Misery

How pathetic am I?
I'll tell you.
I'd get so lonely,
so depressed reading
all those deadly lady poets,
you know the ones:
Sylvia, Sexton, that crew.
I'd be sitting on the couch
with one of Anne's books,
more than likely the fairy
tale one, or the awful rowing
thing, whatever, and I'd get
so blocked I couldn't even
write my own suicide note.
I'd decided to end it all
the way Anne did: in the garage,
with the car on and a shaker full
of bone-dry martinis; my own
little Doesn't Have a Clue game.
So don't I try it, and doesn't
the car run out of gas.
I pass out all right but don't I
wake up with a killer hangover,
one so bad that if I could have
dragged my sorry ass back inside
the house, I would have fallen on
a carving knife just to put myself
out of that misery.
No such luck.
What I get instead is this bunch of
misguided Angels of Mercy,
holding my hand and directing me toward
a righteous path to recovery.
Let me tell you, that scene is
a hell of a lot worse than dying
thoroughly liquored in the garage.

Grovetide


Little did I know how it could go
Although I should have known
How it would grow when planted.
I planted a weed, tree weed, that would
Wash up everywhere. There appears
No way to shore up the onslaught.
At root, the problem is roots.
The trees will send out runners
Sprouting from the earth to attack
Me like alien clones invading my space.
Suckers to the assault! Offspring of
Aspen incest run and shoot
Metastasizing, the lawn long-gone.
Mowing incites, it seems, a reflex
To procreate, spurring roots, shoots,
And leaves until the only thing left
To do is apply herbicide, chemotherapy—
Kill the root, kill the earth. Or perhaps
I might burn them three ways to
Wednesday. It has been said that
The largest living organism is an aspen
Grove somewhere in the Rockies. A single
Tree that has propagated to a hundred
Something acres. So now I know what I did
Not know those years ago. From a tree
A forest will grow. Yes, in the fall I am
Rich when the aspen turn to gold,
Until winter wind blows hard and cold
Sharing my wealth with neighbors
Then I am again poor me left with roots
Dormant, waiting to spring to run
And shoot at the sucker who planted them.
When the world ends, I expect that then
An aspen will shade the last cockroach.    

Perhaps I'm Stupid


Perhaps I really am

stupid, but it seems

obvious to me.

We are all stuck on

a rock, hurtling through

space.

Wouldn't it make more

sense to try to look after

each other ?

The animals, and the Earth, too.

Instead of trying to destroy
everything we find ?

This is the only chance

we will get.

How fucking dumb are we ?

I Remember Kneeling 


I've just remembered
a really fucking crazy, and funny
thing that happened
back in the day.
Back when I was a proper junkie.

My mate was homeless,
and as I'd known him for 
most of my life,
I felt for him.

So, Nick, and I went
to my mum's house.
I reckoned she'd cough up
enough for us to score.
For perhaps the first time,
she was stern and unbending.

Unfortunately,
I remember kneeling
in front of her in the kitchen.
Begging.

Please, Mum.
I'm in really bad pain.

Have a couple of
paracetamol, and
get in bed.

That was her response,
I couldn't believe it.

The next morning,
after a pain-filled,
sleepless night,
my mum said she'd
take us both to the
local doctors to make
appointments to get help.

It was also the day
that my monthly supply
of sleeping pills was 
dispensed.

I begged my mum for 
money that morning, 
but still nothing was 
happening.

I got 28 sleepers , and Nicky,
and I ate them between us
in seconds.
Anything to stop the pain.

A couple of hours later,
another mate turned up, 
looking to score.
We were fucking thrilled.

But, by then the pills.
had really kicked in.
We made it to the nearest
phone box.

This was years pre-mobile.

I was so out of it
on downers, and being on 
the second day of a really
bad withdrawal .

I couldn't remember a
single phone number, 
these were people we called
several times a day, every day.

But 14 sleeping pills
are bound to take effect.

Also neither of my friends 
were any help.

Anyway, me, and Nicky
went back to my house
to find where I had written
the numbers down.
We couldn't even walk.

We stumbled, and fell
down the street.

As soon as my poor mum
laid eyes upon us, 
she locked us in.

" You pair are in
no fit state to go out. "

She was right.

We lay there, 
going through real 
bad withdrawals, 
unable to move, 
but at least 
half asleep.

It's these things that cement a friendship. 

Thank You For Your Service

So the VA gives this guy
100% disability rating as
A disabled war vet with
Post traumatic syndrome.
Not surprising he got that
In a hot war where some
Buddies were blown to bits,
Others were found hands tied,
Throats slit with severed dicks
Stuffed in their mouths.
This is the stuff of nightmares
And the root of screaming
In the night, waking in a sweat.
Kinda messes with the head.
Well justified granting 100%
For military service in Hell.
But then, years later, it gets
Chopped back down to 90%. 
90%?  He hasn't changed, still
Lives in a mental, emotional
State.  But, they figure that his
PTS couldn't be all that bad 
Considering that he hasn't 
Killed himself yet.

Advice to a Budding Literary Critic:
Start with Edgar Allen Poe.
End with Edgar Allen Poe.
Hire a detective to track down your real father.
Once your adult teeth have set in, floss first and then brush.
Lick a speeding train.
Survive crossing the Gobi on foot.
Fuck, then extort, James Woods, Michiko Kakutani, or Zadie Smith.
Alternatively, necromance Charles Baudelaire.
Forget angels don’t visit graveyards.
Frequent them anyways.
Recall everything is permitted because nothing endures.
Start with us.
End with us.



minutes, times, hours:
if a poem fails
no one is squashed
no one goes bankrupt
no dies of syphilis or cancer
no milk curdles

it's worse—
time
is wasted

on top


life

will constantly

pull at the seams

trying to

break you

and it does

some.

every time

you feel

a tear

you have to

sew it

back together

by replenishing

your soul.

make

the opposition

quiver.

write a poem.

read a book.

dance

and make love.

snort a line

of the sun.

burst thru

the fire

like a

bowling ball.

jump on

the opposition

like a trampoline

and swing

from the stars

like monkey bars

to inform life

that you

are on top.

give life

a swift kick

in the balls

and laugh 

at it

keeled over.

Period cramps. 

 
she wakes up at 1am 
flipping like a dolphin 
exiting the white  
of a bay. doubled  
over, creasing; a book 
bought second-hand, 
and screaming so loudly 
she rattles dead flies  
from the windowsill. 

I snooze over sideways 
in my wine-tired slumber 
and quietly mumble 
"you awake? 
are you ok?" 

endless poems about regret

 
waiting for the snow

all the threats from my dead relatives

from what i remember, the doctor
told me i would be dead by now

i'm sure he got into just for the money

i often dream of kissing you and
then never seeing you again

endless poems about regret
and what could have been

instead, i'm facing the likely
possibility of never kissing
you at all

those poems hit a little fucking harder

find the rare moment to share a laugh
tucked away between the murders
and endless tragedies on the news

how does one find a romance
in the middle of hell

not afraid to be alone,
just hate being lonely

the scotch punches a little harder
on these nights

like the woman of your dreams
texting you to fuck off instead
of thinking that you deserved
to hear it from her lovely voice
----------------------------------------------------
thirty years younger

 
she had the feel
of an old jazz club

cigarette smoke
hanging in the air

everyone wearing
sunglasses

i'd playfully slide
my hand up her leg
and she would blush
open just enough
to tease me

a saxophone would
cut through the tension
like a machine gun

we'll go home that night
and make love like we
were thirty years younger

bite my lip just hard enough
to let me know i'm alive
and she loves me

these are the nights i want
to think of on a front porch
in the rain

slipping a little whiskey
in the coffee

watching a cat chase
a butterfly
------------------------------------------------
for nickels and pennies

 
sometimes in my mind
i'm still that teenager
hanging out downtown

listening to frank play
the saxophone for nickels
and pennies

i'd go buy him a sandwich
so he would actually get
something to eat that didn't
come from a brown bag

if my memory is correct
frank drank himself to death
years after we first met

he's the one that would
tell me stories about coltrane,
charlie parker

how he once did cocaine
with miles davis

he would read the poems
i would write, tell me i was
getting better

give me a few sips
when i would get
published

i still hear that saxophone
when it gets quiet at night

a much simpler time

all the demons still
to come

Bad Advice


I was talking to
a friend today.
I was complaining
about not having
been laid for years.
as I tend to.

He told me to go
to a whorehouse
in Stoke, this is the
second person to
give me this advice.

The thought of it being
a financial transaction
is a massive turn off
for me.

But, then he told me
that when he went there
the Polish, or Ukrainian
girl couldn't understand
him.

They had to communicate
via Google Translate.

I said

Didn't that ruin the
atmosphere  ?

He looked at me
as if I was insane.

Copper, you don't go to
a brothel for the atmosphere.

Perhaps I am insane.

Bad Poetry is Bad Poetry 

"I just can't figure it out. No one seems to be reading my poems. I post them in my writing groups and even on the rest of those Social Media sites. I'm not getting any comments or likes." She sniveled. 

"Wish I had an answer for you."

"I've been thinking it might help if I change the font for my poem. Maybe use a flowery cursive  style and format. I got it. I'll overlay my poem on a picture with an image that captures the poem's theme. What do you think?"

"My opinion isn't important. I'm not at all familiar with how to present a piece of literature. Marketing is a mystery to me " I answered. It was my poor excuse for not wanting to give her the actual reason.

"Why won't you answer my question? I would really appreciate your professional critique. I'm trying to reach  a larger audience and I believe the reason for the poor readership is the way my poems are presented. If I make them more attractive by adding a few features to capture the reader's attention, I will become famous. Don't you believe it's true? Tell me what you think."

"My professional opinion? I'm not sure I can be considered as a professional. But if you insist and want me to give you my take on your conundrum, I'll offer my honest assessment. But listen , please don't get all defensive and up tight and shit like that. Don't take it as a personal attack. Now with that being said, are you sure you want me to tell you what I think is the cause of your limited success as a poet?"

"Of course I won't be offended. I know you'll be honest.  Wait a second, are you going to put me down?"

"I'm going to offer my honest opinion. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Yes. Okay, go ahead."
"First of all, you're way off course. You're not seeing where the actual problem lies. The early classic Poets didn't have Social Media and marketing tools available to dress up their work. 
Dylan Thomas, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath the Beat Poets and many more. Their poems were favored because they generated emotions or inspired ideas. The poem stood as a great piece of literature solely on the words and the rhythm of the verse.  
You spend more time planning the poem's presentation than the time you spent creating the poem. 
Let me ask you this. What is your reason for writing a poem? Why do you want to be a poet?"
"I'm not really sure. I guess because it is something that comes easily to me. It doesn't take a lot of effort for me to write a poem. Plus I think my poetry is good enough to make me famous and wealthy.”
“That is one of the most insincere reasons for anyone to choose as their purpose for becoming a poet. Really your intention is to win some type of popularity contest just to feed  your ego?  I'm amused by your main goal for writing poetry is to become famous and rich.  I will let you In on a secret. As a poet you will be required to have a full length mirror.`` 

“Why would I need a full length mirror? "

"So you can watch yourself starve to death.”

“You're real funny. Ha ha." 

"Seriously, it's obvious you don't have the slightest inclination of the enchantment that lives and breathes inside the soul of a poem. If ever you discover the intoxicating essence of its purpose It'll be an enlightenment confirming that your fate chose  you to be a poet. As if madness wasn't enough.”

"What, you don't think I'm a real poet?"

"I think anyone that creates a poem is a poet. But not everyone that creates a poem is a talented poet. Some writers just produce 'Bad Poetry' pablum, doggerel, drivel, prattle or pure garbage."

"So you're saying my poetry is garbage?"

"No, I didn't say that. I consider the theme of your poems as narcissistic. Always centered around you which in turn evokes an unfavorable response.They're filled with uninteresting thoughts, unoriginal insights, egocentric desires and dreams. You believe your experiences, your feelings, your ideas and your opinions are as important to everyone else as they are to you. What makes you think anyone is interested in your trivial dramas, your inconsequential dilemmas? They're all insignificant? Remember this quote; ‘ Just because it happened to you 
doesn't make it interesting.’ 
“Do you understand the meaning?”

“Yes I'm not an idiot.”
“And I'm not suggesting you are.
But, another glaring flaw appearing in your poetry is your 
use of grammar school childish rhymes.  Rhyming love with dove or home with roam and a long list of others. Then there are the worn out idioms or cliches that just add to your poem’s unoriginality. Maybe if you spent more time creating the poem instead of the hours you waste away planning its presentation, you'd find an epic piece that's been hidden away inside of you.
And as far as your ideas to gain attention, when I see a poem overlayed on a picture with fancy hard to read fonts in some jumbled format, I don't even take the time to read the title. Speaking of titles, stop using Untitled for a title. Because Untitled is actually a title. It says to me, If the poet lacks the talent to create a title, the poem must be equally uncreative. Make me understand why it’s necessary to gift wrap a poem and tie it up with ribbons and bows.”

"You don't have to be so mean. I just asked for help, not your degradation. Ya know what, go to hell. Your opinion doesn't make you right."

"That's correct, I'm not claiming to be right. I said I would give you my honest opinion. That's exactly what I'm doing.”

"Fine now no sex for you until maybe forever. You know I've received a lot of positive responses and encouraging comments from a few of my writing groups in the past.”

“And what good did that do?  Tell me. I see it as a dishonest act, perpetuating a major untruth. I'll call it like it is, a lie. When someone posts their poems in some Poetry Group and it receives undeserved compliments. People comment with  positive statements to someone who obviously has no talent for writing.  Telling them it's great ink or interesting creative verse, raving about how wonderful the poem is. They should be offering suggestions on how to write a decent poem or give examples of how their poem could be better. Give them an honest assessment of their work. What people are doing by giving undeserved kudos and accolades is setting them up for a horrible realization when every poem they submit to a magazine is rejected.  False encouragement and untruthful evaluation of their writing is a cruel act.  It will surely backfire in the future. Admins of those groups  explained  to me it is an act of being nice. Personally, I'd rather have an honest critique of my writing, positive or negative instead of bullshit. I don't need anyone to be nice. I don't need my ego stroked. I prefer to be told the truth. “

"What makes you Mr.Know it all? I don't see your books on the Bestseller list or your poems winning any awards. Who do you think you are? No matter what you say I've been told my poetry is unique."

"See, now here you go reacting exactly like a self-righteous person getting angry and defensive because you didn't receive flattering comments.  What makes you think everyone should shower you with praise? Let me give you a fact of life. There are some real rude, insensitive, cold-hearted, brutal and callous people in this world that won't be as polite when offering their opinion. So toughen up. “

"You hurt my feelings. I thought you would give me advice not to belittle me. You don't know what being nice is."

"I'm sorry if you're upset but it's just the way I see things. Ya know what I've got a great idea. Didn't you take some Art classes 
in painting a couple years back at  the Community College? I remember your Watercolor Paintings were dazzling. Maybe you should take a shot at being an Artist. What do you think? “