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Alex Bruinekool Poem
I
"Gotta job as a nanny!"
"Maybe they'll hire me as a butler"
"Butler and nanny always live
in close quarters"
She winks
He raises and eyebrow suggestively
II
"I love flirting with poets
so...
palpable"
"Indeed my dear, indeed.
We are a flirtatious, passionate creature"
"But we're also dramatists
adulterers
alcoholics
and prone to murder and suicide"
"Yes, some may look down on our kind,
but goddamn, we ain't boring"
III
"The first time I read Bukowski,
it was like I rediscovered
some part of myself
that was missing
or that I'd hidden away
either consciously or subconsciously
years ago.
I might have to write that down.
New freeverse."
"Love when that happens"
"Me too.
That's one thing i love about talking to poets.
Conversations often turn into writing"
"Simple Ideas morph into insolent dreams.
There's my freeverse snippet of the day"
IV
"A good poet may exaggerate,
but is no liar"
"True;
and exaggeration is like getting high,
makes everything better.
Possible Haiku?"
V
"Love is our strongest muse"
"Absolutely.
It's the most vital element to human life;
brings our greatest highs and deepest lows"
VI
"The cool thing about dating poets
is that they don't give a care
if you get
caught up with someone else
and by caught up
I mean
hopelessly
carelessly
seeexually
entangled."
VII
"The white gown
drapes over your succulent frame
like a dress of beauty.
Your hair, rusty orchid
in the shade of the picture,
cascades down smooth cheeks
the hand can die happy
having once caressed."
"That was my mom's wedding dress.
I like rusty orchids,
and the Shakespearian ending
was a harpsichord
resonant
a saunter around my affection for the dead
living
doll
I once was
came again to the meter of memory
an escapist serenade"
VIII
"Where does time go
when poets commerce?"
"Onto the paper"
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
The young starlet is sacrificed.
She is stark naked on a 20 foot
crucifix.
Piss streams
run down her thighs
and the wood.
Nails thick as cigarette lighters
are pounded through the bone.
Blood seeps to the surface
and stains her pasty, chalky skin.
Once vital hair
drapes down
over a low head.
Ecstatic apes,
also naked,
ranging in all ages, from the youngest
to the senior,
dance a mad dance in a circle
around the crucified dame
in a ceremony of grounding.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
Most all there is to say
was said with a final breath.
Nerves tense and go haywire
I choke the tears
at the root
to be of comfort
but there is nothing I can say.
The patriarch is still, at rest.
The matriarch cries trembling cries to the gods
Still
still
in his quiet little coffin.
Gray vest, hair like ashy remnants.
The coffin is subtle,
sturdy
crafted finely
kindly, warm, supportive
ready to weather longer than most.
The silent mahogany box
says more than any of us could.
If only the wood
had hands to write.
If the Bible ring true, this man lay in paradise.
He said more than any of us could, solely with his life.
There is nothing
left
to say.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
Salty glass eyes,
Thimbles brimming
with summer-leaf green poison
stare back at me.
A stare chilled subzero.
I, of course, imagine this stare
is a defense mechanism to hide her troubles.
I imagine a glimmer of light
that luminates from her bust.
This is the sliver of false hope
I allow to stay under my skin,
till it should infect my blood;
and drain me,
turn my skin to paste.
I must banish this harpy on my own.
I crave nicotine;
the soothing sickness,
greater than a mother's love;
to watch my irridiant clouds
form an immaculate wart in space;
feel the grip
of the nails in my back loosen,
and the fingers that clench me
melt, drip off me,
vaporize as the drips hit the floor.
I crave Adderall,
my favorite legal amphetamine;
I want to feel the particles
as they crush under my spoon;
my blood jets through my body.
My body jtters like electroshock aftermath.
I want to feel the smooth powder
as I draw it up my nose,
and it slithers down my throat.
Oh, sharpness; Oh, clarity of mind.
I'm more sociable;
maybe I'll meet someone new.
No matter;
she could love my best friend,
and I'll love them both tonight.
I come down;
questions of life and its worth engorge me.
My heart cramps.
My inner child leaves
to play with someone better.
I decide I'm worthless and should die;
but, I've not the guts to do it.
I crave heroin.
Snorted it before,
but that's not enough.
I want my man to tie a belt
around my bicep, pull it tight,
watch the veins pop from my forarm;
so eager they are.
Drain-up a near lethal dose.
Metal dips under flesh,
penetrates my bloodstream.
A ferocious orgasm
circulates through my system.
I no longer care if she cares or not.
I care not if I die;
at least it'll be in peace.
The bombs drop
The rockets exchange.
Self-induced extinction,
and my mind is smooth.
Seems she had good reason;
though, I will miss he raven hair,
the way it swayed over me,
how soft it felt when i held it in my fist.
I will miss her strong thighs,
how they felt wrapped around me;
how her perfect chest felt against mine.
I suppose an extra meal,
a chocolate chip cookie, or two,
and a caffine buzz,
followed by a handful of Melatonin
will have to do.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
I want you at twilight,
in my room.
(Be it under me,
ontop of me)
The thousand faces
of every tooth of your smile
moan hastily,
pant lazily,
pucker,
grin back
at me.
The clouds are shades
the moon pulls over for privacy.
Never again
will there be a
bland
ordinary night.
The pines are rude in the wind
and always
voyerous
as I re-enter
the first breath of life
and you
(the only thing
breathing
to me
this night)
tremble
gently and lovingly
under my touch,
and so rests the world.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
You have the loving
eyes of a matriarch
that looks deeply to find
anything of quality
in someone else
to find something
to let you accept them.
And I tap
my pencil
awaiting
the next line.
Then your back
arches
like a motorcycle
ramp,
poised for me to
roam.
End poem
now.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
When the poems sound ordinary,
change your pattern of life.
Live more than write awhile.
Go out and run a mile.
Get yourself a new wife.
Visit an observatory.
Sit and zone awhile.
Witness something vile.
Fall deep in love.
Be reaped by love.
Break a woman's heart.
Get your heart broken.
Just press down the lead to start,
the only saving token.
Write, live with vigor
and unatched hunger
of madman intensity.
Lyrical festivity
may well be conjured.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
His religion is the worship
of Earth Goddess Cleopatra.
The room resembles a starship
where chants his bridal mantra.
Exquisitely brutal moans come
from the wooden replica.
Eyes look upward, flamed, cumbersome.
Hands search for ecstatic new day.
Culmination of ecstasy
arrives in heartfelt screeching.
Enlightenment shines out his eyes,
the sort for which he was reaching.
There is no universal welcome religion,
for all that is all is birthed at our origin
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First sonnet I have written in almost a year, only a first draft. Advice is welcome.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
Never cry over a lover,
whether conqured or lost.
Never cry, whether if she
be acquired or not.
Once it is rot, it is rot.
To the pyre it be tossed.
The heart bleeds; the pen weeps.
The eyes need not shed salt.
One more down; one more crowned
in my backstory vault.
To my mind, most the time,
there is little need to start.
First it bums, then becomes
one more trinket left for art.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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Alex Bruinekool Poem
Solo-standing
brazen star
at
the break
of illustrious
dawn.
Lucrative nights
pass
over
in dust bowl haze.
Senses combusted
back to the
ooze
of
birth.
Lay to rest
the atrocities
of monotonous
livelihood.
The wait, the waiting
wait, wait, boredom
Waiting for life and death
Pressure, allegiance
disintegrated
through
manual
stimulation.
Copyright © Alex Bruinekool | Year Posted 2010
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