Best Goddamn Poems
I watched on
as the universe fluffed its lines,
tripping over evolving stories
keeping me in the dark,
gravity pulling my leg
Impossible to ignore
those below-the-belt punchlines
and a Big Bang
that leaves me seeing stars
It all happened so fast
A "hold on there”
kick-in-the-nuts moment
a doubled-over realisation:
I am mortal
and painfully aware
fairytales must cluster
in a galaxy elsewhere
In truth, I could have a brain bleed
tonight and die in my sleep,
just like my father
when he was my age
I won’t even know I’m dead,
no more than I knew I’d be born
Only the living are subject
to such subjective things
What a waste,
a goddamn waste
in all eternity
Why does consciousness
surface at all
only to drain back
into the vacuum of space?
Yeah, thinking about death sucks
especially lying in bed
tossing and turning
trying to sleep
Wish I could fantasise instead,
tucked up nice and cosy
dreaming about all things rosy,
Like those early simians
who went to sleep as monkeys
woke up knowledge-hungry,
bipedal junkies,
after digesting the original
chicken-and-egg omelette
that self-prepared in a forest fire
As for me,
I can’t even distinguish
divine awe
from Sod’s Law
since that probabilistic day
my buttered toast fell
and landed vertical on the floor
Such aberrations occur,
stuff one cannot conjure or control
Adult stuff?
If you like!
Except kids experience (stuff) too!
Most frustrating part:
the universe tells no lies,
only portrays truth,
albeit in an emergent sense
Past to present tense,
the future unravels;
knock-on effects travel,
sometimes producing
sudden knock-backs
as temporal waves
come knocking on one’s door
Still, I’m with the action now;
life hasn’t gone away
Besides, if I knew everything
or was omnipotent,
I’d eventually bore myself to death
in every possible way.
?
so came the morning
and just look at my pillow
well and truly fluffed
By
David Kavanagh
The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest,
this motherless, brother-less thug
perceives no pity-pangs... the gun
now quiet, buckshot empty, cold.
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, like litterfall they fell,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
Don't tell me I'm beautiful when I've done something different with my make-up
Don't call me beautiful because I've bought a new bra and you can see it through my shirt
And never tell me I'm beautiful
Because I've lost weight
Tell me I am beautiful
When I am brushing my teeth
When I have toothpaste on my chin from trying to talk to you at the same time
And all you can think about the whole time I'm talking
Is how you want to kiss it clean
Don't tell me I'm beautiful when I've done my hair the way you like it
Don't tell me I'm beautiful when I'm angry and you want me to stop being angry
Don't tell me I'm beautiful because I look good in heels
Tell me I'm beautiful because I look like I feel beautiful
Because my vertebrae are aligned like stars tonight
And I can't, stop, looking, up
Don't tell me I'm beautiful to brag to your friends
Don't tell me I'm beautiful to stop me from crying
Don't tell me I'm beautiful when I'm drunk, when I've packed my bag, when I'm leaving
Tell me I'm beautiful when I'm reading
And the words reflect in my eyes like fairy lights
And there is nowhere I would rather be
Don't tell me I'm beautiful when the door is locked
Don't tell me I'm beautiful with your trousers around your ankles
Don't tell me that I am beautiful when I'm on my knees
And if I'm not
Don't tell me I'm beautiful to get me on my knees
Tell me I'm beautiful when I am on my feet
When I am on my feet despite these goddamn bags under my eyes
Tell me I am beautiful when those bags look like hammocks and all you want to do is crawl inside
And fall asleep with me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gk0e0L0v8ag
I drown you in wine, the goddamn squatter
who lives in me. Flow, Lethe, dark and deep!
But even through a drunken dreamless sleep,
like a nude drowned man in see-through water,
the memory is seen… That very sunny
day on the river, tender girlish hands
doing my back with sunscreen, lots of plans
for future, reckless air, easy money,
the coolness of the depth… All of a sudden
a spasm! a cramp!
a zigzag
lightning
pain!
that lit up something? someone? I would fain
forget but the remembrance, mixed with blood in
my veins, with coldest sweat in my nightmares,
stayed in for good… The rescue team did well:
I’m still alive but, tell me, why the hell
I often feel like going downstairs
to river beach, undressing, diving deeper
under the water and taking a breath?
The habitant inside of me shrugs: “Death
is quite familiar to every sleeper
and swimmer. Death is, so to speak, a river
which flows from the future to the past,
a metaphor of time. Don’t look aghast
at this phenomenon but you should quiver
in fear just thinking of the one you saw
down there, at the bottom of your soul.
Who could this be? Don’t look through the keyhole
of the imaginary but real door
between realities”…
Or I just think
he says it, and the truth is I did sink
long time ago.
I got tired of losing
So much goddamn losing
Losing friends
homes
Hobbies
Moving to new towns and cities
Familiar faces of people I never met
Those who lived for years in the same place
They had their cliques
They got each other’s jokes
They knew what was on the next page
Mr. Jones down at the corner store knew them all by name
The bus driver gave them knowing nods
Big brash Bobby who was once cute little Bobby
“I don’t want no trouble today Bobby!”
Then they’d fist pump.
I was the invisible kid, sitting next to the window, listening to the sound of laughter
I prayed “Please let this year be different.”
For a while
I was the new kid
They were friendly and curious
Like a new flavour of Ice Cream, I was okay for a treat.
But they preferred the familiar chocolate and vanilla,
or better yet meat and potatoes.
It was okay though, I’d be gone by next year.
They’d soon forget I’d ever been there.
I was the loser
who couldn’t go over to Jimmy’s house to play
Ya that weirdo loser
who couldn’t play baseball after school
The loser who had to go straight home
After a while I wanted to move
I wanted another fresh start
I was tired of losing
So much goddamn losing
Maybe the next town
or the next city would be different
Maybe if I tried really hard I could be chocolate or vanilla
Or even better, I could be meat and potatoes.
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"
What is this life, this reality?
Why do I question it so relentlessly?
So many moments seemingly meaningless,
meandering through this meaningful sentience.
Chronology…
Continuity…
Spirituality…
But really, Oxford will tell you:
Property of being real, resemblance to Original.
Accountable, in my opinion, only through dissemblance.
What I ask, is it original?
It’s all rather subliminal!
Made up by man and the idealism of 'ideal'.
Be like Budda, be like a tree,
pray to Gods, pray for money.
This will make you healthy, that will make you ill.
Where is the free will in all this obscurity?
What is this substance we call reality?
I beg your pardon, Sir and Madam,
excuse my blasphemy if religion is your reality,
But goddamn, Sir and Madam
It’s outrageous and random,
The idea…
The ideal…
Any idea for that matter!
For what is blaspheme?
Speaking irreverently of sacred things!
But what is not sacred down to a grain of sand?
If all by the hand and will of God,
Or aliens...
Or angels…
Or spark of light,
Let us not in the slight pretend,
to know or name a single thing.
Sacred cannot be named,
Or unnamed…
Or claimed…
And yet it is,
as tangible as anything alive.
Let's not deprive a word as 'sacred',
dictated to be, this or that.
Of all facts I know this fact;
Sacred is as sacred be.
As she walks, as she decrees,
she is ancient, beyond antique,
she is the vessel through which divinity speaks.
Now's the time to say good-bye...
And, no, I won't miss you,
And, No, I won't cry.
I've gotta move on, get outta this place,
I'm sick of your "stuff", tired of your face.
Once upon a time, our hearts were both pure,
But now, you're my nightmare,
And I'm just your whore.
Laughter and love no longer remain,
I know if I stay here you'll drive me insane,
With your goddamn attitude, your late night alibi's
All of your promises that turned into lies...
So I hesitate before I reach the door,
And take a look around once more.
You're staring at me with sadness in your eyes,
I know you too well, baby, it's just a disguise.
Now's the time to say good-bye...
And, YES, I will miss you,
And, YES, I will cry.
-jma
Somewhere on another world, in a far away galaxy
Aliens built a quantum-scope, our world they could see
I also built a similar contraption, and maxed out the lens
Now I witness these ETs observing earth, but in a weird tense
See, as they zoom in closer, it’s dinosaurs they view, not me!
This is no illusion, nor does it defy relativity
I’m in their far off future, watching them observe our distant past,
I spot a T Rex on their monitor, Barney I called him, for a laugh
Now I live stream earth, via a planet no one has ever heard
even though the creatures I see, are 66 million years dead
Everything observable that has ever happened
embeds in photons racing through space
All we need to unlock them, is quantum technology
in the right time, pointing to just the right place
I hope you follow my postulation, the implications seem insane
But what good is science fiction, without stretching out our brains
Goddamn! here’s a thought, about this poem
Say on a planet, merely 2000 light years away
If by chance they’re observing Jerusalem
Christ son of man, we could yet live stream today!
Flickering hazel eyes flecked with cataract silver, glittering this way and that.
Eyebrows high and a piercing pupil saying
'Move this ing thing, lest I punch my left hooded, binded fist a jab hand on these tubes'.
'Zip wire that gagg, tie and choke my goddamn breath'
'I will pull them as a hook on a stuck fishing line and retrieve the barb, bloodspattered, and bubbling.
Frowned lines across forehead asking 'Do it'. 'Do it'. 'Do what I ask '.
So we do. It seems a simple task to give a unanimous verdict.
The intrusive, plastic, invasive chords are cut, pulled like black vine from flower beds.
Then you snore an old bear.
The glove is off. You relax into your last sleep.
The effort to squeeze those exhausted ribs, carried by anaesthetic buzz is cotton buds and breezy, easy.
Between the bright blue curtains someone's shouting 'Kersh come on we've got one waiting for you'.
Others talk of apologises, welcomes, pats on the back and loving arms.
A pallor comes and little marks underneath the eyes. You lay asleep. No breath. No pain.
In this dark December night your passing saw rock and roll change into a summer of love, then fall into an Autumn of jazz and horse racing.
We three saying farewell, wondering if you want us there or not?
But we know beneath our bludgering feelings of denial.
The familiar ties that span a lifetime make the fit right.
And in our jangling, bangling, tightweb, we hold you and wish you a safe journey Kersh
Connie was a cheerleader
bright white toothed smile
bouncing boobs
short skirt legs running long
through school boy fantasies
friday nights her stage
crisp November air her makeup
Robert was a loner
a stoner
bad clear down to the core
shriveled up inside
Salvation Army furniture
Batman comics
bologna sandwich supper
Connie was manicured lawns
gardens of flowers
white picket fences and stone pathways
Norman Rockwell dinners
lavender bath soap
silk pajamas
pink bed spread
Robert was a rundown trailer
on a filthy back lot
goddamn you f*****g punk
get the hell out morning breakfast
garage sale coffee table
stacked with beer cans and ash trays
overflowing with death
Connie had a secret
hidden touches
fatherly lust
make up hiding
violent bruises
don't tell your mother
if you want her safe
I can hurt her too
Robert had a secret
18 hour days
two jobs at garages
straight A's
never give up
never give in
blue eyes and crooked smile
whispering to the world to kiss his ass
Connie was the sharp
razor's edge that gleamed
like the holy grail
in her bathroom drawer
Robert was the strong will
the hard desire
the drive to move on
to something more
Connie was a cheerleader
Robert was not a quarterback
but they were each other's
Salvation
Meant to be read over this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?
v=dYQ_lse44gQ&feature=related
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i.
[clockwork rage]
goddamn
dried up
everything
even my saliva
is wooden
you don't
know it
how homeless
and strong
I am
unbreakable
and so dry
everything
ii.
[no air]
can't sing
no more
can't form
the words
but I pray
smoke
heavy smoke
thudding against
your window
like a goddamn
pigeon
wrung
dry
all our necks
bared
and strewn about
like dirty socks
this body is
a long
white
stranger
death
can't feel much
different
halfway between
stood up
and fallen
iii.
[a whole heart, a whole heart]
but watch this
watch me leer
at the pretty girls
watch me stick
to the sidewalks
unwashed
unrecognizable
I'm dancing with
fingers
and with smoke
laid out
like so
a dead fish
reeling under
the stars
I'm strong
so strong now
I tell you
when you walk by
with another face
another face
another face
but you never
listen
anymore.
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This is me reading -> http://vocaroo.com/?media=vbcUNSaOwuB4v7AVl
(These are lyrics to a song I wrote called "Blasphemy")
Verses:
Mother Mary sat on a bench with me today
But I couldn't think of one goddamn thing to say
'Cept, "Mother, oh! Won't you please save my soul right now?
I'd gladly do it but I don't know exactly how"
Hail Mary! Bless me twice!
Judas betrayed Jesus Christ
In Revelations, prophets said
John the Baptist lost his head
Chorus:
You gotta pander to my ego
Herod was my hero
Why didn't Noah's Ark fall apart?
Genesis was...just the start
Verses:
St. Peter slammed those Pearly Gates right into my fuc*ing face
Just too much sin I can't get in; no mansion there for me awaits
The wife of Lot, she turned to salt, but it was not all her fault
She ran away and then looked back as Sodom burned, and that's a fact
Repeat Chorus...
Verses:
Well, life was Hell so Jonah sailed into the belly of a whale
Daniel in the lion's lair; Delilah chopped off Samson's hair
Cain killed Abel out of spite as the Lamb of God got sacrificed
There came the Whore of Babylon while Thomas doubted every-one
Repeat Chorus...
**Just trying to post something a little different ;)
Man, it just doesn’t pay to try and live in the day. Crazy full up, crisper, sharpest with an undepleted uranium core, burning burning burning, knowing it’s all **** and nobody pays attention, “quiet desperation,” hell! I just want to run in circles, scream and shout, play a one-man game of crack the whip, and fly down the lea flopping into a deeper briar patch of blooming wild irish roses and gin blossoms! As I pass through muted crowds, so full of noise and bustle-hustle, I get that itch between my chakras, that tightening of the fruit, stooping with a sly look around me, a faint paranoiac whiff of parallel worlds at a titanic event horizon, slamming together, slapping bellies like a $2 whore... shadows fighting archetypes of shadows (or is it more like the agony of waiting for that goddamn second boot that never gets dropped on the floor in the apartment above, Jesus Christ, does Ahab live up there?! But more like living a Gilliam dystopia, never feeling completely at ease with anything or anyone, until even the sewer urchins are out for your blood...my God, their dark eyes!) and, passing through the crowds and stores full of purchased attitude and 4G networks, everyone’s hands full of their adult pacifiers, texting a friend sitting next to them, I get cooler, like passing through a near dawn mist roiling off a boneyard, and realize we’re all starving pilgrims on a road to nowhere, begging bowls filled with moaning woe and ironic suffering as we’re denied entry into Lhasa (we had a PC instead of a Mac). Do I bow or curse now at knowing I'll have to slide past a window and hide under the stoop with a paper bag full of fortified liquid forget-me-for-now and growl away the ice weasels? But as I wander, backtrack through that plastic-fantastic crowd, hitting the door and dark like an expelled sigh, I wonder what became of true heroes? For with my disdain, rapier sarcasm dripping with cleverly crafted metaphors... I’m not one of them.
Its a toe in the water,
its a trigger to start,
but its never the past as we can all be alike our hi-speed-art,
it's a reason to gloat,
like seasonal boast-
but it will never code,
honestly its just our doe.
Note that later in the year is your caustic example,
note that your remarks hash tag your preambles,
but I am not sinner in the clear,
but I have two goddamn ears,
you have an allegory of toss-ups for the gamble,
but no precepts.