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placebo [14 Sep 2006|09:13pm]

sharh
I - (sex pig)

italk n italk
n
mahwordsruntogether

iputalittle
chowinmahbelly
n
itcomebackup

ibelookinround
n
ahpertythang
comewalkinby

talkintome
buticanthear
won’gawd’amn
thangshesaid

cuz

someonesblood
ispumpinthrewme

n

someonesthought
isthinkinthrewme

n d’ahl’tellyouwut

itaintmine
nosir

maam
yahmusthaveme
mistakenfer
someonesober
n
ihopeitsyer
husband


II - (jiveturkey)

an’whaddya’know

iwantcha
tahfuckmah

yessir.

y’all
knowbout
thefinerthangs n life

poon-tahng n whiskay

ah’dun’needtah
talkboutem.

helloperty
ibet
youain’t
beenbull’rah’din
inalongtime

lez’gogit
shait’faced n
findus
ahotelroom

ah’schwear
you’llgit
paidt’morrow


III - (with apologies to mr cummings)

whoinventedthewheel
butlefthiskeysintheignition
hedunno’ah’stolehiscar
hedunno’ah’beendrankinhis’jay’dee
guess’ahm’gonnago’a’crashin
thruthat’there’tellyphonepole
cause’ah’beenspeakinhis
gobbletygook
n
ahdont’thankhegonnabetoohappy
whenhefindsout
ah’knockeduphisdaughter



(world outside of closet, i present you my skeletons; i think this might be my favoritest. circa 2001)
sketched

#8 (final attempt) [26 May 2005|03:32pm]

sharh


the painter of the sky learns syntax -
typographical auroras
punctuate the canvas.
1 pen sketched

a small man in the horizon of dreams [09 May 2005|06:20pm]

radiotower
they say that if you dream about someone
who has died, it means they need prayers.









i know this isn't a poem.
but i needed somewhere to put it.




& the sighing, defeated mumble
of the sunset
sketched

stuff [24 Apr 2005|07:14pm]

radiotower
[ mood | odd ]

most of these are untitled.  some of these are ravings.  most of them are inspired by the backwater drownedness of new england coastal towns, like something coughed up & left there to rot.  they are mostly unedited & verbatim from the notebook which is kinda messy & crabbed from the train ride home.

[one] - "train"

the countryside burns by in polaroids of
rusted bridges & roofs,
the latter dotted with small,
reflective pools of rain, where
the vain sky attempted to create
a mirror, but somehow failed

it is & had been a perilous journey
filled with deafness & terror,
soaking in the paranoia of
unseen suited men,
like sweat

you will take this train,
and you will find yourself
crossing rivers made of tar
and you will see fog at
the borders of everything,

& when the batteries on your CD player
fail,
you will hear the forced, tinny static
of everyone else's heartbeat

it distances you from yourself,
like a stranger standing in the doorway
& the blueclad houses whirl by,
uncaring

tree to tree, faster -
a solemn journey of back & forth
is all anything is.


[two] - "more train thoughts"

trains make me sad.
an unutterable slow weariness
like an impatient acceptance
that we could be going faster -
but we won't.

& though everything whips by so fast,
it goes too slow.


[three] - "wolf lake"

i have seen the wolfheaded boys
with their sad faces disfigured
by a red quickening of blood & light,
their ears plugged with rocknroll
they travel at seventy mph
outpacing sleeksilver trains
that rumble like crazed worms
through the body of the wilderness -
they boys on paws & claws
snarl out by lakesides
violent & violet like demons
or ghosts,

a flickerquick movement of eye
before blending back into the
swampy tarn.

birds above like two parts of a god,
& the third is descending rapidly
to earth,
for open, slavering jaws
these slavishly slavic sneers
darkened jaws with rough furstubble
& pricked eyes.
their spines rigid & lanky as they
lope in bad day wildernesses,
panting in killthrill


[three] - "vocam lupes"

oh you the darkling girls of May,
shivering in torn black dresses -
the last daughters of kings whose
queens grew jealous in the
last weeks of April
& tossed them from towers
on nights when the voices of wolves
echoed from the mountains.

their eyes are the guileless blank
of newborn babes,
& their laughs as high as wellplayed flutes.
this one's thumb has been cut off
but a small flower now grows
from the stump,
& this one's heart pumps tar
instead of blood -
but all find their cold little white hands
like vines around the others',
wrapping & clinging
for the days of a harlot babylon
to slide grimly into a
sticky, unvarnished night of ruin


[four] - "this ruin America"

THIS RUIN
SHEETED IN
DUBIOUS FOG

we call this country Death now
instead of America -
under the sky it is
glowing feverishly, as if irradiated
by the electric heart
that now beats under the
whispering cornfields
somewhere north of
Muncie, Indiana.
trees grow into sickleshapes now,
bent old wooden hags
instead of reaching proudly into sky's
infinite attic -
each blade of grass glistens
with the blood of bare soles
and children sit on the asphalt
screaming,
clutching at their ankles

mothers die unrequited
plunging from bridges
with their nightgowns
billowing around them, like
drowned orchids as they
hit water

fathers straighten ties & smiles
as fog rolls in like a
loose bedsheet over the
growling harbors, &
every summer home on the beach
burns down in a coughing fit
of fire & smoke.

he smiles kindly & sits down next to me,
explaining
i'm sorry son
but it had to be this way,
he fixes my uniform, kneels,
& reties my shiny black combat boots.

the wrinkles i gain from this war
will prove i am a
living work of origami,
discarded when i was folded so much
that i ripped
& bled.


[five] - "replacement"

a replacement for
your absent heart
only cost me
$9.95 at the drugstore,
in the form of
empty needles &
a vacant, polished smile
from the pharmacologist.


[six] - "drunk"

this is he who sits
lustrous & drinking
like a depressed angel
on vacation from eternity.
invisible wings tatter by the second,
with each adam's-apple bobbing gulp,
the insane & libidinous
lechery of beer

3 pens sketched

[05 Apr 2005|02:23am]

radiotower
there are huge knots
in the fabric of spacetime tonight,
tangled like sheets in the windwhipped trees,
questions asked feebly to a great unknown
become addressed to the bowl of the toilet

& in between some of it,
there is the crazy cackle of some
time-manipulating witch

---

once upon a time the moon
was a sad-faced child left alone outdoors
and the sky took pity on him and drew him
up to her eternal nightblue breast, and there
the sad orphan took suck & became so
enamoured of his new position that he remained.

that's a glittery way of saying goodnight
she said, the dazzling smile
dripping off the right corner of her mouth.
it's full of debt & deceit, she said.
promises you can't fulfill.

i said with a wave of my hand, the stars delighting,
i have told you this and more & besides
even if i had not said a word you would
have noticed the uncertain suckling sound
of the moon lost in the middle of the sky

i would tell you more but i will stop at this.

---

some hold the earth down with their feet
when they walk, they are extra-sure
about the positioning of each step,
adhering the invisible bulging fractures
with their secure step.  their foreheads
are rumpled & creased with the overnight sadness
of a thankless job,
the sort that wouldn't appear in the
newspapers,
or featured on the 6pm news.

they are fathers & brothers & orphans
determined, but failing -

everything is blowing up beneath us
anyway
sketched

[03 Apr 2005|10:44pm]

radiotower
huge, gouting knots of anger
spilling out of his mouth like vomit.
he is vomiting up a rope of rage
and it lays in messy coils on the floor,
limp, ragged & useless.

---

clouds like mailmen
delivering the vengeful tears
of those you loved
to your cheeks

---

woke up in the morning
coughing up orange juice,
woke up in the evening
choking on the moon

---

these are indications of
a life unused
like the magazines in the mailbox, unread
or the newspapers, still unfolded
on the front steps.

this is an example
of a mouth kept closed
and eventually sewn up,
the stitcher rolling their eyes as if
exasperated at the misuse of
such a useful organ

and so i am surprised again
by your utter insincerity -
how it drips off of you when
you step back into the house
as if from a rainstorm.

i should not be so surprised.
you leave invisible puddles of
self-loathing behind you when you walk,
and i am forever bending down behind you
to mop them up with my bare hands.
sketched

something. I WANT TO WRITE POETRY AGAIN GODDAMNIT [01 Apr 2005|03:16am]

radiotower
[ mood | pretty good, despite. ]

[i'm really sad that i have to get high to write good poetry anymore.  i hate gorham maine.  they all said it was a rotting place.  i didn't believe them until the contagion spread to my heart like roots off a tree around a rock in the ground.  i guess it happens.  i hope i can find where i'm meant to go.]



i.
sending smoke signals &
waving hand semaphore
to guide you through the sea of the night

ii.
the fruit of the night sky
is somehow plum,
the giggling wetness of summer
trapped in a rainstorm
downpouring in the cavern of your mouth

iii.
i think the stars
make the same delicate noise
as white piano keys
gently played in a nocturne

iv.
as i watch a shred of evening cloud
catch itself on the treetops,
the sound of a footstep on gravel
convinces me that my ear has interpreted
the sound of the invisible giant woman's dress
ripping

v.
she will play chopin only in rainstorms
and her eyes are the color of clouds
before a hurricane.
i have never seen the smooth, pale
beaches of her cheeks
eroded by even a drizzle of tears.  those
windowpanes have never been streaked
with even a single raindrop.

in the evenings she likes to sit out
on the veranda while the sun plunges
from its daily carouse into the
soft blank bed of the horizon.  she smiles
anciently, like this is all a scene
she's watched a million times before.

in a thunderstorm the lightning provides
the timpani thunder for her piano performance.
loud & then soft,

and the fading music of the sonata
like a disturbed curmudgeon in an old folks' home
gently returning to sleep.

vi.
the lanternlight is slowly vanishing into the
dark trees by the forest line,
with the man & his golden eyes.
i think he is the fairy king & this
backyard is on the path to his barrow hill home.

every night he tiptoes by, lamplight swinging
as we sit inside, mutely eating dinner
and avoiding each others' eyes.

later my mother washes dishes alone
by the dim, golden-brown light over the sink.
she doesn't lift her head,
or she'd see it,
too.


(you're supposed to go out with a bang but i kinda piddled out at the end there.  sorry.  i meant to find a good juxtaposition between the faded 50s family dinner postcard norman rockwell type thing and the slinking magic of another world just beyond the sliding glass door, in the twisty, wiry, dark backyard woods ... pin it against a dysfunctional portrait, sort of.  but i failed due to lack of inspiration or motivation.  EFFEXOR will "fex" it!  we'll see.  thanks for reading.)

2 pens sketched

[19 Feb 2005|09:48am]
bret191
late night love affair with my alcohol
rereading lines of times new roman passion we wrote each other
this is our openly secret tryst
i told you that i fancied you
you just smiled and said
---most boys do
naked wrapped in sheets
you asked what caused my nervousness
i said it was you, you who made my palms sweat
you reached down and enveloped them to see if they were moist
we both laughed because passion is always wet.
sketched

I AM ANGST [13 Feb 2005|02:33am]

radiotower
[ed. note: this is possibly the worst thing i've ever written.  if you feel the same, tell me. i like honesty.]

there is gore on the sidewalks
of the road -
festering intestines,
long stiff fingers,
groping for another hand to touch &
not to mention
a sighing, disembodied
mouth -

these are the pieces of me
run over by the car
you were driving
on the way to my heart.
2 pens sketched

[12 Feb 2005|01:55am]
bret191
i haven't seen the moon
from your skies for months
And in four months i have missed the way the atlantic
laps at its shores like some beast would

i've lost the polaroids of you
in the evening gowns,
the ones that kissed your hips when you lamented

there is no longer the waterfall of your tears
its now just a flow of whiskey
the ebbing; from this glass to my throat
so on
yet so forth

you've made it a blur,
this having lost you
everything but those coin released memories of you

they dance round and round my eyes

as if it were some cheap carnival or fair
and me riding this bottled horse as your quivered images litter the walls

you've kept my life a circus and now all are but some
bill
folded

customers.
2 pens sketched

alcoholic. [12 Feb 2005|02:22am]

radiotower
[ mood | critical. ]

[ed. note: yeah, it has a disclaimer.  fucked if i know or care.]

his symphony is primarily
the sound of glasses
half-full of vodka
tipping over,

and hitting the floor.

the squelch of liquid
spreads out connivingly
across the floorboards,
whispers accompanied
by the beginning of his tinkling laughter
like things shattering,
and

giggles up to
the ceiling,
a waterfall in backward motion,
heard less than felt:

(& her eye quivers gently
releasing an
applause of tears.)

1 pen sketched

[10 Feb 2005|10:17pm]
bret191
why is it that
in these dusky noired nights the
caverns of my
body
tremble--

with want.
the subtleties of this aching scarred
ventricle.
some
thing
besides a bottle to
grasp.
anything but this choking feeling when i swallow.

this
isn't
a
poem.
its putrid colored bile,
spat onto the corner of a brown grocery bag,
backed up from my acid lined throat.
and it spills into the
tips of these
forlorn fingers.
You-
i once called my sickness.
and You-
the reason for this liquid quest of a cure i pursue at all hours.
like an orphaned child who's lips constantly play
with the thought of his mother's name.
but its always been me.
this dark lazarus.
my internal memnock bereft with this lulling hatred.
for no one
and everyone
that i am.

every gesture i fake
every word i steal
even these dictionary ripped words.


its all a photocopy




I'm a god damned photocopy.
5 pens sketched

the second ice age approacheth ! [08 Feb 2005|10:46am]

radiotower
[ mood | howitzer. ]

this is a season of strange dreaming.
the skies are black.
birds fly north to south
cawing the musical scale
as though they are
the only ones who can remember it.
silence falls like
nuclear snow.

it rains in one city only,
and the only words spoken
are questions - no answers.
his eyes overflow with
blankness.
her wringing hands
sprout sudden ash-colored flowers.

(& in the constant background,
there is a threatening rumble)

sketched

[07 Feb 2005|09:23pm]
bret191
Soft yellow glow,
that firey cinnamon scent.
your tongue dances across the stage of your lips,
and you look at me through that soft dark jungle of hair.

i lean in
my arrid nervous lips
cuddle
with your ear.

" I mean this,.....sincerely...."
you flash me that smile,
crooked tooth, just on the left of your mouth.

like golden leaves falling
your
fingers
trapse their way to the cold steel of my belt.

---- it would have been easier to crack my chest and gut my lungs

if thats all you wanted.
3 pens sketched

my first post, thank you chris... [07 Feb 2005|09:05pm]
bret191
invisible hands shape my
drapes in the wind.
prozac or
adderol?
tears for fears of broken
lovers...
put the batteries in but all she does is shake.
empty bottle rage or
internet confessed angst

I phoned you:
and said
" meet me where the street lights blink for days
and its always night"

we walked the double line holding hands.
you brought the cure and i brought the disease.
A bottle of mr. Daniel's finest
mixed with ms. pink P's smilers.

" i'm drunk now, gimme the keys."
some nights it only takes five blinks to drive a cities length
obscene laughter in a 7/11.
black hoodies and pink laces are all red marked, rolled back eyes could see.
we felt 10 feet tall with our fingers on a quarter inch piece of plastic.
muzzle loaded fire works
and your god damned
Superman shirt
kept our teeth white throughout the night.
1 pen sketched

crossposted to radiotower [07 Feb 2005|12:41pm]

radiotower
recreation of the first ice age

i.

suddenly
after i open the door to let you out,
the locust-ridden night saws
inside.

(& yes, the dark IS a locust,
it swarms,
and claws, and razes light to the ground
it should slip,
and slide, and ooze like oil,
slowly,
like a hand in the middle of
the night, searching blindly
over a landscape of porcelain sheets,

and the only oozing
is the pained accordion-sighs of evening
as the day's lifeblood stains
the walls of the sky - )

the door slams
and the horizon
wobbles.


ii.

the architecture of my love
is not enough to stabilize your
fractured basement of a heart,
cold & clammy,
a place
no one wants to be in
especially not in the middle of the night
when voices echo -

i'll wrap you up in a
blueprint,
let your breath stain
unbuilt houses
& their open doors,
the same way you invade
my mouth.

our hands begin to
agitate the air,
like crickets,
soaked in summer nights,
struggling to swim
in the suddenly syrupthick air


iii.

someday everything will freeze
and our silences will be
memorialized,
categorized by our facial expressions -
the age of Love,
the age of Indifference,
the age of Hatred,
as the stark sun
thaws us slowly -

like insects in amber.


[ed. note: this was actually one poem about locusts & architecture and i thought i was too lazy to take them apart, but then i wasn't anymore.  i still think most of it sucks, but it's better than it was.    i did get rid of a stanza that said:

why would i shoot rifles in your direction
if you didn't give me a target to shoot at?
(you bring the sunlight,
i'll bring the guilt)

&

but we don't care
what we say anymore
it's a sleight-of-hand
that tucks us neatly
behind the scene,

&

it's a subtle vanishing of words
that always leads to
mute hearts &
noisy hands  ---- [mute hands & noisy hearts?  works either way.]

because it was too lyric-y. 

sometimes you forget that poetry isn't about the finished product, but more about the process.  someone once told me: "the part you love the most about your poem is the part that usually doesn't fit, or has to go."  and man, did i love that "rifles" bit.  oh well.  i'll use it later.

the end.]
4 pens sketched

strangers. [07 Feb 2005|12:06pm]

radiotower
[ed. note: i don't care if i suck anymore.  hah!]

i have not been outside
in a year,
and so the sky is foreign to me.

i know from the window
that it gets dark
and light
and dark again,
but that could be anything.

(maybe it's the girl i loved,
turning a searchlight
on and off,
looking for me
in vain.)
sketched

DRUNK [03 Feb 2005|01:56am]

radiotower
your job

is to rewrite or ocntinue the last poem
sketched

still life [02 Feb 2005|04:45am]

radiotower
[ mood | "the heart is a risky fuel to burn." ]

[ed. note: yeah, i know.  whatever.  i just kinda spit it out just now.  because i got tired of seeing nothing here.  & so.]

part one

if the sun rises
and the moon sets

then birds do the same,
in fixed positions across the sky.
they don't move,
like we're told.

part two

beaches are long sickles
reaping the wet wheat of waves
and the shrill cries of gulls

is the sickle at work.

part three

i have proof that the constellations
are not fixed,
just like i know the waves are
actually frozen & the beach is the
only thing that moves:

because she smiled in the
glacier of white bedsheets,
rolled over,
and lit a cigarette,

and all the while, it was me
doing the moving.

3 pens sketched

doing lines [cross-posted like a mother] [17 Jan 2005|10:43am]

exit44
I'm painting quotes/poems on an old chair I found.

Anyone have a favorite line of poetry? Just in case there's anything I missed.

SaM.
3 pens sketched

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