Black Listed Magazine

I have a poem published in Black-Listed Magazine



 love of a nihilist asshole by martin leonard freebase

WITH A PUSH

Talent for abuse
the gradual finds value
throwing off the trouble.
Peccadilloes with a savvy
sitting in the narrow circle
was not too averse.
One hundred
and twenty five degrees
with a push.
Become something again
mounts up stride by stride
driving off the cliff.
We land on the other side
a little scratched up
but, no worse the wear.
Alienated from existential lethargy
rip and tear at the threads
loyal to the argument.
Locking into one another
the hours were several
outside howls the wind.
Out of December
we pay homage
to little obscurities.
To his bones
inevitable cascade
intensified deeds.
At the sour change
shake the shadow
of the early.

Throbbing

you swallow up the oblivion

the glass of shrouded thicket

cuts into the dismal past

like new murdered thoughts

the crows stroke the foam

they watch as it comes

topless twirls all girl

all cry and fingers

wrapped around the taunt

drifting undulation

a communion of thigh and chime

pouring chariot frenzy

you are a deadly marionette

a red smile of addiction

chosen closed window

your tendency of compromised snippets

begins with a long dead god

at his feet are the oppressed

and we choose to stand apart

to break free from your rules

they no longer guide us

we have found them to be filled with error

and misunderstanding

only a fool would enslave himself to such stupidity

your charms have no effect

see the sword in my hand

I will cut you in two

send you running to your mother

she waits for you in the darkness

crawl back into her womb

and make a home of flesh and fear

these two shall rule you

as you dwell in the underbelly

that white pinkish flesh

of morbid self-fascination

the handle of doom

is hot when you take it
fresh off the stove
searing the skin

cat smiles like a serial killer
with the mocking bird mouth
well groomed for supper

smoke rises up from the tinfoil
matchstick and methamphetamine
lips still plastered

pushing it away, an illusion
more interesting with a monkey
that sucks out your soul

through a little straw
with red and blue stripes
and flexible at one end

splitting atoms on a rising moon
sitting in the kitchen
until way past two

monkey feet in the window
drinks his scotch the right way
no water and scratches his crotch

shits where he pleases
pushes it in the corner
with his blue hairy foot

he believes in women
who admire his pants
come stains on his shoes

they have smooth bodies
that he collects on a shelf
he eats them
with a mockingbird mouth
never pays no mind
smells like muskmelon

he can smell them
with his one blind eye
his cane can find the opening

Dissected

seamlessly blended
slowly gliding
fall like flashes
reveals your anger
and joy
your power has limits
no utopian goodness
it’s ironic salvation
dissected in the dish
so smooth and mellow
aged like bourbon
in a burned barrel
life and vitality
a warrant at the door
the hungry partner
rich with secrets
elbowed hard
back to life
irresistible breaking out
the curious gather
around the fire
made out of anguish
sprouting up like seedlings
irritated by the odd
accepted by the fading
the sun goes down
around your ankles
working out the bizarre
encapsulating it all
within the cold stare
the green sponsor
pours the beer
Capitalist Reichstag
on F street
hip hop wars
throwing out rhymes
pronouns bleeding
in the streets
blood on your carpet
the Mercedes rolls
this took a turn
you couldn’t predict
your cards given away
to pay the bills
for Homer’s adventures
I came across a friend
who once was a monster
now he sells betting tips
at the track
and lives with his mother
the lost boys never grow up

The Wind Blows

the ghost swings over
of dreams, no more below
but still and bottom landing
broken down and off the wheel
about the road where goats pass
and when they bleat, Jacob’s ladder
wrestling with the angel, shot dead
Lazarus from the tomb . . . spills out
The scroll’s telling tale, “he is dead”
flowers planted long ago
comes between you and me
in the dim moonlight a shaggy head
in this barn a boy
a girl with crows eyes
a nest for life
the drumming and dancing
to believe the sight
a moment of glowing rise
hard footed was the land
the old man now appears
fists like hammers

voices flutter like in a dream
throwing down the runes
setting on the morning
the hands of time
asking for the dish
a bowl for the proper
the name upon his lips
as death grows around him
the splash of cold

the son a reflection
across the plains
a fur of pitch

his hand upon the plow
trusting in the horse
moving the memories

into the unknown
once again
a new generation
as the fence posts tilt
and resist the wire
the wind blows

You Know the Green

walk softly on the spongy foam
beneath the trembling sharks
they sleep and dream
the elm tree tattoo on her back is a planet
it splits from lighting into a devil
sitting under the glowing embers
of the old man’s pipe
the angel never there
each blade a heaven for the wings
the banker’s arm with fluttered eyes
there is an angry dog
wild circles of each pupil, the message of flame
Roman’s trying to catch
prescription for all this
and none at the same time
a young child’s song
gathering moss
don’t let the day grow old
without the rim of vigor
sin soaked golden rays
for the mercy of it all
she wonders on the why
and wherefore
the man who tells her
sexy as the skin
was a beggar and not a lover
she drinks in the hollow
as Morpheus laughs
about whores, drunks, and winos
shirttails all out with fortune
when Pan played his flute
she stares down the road
the fire of glory in her head
dirt, a field of dreams and scarecrows
a smile that brings you down
in furrows

web

Spin the web of intoxication,
the desperate grow tired of heaven,
once more justice is bought with blood,
we give birth to the revolution.

The dead can never be replaced,
you utter words of hope,
as you come to grips,
with your shame and wrath.

It would be different if we were free,
occasionally you become flooded with hope,
wicked dance of disillusion,
she circles the wagons.

In the aftermath of horror,
we find a separate peace,
a stoic grasp on the future,
claws scratching against the wall.

I sit with her every night,
we are brave souls,
constantly retreating,
from scar shaped futures.

Following justice,
her gentle ironic voice,
tales of fabricated invention,
we are never far from the past.

We gaze soulfully,
into each other’s eyes,
sturdy beaten-earth walls,
small against the backdrop.

Our faces crumpled,
like the morning paper,
laying in a heap on the floor,
we all come alone.

Standing between two worlds,
feet firmly upon the shoulders,
the snake swallows its tail,
we unite the opposites.

She piles the stones up to heaven,
a landmark to show us the way,
driving us over the edge,
a constant spinning top.

We conjure up the past,
a sense of déjà vu,
she glues the little pieces,
back together again.

Bael (Babbling Ghost #1)

She buries the dead under a tree of learning/ blood red and simple/ the second angel’s sound/ waiting for the touch/ the touch of distraction/ it swoops down from the opening/ swallowing you up in minutes/ we gaze upon the body/ torn asunder/ bleeding among the rocks/broken like your promises/ the dust caresses my soul/ against the tide/ picked up within/ crouching down with evil stance/ watching this dying thing/ a very spiritual strange/

she hears the devil talking/ even as we speak in the shadows and whispers/ she never tells/ her story is this place/ it took me so long to find out/ to discover the roots and branches/ the truth behind your story/ to watch it flower and open up/ a wild child running in the streets/ running against the blue/ the hell and high water/your boundaries uncertain/ running back and forth/ howling in rapture/

the walls come crashing down/ a small puff of smoke/ you want to be free/ you try using the square pegs/ the square pegs belong to me/ I have the bill of sale/ see here is your signature written in your own blood/ I paid you 400 dollars/ and now you want to buy the horse/ I remind you that the pale horse brings only death/ you say you don’t care/ the pale horse is what you want/ you cry and pout/ stamp your feet in the dust/ demanding that your rights be recognized/ you say it is cruel of me to deny you this right/ you spew molten hot air/ this all seems too real/ too real to hang on/

shackled to the stone/ wrought iron desire/ holding back/ trying to separate the torn and fallen/ half broken and forgotten/ the other disgust/ they wait for a passion that never comes/ never knocks on your door/ you believe in the lonely people/ the dregs who follow after/ you read the papers looking for a sign/ a black cat to tell you the future/ we have seen this before/ it happens over and over like a repeating cycle/ the piston pumping up and down forcing the air out/ I’m forcing you out/ out into the world/ in the land of machines/ that rust and sputter against the landscape of man/

life cruel and unfair/ I can’t find/ nowhere/ nowhere I look/ it hides from me/ the secret I can’t unravel/ it is locked and without a key/ face down in the mud/ I don’t know the words/ I can’t believe/ can’t make the clouds pass over/ I hold back and never reveal/ what I know/ what I discovered/ I take down to the grave/ to the abyss/ I make my home in darkness/ suffering is my friend/ the soul that follows me along/ sitting on the porch/ sitting on the stone/ watching the waves come in/ there are seagulls flying around/ the salty air of despair/ the crimes of a fool/ lost in a world of strangers/

© Deep Piercing Cut 2009

Bael was previously published in Calliope Nerve http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/

My book Babbling Ghosts can be found here:

Babbling ghosts