’s a cry or a laugh?
Walking bravely forward
is not the same as walking blind.
Eliminate your drive,
your safety valve.
Accept your evolution.
Then what?
Beyond tears,
beyond roars,
What?
Just because it’s cultural
Just because they say it’s so
Just because i’m emotional?
And here i thought it was me.
From being alone,
to being with.
The oppressor becomes the oppressed.
Am i a part of the group
or am i a man alone?
Are those the only roles?
What part then is mine?
The hero?
Will you help me?
It could help you survive.
Perhaps.
If the moment of rescue,
becomes
not about come and save me,
but saying I will.
If I’m the only one who gets it,
am i compelled to explain?
Not the end of something
or the beginning.
Through the rage and the pain
And the resistance and the courage
And the joy and the laughter
roaring into rage!
Like the gulf stream,
up and down again.
In the moment of destruction,
is the seed for the next.
Birth, death: synthesis.
Mated and mixed.
The willow branch,
weeping till the end,
Soon makes more fertile ground.
BETWIXT AND ADRIFT
ByAdam Freeman Pockross
NIGHTMARE
Go ahead and sing you fat bitch!
Who’s listening anyways?
Two scoops of fire and brimstone,
Swept up in a rising sea,
Churn about in howling skies,
Improbably filled with glee.
Deep neglect makes me detect,
The blood of a murder spree,
It crafts the clearest picture yet,
Of the possibilities impossibly being.
If it can’t waken the sleepy
Who travel dreams deeply,
To visions of Valhalla
Deep within,
Maybe we heathens need a dose,
Of the might this night can boast?
Set the lamb this pot to roast
Boiled deep in our mortal sin.
What crash of thunder
Can shake foundation’s core?
What’s the wailing wisdom
Thor in heaven has in store?
Do we play a role in this?
Are we pawns in a bigger game?
Do these restless feelings mix?
From all action drained in vein?
What if evil’s reasons
Are the same as for the saved?
If shocked and awed and frightened
Is how we face our graves?
Smack it!
Whip it!
Make me bleed
Make it hurt!
Throw closed my coffin,
Conceal me in dirt.
Too hard to soften,
Been too hard too often,
My soul inside’s coughing
Please God let me rot.
IT WAS ONLY A…
None of it spilt real blood.
It’s all just a symbol
To be thrown out the window,
To be better prepared for the flood.
When the night is done
And the rising sun
Speaks not of the gifts I can give,
Will the rising moon
Go and crest too soon
Cast shadows on a life not mine lived?
If the wind’s not genuine,
If culture’s creations are naturally sin,
Could that dream from my mind’s eye,
Allow me to accept then begin?
So when I wake
In a hazy shade
Of the frightening self
That last night made,
A wrecking ball of all my dreams;
I fear it could be worse.
The sinking sun seems far from set,
So should a wise man meet regret?
If Motion and Moment are really the same
And another sun cannot set?
Will I stay to mock the moon?
Whose damning deeds are done too soon?
May the morn bring back the boon,
If my prayers command an ear.
MIRROR MAKE ME STRONG
Is God in my image or am I in his?
Leave me alone if that’s what it is.
I know not what is right.
Signs and codes are all wrong,
All I’ve got is this night.
And this night seems so long.
Why should you do all the work?
If I’m the one who’s work needs work?
What was I created for,
If every door behind you lurk?
Shouldn’t I be the one doing the saving here?
Or am I too late?
Am I am what I want?
Or am I too late?
Am I just in check?
Or is this checkmate?
Was the threat ever real?
Was the danger so great?
Has it all just been training?
Do I just have to wait?
Will there soon be a test?
Does what I’ve yet done keep me?
Is this all there is to be?
Have I seen all there is to see?
Or are the days now happened
Filled with what’s of worth,
And I forgot to notice?
And I’ll soon be in the earth.
PLEASE LORD LET ME SLEEP
Now, at this late hour,
No other soothing can be sought.
Look back on thinking’s flower,
Cannot suppress the thought.
Have I crossed your heart?
Did you hope to die?
Did I dare to dream?
While you dreamed of me?
Or did I dream it out?
Unfortunately, the Me I see,
Doesn’t look or smell or act like me,
Doesn’t’ care or love or feel like me.
And now I want to wake.
While somehow lost so far within
That with without is how I’ve been,
With no manageable passage,
Rough waters to swim;
So here I wade in doubt.
There’s something deluded,
In all of my lust
When I wake this hour
Somewhere just before dusk.
If I can somehow know the Me,
Just for a moment once more,
Some lost bit of me
Cast from distant dreams of yore?
To dream the dream of Me I see,
To be all the dream said I could be,
Be all the Me that’s been a dream;
A sandbag in the wake of a flood.
Should my wishes be heard this night?
Please Lord let me sleep.
BETWIXT and ADRIFT
And so I drift
And seek again heaven once more.
Seek not what is worth dreaming,
But what’s worth waking for:
The meat is what matters
The core and the heart
The blood and the organs
Without it why start?
Only inside is worth letting out
Only Me’s Maker is ready to shout:
At the other end of waking
On top of abyss
Beyond all forsaking,
On the right side of this,
Expanse is expanding;
Bliss sits adrift in the mist.
Adam Freeman Pockross
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Wilted Petals of a once vibrant rose
Lie restless upon the ground
like the parquet pattern of a ballroom floor.
Shades of pine crisscross the new dew.
The broom will soon undo the grime
The hall again will gleam anew
Last night’s oaths are set to bloom
Amongst the scattered streamers.
zigzagged hearts will soon find out
Beginnings are not easy
And ending’s what’s become of starts.
Portrait of a Terrier and His Old Maid
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Susan Chevere,
Sits atop a sun-sagged bench.
Dampening Chekov asleep in her lap.
Her terrier Anton wanders far off.
“Anton,” she whispers,
with limited breath.
“Anton, my love.”
She pleads to wind.
If not for Anton…
Thoughts start to turn.
If not for Anton,
Her bench goes unfound.
If not for Anton…
No more.
She labors and hassles,
Three legs to his four.
Not fit for hunting,
She remembers a time
Her husband Pierre
With veins in his arms
Held her tight,
Like iron wounding wooden kegs.
Of use no more.
He must be found.
If
By Adam Freeman Pockross
If you were here,
I’d stroke your hair,
Rub my nails along your back.
Make little letters
Upon your mane
Lodge my thumb between your vertebrae.
If you were here,
I’d kiss your ear,
Light lips upon your lobe.
A tongue stroked dab,
Your clavicle.
Guard you against the night.
I’d keep you warm.
I’d hold you close,
Safe from coming doom.
Put a blanket on your feet.
Remove one when you sweat.
I’d fall asleep within your dreams,
And with your fears I’ll wake.
I’ll stir not a motion made.
I’ll bear it for your sake.
I’ll be the bed’s least comfortable,
But I’d sleep better still,
Than the way I’ll have to lay tonight,
Eyes open, dreams of you.
Gush
By Adam Freeman Pockross
Reeling down
A closing corridor,
I hope to stay
Up near the top.
While the weight
That weighs upon me,
Makes me wish
That it could stop.
But it can’t,
And I’m a wreck,
And I sink
Below the line.
And I pray
That’s it’s beyond me,
And that soon
I will not mind.
But the truth
Is now upon me,
And the jets
Begin to well.
And the hopes
That linger in me,
Begin to gush,
Begin to swell.
And the truths
Of who I must be,
Grip tight
Their mighty hold.
Indecision
Not upon me,
My path,
It gleams in gold.
Cause the might,
That lives inside me,
Must take flight,
Cause it won’t hide.
For the right,
That one must live by,
Is the fight,
That just won’t die.
Seeds of Hopeful Ruin in the Dominator’s Plan
By
Adam Freeman Pockross
Our people will mate.
The invader plants his own demise.
Because i must become we.
But a mask of neutral society
Told i,
“Give me your rage,
So i can feel your Joy.”
Don’t paint me.
You’ll make me how i am.
Fuck you
and your globe
and your map.
i am the human race!
Till the tape is crossed.
i’ve seen baby’s boiled.
My own family shot.
So what am i going to do?
Keep walking.
What am i going to feel?
Keep walking.
What am i going to need?
Keep walking.
Keep eating.
i’ve got food.
i’ve got shoes.
Don’t wait for the clouds.
Together we’ll part.
Or we’ll die.
Apart.
Can it be a battle
if it’s only my fight?
If it’s the only sound in the world
And i’m the only one who heard
And i can’t tell where it came from?
Does it matter
if it’s a cry or a laugh?
Walking bravely forward
is not the same as walking blind.
Eliminate your drive,
your safety valve.
Accept your evolution.
Then what?
Beyond tears,
beyond roars,
What?
Just because it’s cultural
Just because they say it’s so
Just because i’m emotional?
And here i thought it was me.
From being alone,
to being with.
The oppressor becomes the oppressed.
Am i a part of the group
or am i a man alone?
Are those the only roles?
What part then is mine?
The hero?
Will you help me?
It could help you survive.
Perhaps.
If the moment of rescue,
becomes
not about come and save me,
but saying I will.
If I’m the only one who gets it,
am i compelled to explain?
Not the end of something
or the beginning.
Through the rage and the pain
And the resistance and the courage
And the joy and the laughter
roaring into rage!
Like the gulf stream,
up and down again.
In the moment of destruction,
is the seed for the next.
Birth, death: synthesis.
Mated and mixed.
The willow branch,
weeping till the end,
Soon makes more fertile ground.
BETWIXT AND ADRIFT
ByAdam Freeman Pockross
NIGHTMARE
Go ahead and sing you fat bitch!
Who’s listening anyways?
Two scoops of fire and brimstone,
Swept up in a rising sea,
Churn about in howling skies,
Improbably filled with glee.
Deep neglect makes me detect,
The blood of a murder spree,
It crafts the clearest picture yet,
Of the possibilities impossibly being.
If it can’t waken the sleepy
Who travel dreams deeply,
To visions of Valhalla
Deep within,
Maybe we heathens need a dose,
Of the might this night can boast?
Set the lamb this pot to roast
Boiled deep in our mortal sin.
What crash of thunder
Can shake foundation’s core?
What’s the wailing wisdom
Thor in heaven has in store?
Do we play a role in this?
Are we pawns in a bigger game?
Do these restless feelings mix?
From all action drained in vein?
What if evil’s reasons
Are the same as for the saved?
If shocked and awed and frightened
Is how we face our graves?
Smack it!
Whip it!
Make me bleed
Make it hurt!
Throw closed my coffin,
Conceal me in dirt.
Too hard to soften,
Been too hard too often,
My soul inside’s coughing
Please God let me rot.
IT WAS ONLY A…
None of it spilt real blood.
It’s all just a symbol
To be thrown out the window,
To be better prepared for the flood.
When the night is done
And the rising sun
Speaks not of the gifts I can give,
Will the rising moon
Go and crest too soon
Cast shadows on a life not mine lived?
If the wind’s not genuine,
If culture’s creations are naturally sin,
Could that dream from my mind’s eye,
Allow me to accept then begin?
So when I wake
In a hazy shade
Of the frightening self
That last night made,
A wrecking ball of all my dreams;
I fear it could be worse.
The sinking sun seems far from set,
So should a wise man meet regret?
If Motion and Moment are really the same
And another sun cannot set?
Will I stay to mock the moon?
Whose damning deeds are done too soon?
May the morn bring back the boon,
If my prayers command an ear.
MIRROR MAKE ME STRONG
Is God in my image or am I in his?
Leave me alone if that’s what it is.
I know not what is right.
Signs and codes are all wrong,
All I’ve got is this night.
And this night seems so long.
Why should you do all the work?
If I’m the one who’s work needs work?
What was I created for,
If every door behind you lurk?
Shouldn’t I be the one doing the saving here?
Or am I too late?
Am I am what I want?
Or am I too late?
Am I just in check?
Or is this checkmate?
Was the threat ever real?
Was the danger so great?
Has it all just been training?
Do I just have to wait?
Will there soon be a test?
Does what I’ve yet done keep me?
Is this all there is to be?
Have I seen all there is to see?
Or are the days now happened
Filled with what’s of worth,
And I forgot to notice?
And I’ll soon be in the earth.
PLEASE LORD LET ME SLEEP
Now, at this late hour,
No other soothing can be sought.
Look back on thinking’s flower,
Cannot suppress the thought.
Have I crossed your heart?
Did you hope to die?
Did I dare to dream?
While you dreamed of me?
Or did I dream it out?
Unfortunately, the Me I see,
Doesn’t look or smell or act like me,
Doesn’t’ care or love or feel like me.
And now I want to wake.
While somehow lost so far within
That with without is how I’ve been,
With no manageable passage,
Rough waters to swim;
So here I wade in doubt.
There’s something deluded,
In all of my lust
When I wake this hour
Somewhere just before dusk.
If I can somehow know the Me,
Just for a moment once more,
Some lost bit of me
Cast from distant dreams of yore?
To dream the dream of Me I see,
To be all the dream said I could be,
Be all the Me that’s been a dream;
A sandbag in the wake of a flood.
Should my wishes be heard this night?
Please Lord let me sleep.
BETWIXT and ADRIFT
And so I drift
And seek again heaven once more.
Seek not what is worth dreaming,
But what’s worth waking for:
The meat is what matters
The core and the heart
The blood and the organs
Without it why start?
Only inside is worth letting out
Only Me’s Maker is ready to shout:
At the other end of waking
On top of abyss
Beyond all forsaking,
On the right side of this,
Expanse is expanding;
Bliss sits adrift in the mist.
Adam Freeman Pockross
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