Long Drunken Poems
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The Rot Gut Incident
Tumbleweeds blew into Town
Rolling two bearded cowpokes with them
Looking for some action and the sheriff
The Bloody Mary is the only saloon in Rot Gut
I reckon this is a proper place for the ornery
For a couple of horny no good clowns
They didn't come to sing a song or read the bible
Revenge was on their mind
Along with other assorted kinds of crime
They wanted ugly Molly for some nasty sport
And whiskey to wet their whistle
After a spell the drunken foe came down
From playing with their whore
Staggered on the stairs for lack of balance
Demanded me, Sheriff John, served up for their amusement
I killed their brother Bob last year in this here very bar
For starting troubles with the patrons
And stealing from the tip jar
I happened to be there with hat in hand
When they called me out
And made me take a stand
Then drew their guns to shoot me down
If they hadn't been such drunken boozers
Slower than molasses
I’d be telling a different kind of tale about these losers
And they wouldn't be planted six feet under ground
In the cemetery just outside of town
Used as fertilizer for the flowers
In Rot Gut that’s just how things go down
7/13/14 A Town Called “Rot Gut” contest
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
from other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
~~~~~~~
Authors Note: "nicker' and 'quid' are Brit/cockney terms for
pounds sterling - money. "Cadge" as in - scrounge.
Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.
One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.
In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.
Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.
Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.
Apologies From the Tower
Gotten good at your Readings
You laid out the cards one day
And asked them:
What do I bring to our marriage?
Answer: The Tower
Agent of Chaos
Destruction
Change
Disorder
I'll not deny it.
Drunken Sot.
Intellect Without Plan.
Ego Sans Merit.
All of these I am,
Because of which
The Tower trembles.
It trembles for itself.
I'm not sure how to fix all this;
Not sure if I can.
But the Tower cannot stand alone.
It needs a Keeper.
To keep that Keeper
It shall look out from itself,
Far Afar
Until it finds a brighter future
To keep standing for.
So Apologies from the Tower -
Though much battered by itself
It still wants to stand
With its long suffering Keeper
In the Sun,
In your Sun.
Through the corner of my eye I see the bride and the groom,
Slowly our corneas make contact I'm the elephant in the room.
A drunken night.
Sex combined with spite.
Makes a tainted marriage,
a fractured life.
"Speak now" said the priest, "or forever hold your peace."
The best man raised his hand and dropped to one knee.
"I can't let you take what is mine, I fell in love with her first
to me she's more than a bride. She's what keeps my hearts beating, she's whats make the sunshine, the air keeping me breathing"
The woman dressed in white looked down than looked right,
at the man dressed in regret, the man with green eyes.
Not remembering you in joy
how had this come to be?
No memories of you content,
no happiness to see.
No happiness for your whole life
though plenty filled your plate.
Bards filled your mind at early age
with beauty on the page.
The home you had was pin cushion small
pincushion small, it pricked
with a violent soul rent from the Guf
raw poverty , rent and licked.
While violets held the windowsills
and mother’s soul was sweet
denial visited much too oft
father’s drunken anger did compete
Longfellow laced your nascent mind
The Children’s Hour your treat.
You escaped to Edgar’s house
The Raven at your feet.
You read to me from Golden Books
of Joseph’s many colored coat.
Mother goose set the dreamscape
as Nod rowed by in boats.
I know this must have happened oft
yet no memory do I retain.
Just the lilt of longing reciting
of others happiness on the page.
May the Guf be kind to you
and return you full of joy.
May the sparrow find for you
a kinder living story.
I hear the rolling thunder beyond the clouds
descending from his throne with many shrouds
His lightening circles the earth in peel
it’s effect to many will seem surreal
The angels who are holding back the wind
release their breath upon man to descend
as nature rages upon our earthly shore
the chance for repentance is no more
The molten hearts of man begin to quake
realizing the truth was no mistake
the chance to live in love has passed them by
in the certain knowledge they will die
Two witnesses will walk the streets of earth
their words become Gods fire in birth
like two candlesticks they stand
pronounce Gods judgment is at hand
Mankind will know there is no place to flee
will recognize signs and wonders they do see
the day of his fierce anger has arrived
and destruction of iniquity will be alive
For every hand who has practiced harm
will clearly hear the ring of it’s alarm
No violators of the laws of Love
will see any mercy from Jah above
When upon the last of his are sealed
the day of retribution will be revealed
Gods Hand will move the earth out of place
and universe will be shaking in it’s space
the inhabitants of the earth have become defiled
the taint of wickedness has touched the child
like a drunken man the world will shake
because of treachery the land will desolate
Every mountain and high hill will fall
rock and sway with the burden of the call
for the burning of his anger a devouring fire
and so few be sheltered from his ire
the time to learn to Love is now
and beneath it’s tenderness to bow
the wicked will be cleansed from the land
and the meek will in his kingdom stand
Is. chptrs 13 & 24 Rev chptrs 11-17
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Beyond bright garish flashes of neon lights,
blaring music and drunken barroom fights,
it's my wish to find tranquility and solitude
within a realm where the moon is red-hued.
I'd gladly wander a crimson moonlit path,
far away from this world's uncivilized wrath.
Where warblers sing lullabies to me at night
while I watch a hungry owl take wing in flight.
Myriads of stars will be shimmering in the sky,
and in complete contentment I will peacefully lie.
As a red moon rising hovers far above my head,
I'll be sheltered without need of worry or dread.
In a quiet sanctuary of tall evergreen trees
I'd welcome the evening's cool flowing breeze.
With a blanket spread on meadowed grounds,
I'd revel with joy at Nature's awesome sounds,
like the trills of doves giving their mating call
and the muffled rumble of a distant waterfall.
There are no bastions here, nor fortified fences.
In this meditative place I can liberate my senses.
I'll be one with my surroundings, totally at ease,
as if I'm floating on calm waves of unruffled seas.
Far from cacophony that offends an idyllic repose,
beneath a sanguine moon, where no one else goes.
The streets are full of madmen
The bedrooms they are too
After hours of internet p..n
What do you expect? What do…
The kids carry guns
Challenge their arrogance
And they’ll kill you too
The madhouses have been emptied
No funds to house the insane
Waiting lines are crawling all over the city
Snaking in tangled descent into Hell’s reign
The cemeteries are ready to open their tombs
The dead will come to meet the mad
In a sanguine ceremony of riot and wounds
I see the coffins open
I see straight jackets flying like sails
Over dark rivers of blood
Splashing out in the tempest gales
I speak to myself “Put on the amour of God’s holiness
Stand against the schemes of Hell
Against the schemes of authority’s unwinding deceitful spell”
Shipwrecks are following from fraudulent choices
One upon another, upon another
Crashing against the rocks of eternity
Amidst the exploding noise of drunken whores' voices
All are drowning in self- made poison
Flowing for centuries from sick societal breasts
Sinking with hearts of stone into a deadly bottomlessness
- The Goodbye Goose-
Winter polishes at four o'clock, shining all the rocks aglaze.
Reflection, stretching shadows.
Longer thinner men - longer thinner still.
Shadowy tall , feeling small.
Sunmangled window in a diamond quadrant.
Keyhole orifice and creeping becomes nostalgia.
Why dont you just shut up and call?
Home going geese-slipstream in a vee.
High honking traffic, trailing vapour leaves you exposing me.
Cascading spirits slipping down the walls, swirling eddies
and smoky waterfalls, draping over furniture like slimy octopi...
Drunken weekend metaphors , Monday morning remorse.
Up and down the ladders of my memory, tinkly piano playing on my spiny vertebrae.
Permeating lies of my story told not of voice or tongue or lips-no.
But of crafty bits that left unsaid, untold encyclopaedia of me.
T'would be so simple to top you up, yet dark forces warn me ,
to pimp me out to you is to forfeit martyrdom and victory crown,
deprives the joy of shooting you down, shifting the blame.
Denies the stature as abuser , distracts my winner into loser.
Never be a frontal goose .