Rambling Woman BluesAll my biscuits are broken,
and I'm eating the crumbs.
Sometimes you just take it
any way that it comes.
Oh, my baby is rambling,
and I can't track her down.
It's three weeks tomorrow
since she rolled out of town.
And I know she's a good girl
and she won't do me wrong,
but the days are so empty
and the nights are too long.
I ate all the oysters
and I'm down to the shells.
You know we all do things
that none of us tells.
And my best friends are tired
of me singing the blues -
well, if I told the truth, friends,
I'd say I'm tired too.
But I need a companion
when I get so lowdown.
When my friends say, "Good night, Slim,"
the blues stick around.
When my baby gets back here,
I will send them away.
I'll say, "Thanks for your time, blues,
I don't need you today."
Every cat has its whiskers,
every dog has its day.
When your baby is rambling,
got to see it that way.
Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessertLambchops and Razorblades3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;
with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things
Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;
with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering things that were tomorrows
with hollowness, vertigo, stitches-rending pain.
AwakeCracked an eye;Awake3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
still a smooth blanket of dark.
Pebbles rolled and fell behind.
Glue unstuck, the pebbles reached
the brain and sang, scooting
across a nicotine urge,
Urination, caffination, nicotine-ization.
The inner chittering and chattering,
never still, loud and
Screeching sirens for the pebbles
to bound against.
Constructioni built a manConstruction4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue and shuffling
suitcase body on
blood and bones
i built a man
hands with eyes
feet with teeth
sleeping standing up
i built a man
BewareIt takes a calm earBeware4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
to hear a fortune teller
without self deceit.
Die Slowlyi'm tired of breaking up with meaning - she's as cageless and unfaithfulDie Slowly4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
as a life full of grace and hope and so am i, it seems.
i wear your unspoken wish as a dark clasp: the gleam of scales to abrade
the color-paper walls of your chest, thumbs pressing for your sweet dissolution
and open arms for the maniacal hysteria of a sad child's chaos machine
in a twist of hungry prongs that twirl your limbs into a vein wreath.
here, i was built to plunge your delusive dream back into the black hood;
i know it's blind and cruel as a storm, my dear;
dumbly, the grey weight of you will burst without a cloud
and the hellfire left cooling in your eyes will unbalance the galaxy
and gravities will rain your days back into a bottomless hollow.
perhaps i'm just an interloper, a demon trail running from each disaster
to feed a fetish for broken smiles.
quiet barbwire walls
sit and rust with no dispute
Summer, die slowly
Blackbird Pupilsdont look at meBlackbird Pupils5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with those eyes
bluebird green and hazel-ache
mine, already hollowed out
and daily leak-
i cannot bear your
youd see all those wax demonshades
youd know the clockworks run
i read some other poet,
his words were blackice bludgeoners, soundless suturing socket spikes, hammergods, each one,
the last cicada to flee the moult.
but he hasnt the orbs to ruin me.
almost no one has
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.Recession3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.
Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.
A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
DrownBlackness at three AMDrown3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
GrappleGrapple with my brain in flamesGrapple3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Wrestle limb from trunk, and popeyed
Head spins, gasoline ignites incantations
Sweet relief is in another eye somewhere
Else, far away fuzzy, the war's in here
And mad crows work the cogs of revelations
Hurry on now, we can't last (long), not in all this
Up and gone, the winter's sock is on
The doorknob, the blackout of sensations
Sell your dreams to the man in back for
Two dollars and an old fruithat, but
Trenchcoat dreams aren't up for presentations
Goodbye and gone, we travel now in
Two different planes, ash and snowcapped bone
(I never meant for us to rhyme in my expectations)
RepressionPsychotrophies were hung high on his wall,Repression4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
embellished with early morning polish
and the promise of recovering lost dreams-
which danced, dredged and drugged
His body was dragged out with the moon,
hung in fishnets and dried
in splashes of memories.
It is a young tide now, the identity
erodes as he washes ashore,
amongst the bodies of Hippocamps
and the detritus of old Mr Alzheimer;
who used to collect bottlecaps
and store them in a box inside his garage,
whose green doors are rusted with salt-water,
the jade drained to iron, and stuck.
Eventually he swims back to the horizon
and drowns to forget; as he awakens
to the sounds of screaming birds,
Their avian sirens echoing in through
the silken curtains, accompanied by the first
light of morning and the dull taste of plaque.
18After midnight, as my home's dreams183 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sifted apurpose through the floorboards,
I found paint and tiredness stowed in the
way-back of the kitchen cupboard. You
might have told me you were hungry
skywritingThey say that in the ancient daysskywriting4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
writing on sky was commonly done
And yet in these old modern times
we no longer write, but simply haze.
pale moonshine lustre lost in dullest grey
how I wish that we descendents
had still some beautiful words to say
to write within
the untouchable sky
MiracleYou said Jesus knows my soulMiracle4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is yellow as this road;
and the boats in the channel
keep my head clear
while I watch him
drown my sister's dog again.
He calls it baptism -
a miracle of science.
He says I do not need a calendar
or a parent's love
to find Him
on the weak and narrow
and that solace
is a good, strong bread
left in the poor box
every Sunday morning.
But I like to pretend
He keeps his Dodge 57
on my lawn,
turning up the daisies.
We can drive it
all the way to Memphis
on one tank of gas...
tinyA tiny aeroplane flutterhums through the liberty of the sky.tiny4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Quiet sky of autumn or of spring.
Nothing is more lonely or more beautiful.
I am there, looking out on random forms.
PriestI was a gardener.Priest4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I made art, then didn't.
I built churches, then didn't.
My habit is to leave and
To learn and forget.
Watching plants grow,
my new religion.
All honor and glory is yours.
I am a capricious priest.
I am not a poet.
Fat slatherings of extraneous
words, vague and gaseous.
Build it of masonry.
Post and beam.
Spare me Versailles.
Your Typical Love StoryI'm alone, you knowYour Typical Love Story4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all I've got is this
heartbeat in my hip and it's sipping time
from the tock of the ticking clock on the wall adjacent to the
a few filthy innuendos are serving themselves some of my pie,
and a mob of zombie liars are rioting (rotting) on my doorstep.
and what am I to say?
'make yourself at home'?
back to Multiplicationstifling,back to Multiplication4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
oxygen is a scandal
just off your lips
new like the world
but less like traffic--
has no one told you we're an artist
dying for a brush of red,
wet on our bones like a
[keep it fresh, keep us here]
stack me up, i'm a library--
burn me down and breathe me in
ashes to the wind
is a dirty joke,
you will never fly
[how is your head, dear?]
praying for a prelude,
prolonging paragraphs of
perhaps we are beautiful,
and love, we are quite
I Arrive, Unseen On His BackRain hardens on my cold skinI Arrive, Unseen On His Back4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as I wait in a dead grove
for the solstice.
Years have passed.
Rain and thick ice crack
when I take my yearly breath.
I stretch, glacial carvings
fall from my back,
hidden quests and cinders
of the fire are buried
where I sit.
This year I move
with majestic grace.
Prometheus was bound to my back,
years ago I bore him, a tiny spark
and wore his daily blood.
Vulture claws scarred my shoulders,
chains hardened my muscles,
bearing an errant god fired my passion.
I moved from that place,
but the marks are still with me,
the passage of another age.
I seek a new god and travel the darkest hours
to a silent grove, where a child
sits and mourns his world.
I arrive, unseen on his back,
a stone he carries home, washes nightly,
and eventually throws long down the river.
Years later he will understand
the mark I left on him.
A weight on his back, a burden
to remind him of humility
and the need for gods.
Willing FleshFlesh the means, spirit the end,Willing Flesh3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yet still the unintended. While deep
embedded in the pulsing rhythms
of the body's routine life, it transcends
physicality, flourishing in realities
never imagined before. Spirit is the key
to unlock the heavy door, to make
the great discovery of joy.
HummingbirdLifting my heartHummingbird4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Over a wall
To feel the rough
Stone of it
At the top
I see that
You have turned
Your eyes are smoke
Your storm cloud
Rains on my wall
Beating like a
Impressionistcigarette smokeImpressionist4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
above the billiard
the patrons in
bar talk of
art and ass
out of the studio
into the streets
into the fields
but for now...
Toulouse and Paul
in a smokey corner
pick up the
YOUI have run from your dense star,YOU4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but have no velocity to escape.
I had you confused with
the buddhas in the middle of the Interstate.
Confused with the misologists
poisoning my water and
searing my eyes shut with corporate branding irons.
That is not you.
You are still camped in
my field of lavender
waiting for my wounds to stitch.
You are patient.
You are not a shrill voice.
You are not on the Interstate.
You are in my heart.
You are as strong as love
and elusive as humility.
Because you breathe,
ENGLISHThe English languageENGLISH4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
With variety and flair
Saying the same thing
With words to spare
Words spelled exactly alike
Completely different meanings
O English, you tricky bastard
With your schizophrenic leanings
You my native tongue
With my fellow ex-colonials
All English speaking
With their own style colloquial
Twanging and drawling
Each their own peculiar way
Of contracting and ya'lling
O English I salute you
Your plethora of verbiage
Spoken the world over
I pay you "homiage"