Tag: Punk Poetry

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the year i carried a copy of ferlinghetti’s book poetry as insurgent art like a pentecostal carries and twists their bible

i
i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
thoughts of kissing me
sleep on disreputable futons
show up at hotel room doors
unexpectedly
.

just about the time
one of my gods said
i was coming close to my
howl
.

but i’m nowhere in proximity
.
upping the ante is perhaps required
my addictions too mitigated by motherhood
and the yolk of practicality
.

i’m not lesbian enough
i’m not disenfranchised
i’ve never been to france
i’ve never given anyone a hand job for a grant
ted hughes has not yet abandoned me
.

Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

hay and apples

sunday is my 36th birthday
so i find myself looking down
into my arms
wondering
why i’m still carrying this shit around

see
today is fucking friday
and fridays are for freedom
they’re for setting fire to people
who deserve a good burning

all my rotten wood is collected
moments of chocolate covered regret
soured creamy feelings
and behavior patterns more injurious
than self mutilation

the gas can in my hand

trusty zippo in the other
ready to take flight

your army will be driven into the sea

i will eat your war

i will eat your god beliefs

i will eat your evil

i will eat your rules

i will eat your academic snobbery

and still have time

to eat some pussy

Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

punk theory

ran kate chopin
up my arm
late last night

the storm
inside my head
outside my window
caused the rafters to rage

i fell into a red lampshade trance

remembering his words
wall leaning
he never leaned over
to whisper
about going on tour

“Anywhere but New York. We can never go to New York.”

“Why?”

“I’ll shoot heroin and never come back…”

my eyes fell silent as my lips called a guy about booking Cleveland

he smiled

as the clash flew off the turntable dropping spanish bombs

Categories
Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

to my brother off dying in the war

there is no poetry
in what might have been

the affliction you suffer
is the retribution
of your outraged nature

your rebellion
is plotting to burn
it’s well polished shelf

please know
there is no pill to remedy
a life slipping by unlived

no syringe of dreams
potent enough
to run warming peace up your veins

you are the merciful god
who will end the torture
within the pit

sublime discontent
transmuted into chapters of ink
will be your salvation

and the will to build a door