The Matriarch’s Funeral
 
All gather, pull respect from pockets,
hold warmth of memories
to our cheeks: Picnics peppered
with baseball games and playgrounds.
Adults playing Spades in the shade.
 
Stitches of blood link generations
in this quilt. We nod when words
might tear holes in fabric.
I forgo the chance to ask
for the money you owe.
You fail to remind our brother
he wrecked your Wrangler.
 
A single thread may loosen
over time. Some stay tight
and straight. Others break.
Our cousin staggers into the church,
rehab a distant memory for all.
Our aunt overdosed long ago.
 
As we leave the cemetery,
moods melt from sadness to resentment.
Pendulum swings—
quilt continues to fray and fade.

Here’s What Happened

One blue morning
recovering from surgery
on a torn anterior cruciate ligament

with my leg bound in a cast
from shin to bollocks,

I see, from my window,
the local drunk muscling
through blustery winds.

In his tattooed paw,
he grips a neon
blue carrier bag bulging
with a two-litre bottle
of cheap cider.

It swings past his knees
and splits.

His blue bottle bounces
and rolls off the kerb.

He stoops to pick
it up,
and wooah,
over he goes
in slow motion.

He struggles
with a blurry equilibrium
against assaulting winds

as a white car
halts beside him.

This couple in shining armour
rush to help before noticing
he’s a dastardly drunkard.

They recoil in terror
as his piss
darkens the crotch
of his light blue
jeans.

They leap back
into the comfort
of their white car
and gallop away
into the distant
sunrise,

leaving our hero
stranded
on the battleground.

But for him
this war
is far from over.

The old boy
musters up
the strength
to scoop up
his cider.

He rises
with potency
and carries his blue
bottle like Achilles
carried Patroclus.

And our bibulous hero
marches forth victorious,
despite the violent elements,
up an empty road.

And I think,

everyone wants to be a hero
until there’s a slight chance
of getting a drunk’s piss
on them.

Do You Ever?


Do you ever walk
around your local
streets, and feel as
if you don't feel
right?
You don't fit in?

As if life is a mystery
that you just can't
crack?

I know that feeling
only too well.

Well, I'm here to
give you some
good news.

As you get older,
you learn how to
hide it.

You don't get over
it, but you learn to
live with it. 

5:16 A.M.

 
A lonely car cruises down the dark street outside
my window, as the empty coffee cup laughs at me
from the abyss. The reverb in the headphones is
cranked up, so I can barely hear the keys tap. I
am the son and the heir Of a shyness that is
criminally vulgar, croons Morrissey.

Time to make the most of the early a.m. without
seeing well-meaning people clogging up the
sidewalks. I am not antisocial, more asocial
(there is a difference.) Crowds work my nerves, and
a twitch crawls up my spine when the coffeehouse is
more than half full. How does it feel To treat me
like you do, cries New Order.

Who knows what my internal organs are plotting or
doing? (Colliding like irresponsible drunk
drivers; tying each other up in knots.) Seize the
day? Today could be the last day. I have to make
it count. Slave to the power of Death, belts Iron
Maiden.

The fresh mint dental floss on my desk promises
Extra Comfort, but I would settle for more darkness
before the glaring SoCal sunlight and monotonous
blue sky invade my inner sanctum. I would give
anything for some New England grey and a widow’s
walk — Oh, no! Cursed daybreak unfolds! — Now I
must finish this vampire paean to dark solitude.
The sky is thankfully foggy, which, at least, is a
step in the right direction. Bela Lugosi’s dead
Undead, undead, undead, drones Bauhaus.



PLEA

 
Stick figures with crooked leers bully the boardwalk,
trampling sandcastles made by faceless unfortunates

swept away by the tides of implacable change. The
TV is an oozing neurosis box on which

commercials abound about dental implants, home
invasions, panaceas with wretched side effects,

and candy-coated pills encapsulating bite-sized
fears. Somebody stamp my transcendental passport

and give me a leg up and a way out. Watch me
leap over socially reinforced quicksand,

lash together a driftwood raft, and paddle until
I land upon the other rarely reached, distant shore.

Sweet Bitch Lane


A sweet bitch
Takes care of her man.
A sweet bitch
Works two jobs to
Support her man’s habit.
A sweet bitch
Blows the cop to
Get you out of a ticket.
A sweet bitch
Screws your mechanic
For a free engine.
A sweet bitch
Jerks off the butcher
For extra meat.
A sweet bitch
Does all your friends.
A sweet bitch
Gives the mailman
A hum job just to
Stay in practice.
A sweet bitch always
Keeps her back door
Open for business.
A sweet bitch does
All that and more
For her man.
Now, a good woman
Doesn’t do any of that.
A good woman inspires
Her man to be a man,
A provider and protector.
That’s what makes a
Good woman ‘Great’.
That’s the one you keep.

"War of Words"

Learning how
to spell
and

writing with hot
lead

I REALLY LIKE LOVERS OF POETRY

 
I really like lovers of poetry. I have a faithful
friend who is always interested in my new
books.

When I hand her the next edition, she asks me
to read a few selected works from it.
And then she asks like this:
And what do you get out of it?

And I answer her with a question:
In what sense?

Then she explains:
In an economic sense.

Then there is a two-minute silence.

And after a while we are already talking
about problems with nature conservation.

And so we have been together since time
immemorial.
I really like lovers of poetry.

(translated by Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Slease)

August

Teal blue of my fairy strands
The murderous blues
The hauntings of sun dried cuts
Kill your belongings
It's August
They said
But I'm still
Hooking my drunken soul
My red wined Coolings
Can't
Your own dealing
Homicides across globe
My spirits a childish grimace
Enjoy your youth
Sip be merry
A good natured wife
Milk of human kindness
Halted on
London bridges
Cycling through ages
Your white coloured tie
Pattern of your very being
Still my child's sweater
Warm sipping
A home cooked meal
But
The city's on fire
A Phoenix Soul
Soon a torpedo glory
Sky high nebulas
I screamed through
Be drunken white
Your own patterns
Still it's August
They said
And My.

I stepped in vomit today
it oozed between my toes

I write this because

it’s not everyday you step
in your own filth

wait, actually
it is




THE GREASE IN THE EMPTY PIZZA BOX

I feel awful
the day is putrid

greasy pizza box
condom wrapper on the floor

last night was champagne moonlight
today the sun is a hangover

I don’t think anymore
I just react
like the squirrel on the deck
when I open the door
I run for my life

I’m tired of it
I’d like to just get it over with
my death could just be like
jumping into cold water

but I remain
I sustain
I don’t know why

I’m lying here on this unmade bed
crushed under
the weight of these words

AT 3:32

at 3:32 a.m. a freight train whistle runs
up valley walls into my bedroom

mixing well with images of lust, blame
and heartbreak jamming my head;

a throat-clutching moment.

if I smoked cigarettes it would be
a good time to chain smoke

so the wispy tar cloud could lift me
off my blue sheets, carry me

closer to exquisite memories,

closer to where a boastful locomotive
soul is born onto this world,

the bull iron thing always pulling out
on time, guided by someone who knows

how to navigate every tricky, twisted
track without getting lost.




STEPS OF THE SCAFFOLD

The fires of love, part of a scheme, a raging tentacle at times
that closes in on the fleshy throat. It’s so difficult to learn
from the scar, to sit in the confessional chair and beg for help.

It appears we of human need are born to play with matches,
to drink heat, to lay at the gold altar of lust, ignoring nails
in the floorboards, waving off answers hurled our way,
directly and with good intent.

Silly at times, unwarranted, yet we remain possessed with hope;
we cast off the cost of scorching temptation, tick-tinted desire;
we seek to be touched in a way that ignores crackling thunder;
we want to be cuddled, drooled over, fused with cherry blossoms,

a safe place where we aren’t face-slapped, where the stringy soul
isn’t hung out to dry, where our bravely galloping dreams
don’t slide too damn close to the steps of the scaffold.