A random selection of poems I scribbled on cocktail napkins inside sundry dives and late night coffeeshops between 2004 and 2005, posted in a fit of utter, wanton, and gleefully amused, narcissism
Of course.
Thoughts of the lovely Miss. J. F. (who dances in diamonds) August 2004
A slender reed, a stalk of sugar cane
She swayed upon the wind, her smile the same
As when I first beheld her face and lips
Her curves were subtle, sweet as sugarcane.
She showed to me a bit beneath the frame
Of wood and glass around her heart, I crave
A taste of lips, surrender to touch. Delight
To see her hair,
Strewn across her face
Her eyes closed in abandon
The agony of pleasure
To hold her reins,
And then to let them go
As we tumble headlong
Into a sea of twilight
The warm broad mere of union.
This, indeed, is good.
A Sunday Morning. January 2005
In the Fields of Wild thistle
That grow behind the Plant
That nestle between PVC Pipe
And angrily broken glass
There I find respite
The marsh is young, younger still
Than the solitary telegraph poles
That stand, jutting, from the murky
Depths, old inner tubes beneath
Calm placid waters.
I wander, in my new boots
Of shiny smooth black leather
I listen to the sounds and make
Love to the young fresh day
Communion, I throw my arms
Out, embrace the sweet
Winds blown out by
The Friend.
Of Power and Desire (or, how I do miss my and Allison’s chats) October 2004.
I smell potency
I smell potentiality
The perfume of
Power
Shakti’s perfume
Musty, heady.
Her brazen pride
Pervades the air
Some, there are, who only see
Within this world, unreal dreams
But to see the real. girt about,
Shakti’s heavy hips
Her slow dance manifest.
An Idol, Burnt Offering/Sacrifice January 2004
The night drew her shroud
Her dark flowing veil.
About her dusky skin wound
She shivered deep within.
The day, she took to slumber
As her sister woke.
Full of wanton curiosity
Upon her throne, she mounts.
Deep down, for inside
What man truly is not
A misogynist, once
His idols have fallen?
Fallen beneath the black tar
Coating the surface of
His mind? Delusion.
Ah, knit my shroud of hair
A shroud woven, of her black hair.
My casket for my bed
My bed or, my coffin.
One thousand lies about love
One thousand false and pretty truths
That turned to be not truth
All of these, I was told
Every one, I believed
Credulous, trusting boy,
Is it better to remain
Withdrawn
Hope, reigns Pathetic. Creepy.
An idol stands, I have dressed
It up in chiffon, and lace.
With petticoats, and frilly things
Perfumed it with roses.
Before it I lay my sacrifices
As in times of old.
Today I lay it, on the ground
A torch lain, upon the
Altar-top. It lies in flames.
“I sought love, but she wanted Twinkies” January 2005
A blasted landscape, smoldering
The baked remains of feelings
The death of sentiment and touch
And carnal cravings reduced
The mind and soul were shot and buried
And only body reigned upon
A throne of porcelain
Human flesh dildo slides inside
A mouth stuffed, past bursting
With Twinkies
No loving, living individuals
Just objects of flesh.
Ladies and gentlemen, that is that.
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