Leah Mueller

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ Leave a comment
Open Letter to an Asshole
You goddamn clown
of a publisher, too bad
you don’t wear a costume
with floppy red shoes
so I could tell in advance
you were about
to indulge in
pie-in-the-face shenanigans.
Still, sooner or later,
the clown always gets
a pie in the face, himself.
That’s how it works
in the one-ring circus
of low-budget literature.
Nothing worse than
a tribe of hipsters
courting MFAs
while decrying privilege.
No wonder we ended up
with Donald Trump.
 
 
Revolution Stew
Take six cups unemployment,
four tablespoons of poverty,
three cups no insurance,
five cloves no hope,
and a pinch or two of despair.
Sprinkle with opioids
and throw the whole mess
into a pressure cooker.
Boil it vigorously
at high heat setting
until everything is gone.
Serve with a nice merlot.

Donna Dallas

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ 1 Comment

2019 is like this

I need a savior lord

knows I need a slick

gin and tonic to slide smoothly

down my throat vape cigarettes through a blue filtered pen

could trade places with sweet-at-home wives instead I

grind over and over but

all I really want is a cat

on my lap as I listen to the night

owl as I listen to the sharp cracks

in the fire when the logs pop and watch

the sparks fly out like shooting

stars I am a mother / a workhorse / the under-dog

I, the ample giver

caretaker

a getter

not a lover (……..well maybe sometimes)

I fold the sheets sloppily and I think

fuck it

 

 

 

Gods of a bone head part 5

Woke up 3:38am with night terrors

what will happen when I can truly sleep soundly?

I’ll be dead and just won’t wake up

I have no problems

I have so many problems

which one will murder me?

which one problem is my friend in disguise as a hacker / as a malignant / as a hex…?

the days in and days out, I cannot undo

I am in the middle of re-wiring myself

and I will wire straight into hell

scorch / burn me fiercely

charred meat

that still walks and talks and fucks

yet is a child living in the head of a dead

adult

still attempting to dream

yearning to dream

fuck out of time

 

 

Epic Wretch

I think I will stick around

I wanna see who my son brings home

who he will love I want to see

what my daughter’s hair looks like

when she is sixteen and stunning

want to hear how the cardinal singing

outside my bedroom window sounds

to my ears at fifty

want to see if the world truly ends

and if my bag of bones will withstand

 

 

 

Sarcophagus

When I was drowning and you pushed my head down deeper

you said pain and fear exit the body at the exact climax

of life into death…….I fell into a pit

lay fetal in deadness for days

naked

flies buzzed around my pus infected sores

depositing larvae into my eyes

I could not see

it was black as fuck

you were laughing……I was writhing

I grasped your coat sleeve begged you to stay

you dragged me across the floor

my knees scraped to bloody nubs

you fled into the desert

slept like a suckling under the cactus that tried to

murder me with pricks the size of penises

stuck me almost got me

at the lake the next summer you pretended it was a dream

and you lost your way had to ask for directions

hence you are back

But I still lay dead

 

 

 

Sinner

I can’t touch God

through thin air

I try to

pry open

a cloud

look for wings

or a harp……..I lie in bed

in search of

an angel

flapping music

I whisper my

confessions tonight……..

but only the devil listens

 

 

Fess Box

I’m stuck as fuck in this ever so tight place I can’t break out

knock my head through this wall I step outside myself

to watch the rising sun I get into

the heat

of it all

I surprise myself with these legs

I move shit

I can move as fast as fuck if I want to

only

if I want to

I have this body thirty-something years

this bitch has never let me down

I held babies in this womb

I gave the milk of my breast I let them carve me open

and remove any fucked up shit that did not belong

in the secret places of my body when it wasn’t the time to be there

and you thought it wasn’t the time for me

to be up in your womb

(when you told him – not your husband – not the father that I come to

understand isn’t even my father)

when you told Mr. X your shit was barren and you got a little bit more

than a happy ending

you got a bun in the oven and you were unable to abort the mission

since Roe vs. Wade wasn’t Roe’n or Wade’n then

and you couldn’t find the back alley or witch doctors to creep up your vag

with a tree branch and decapitate my little baby head

I am a survivor

I saw the little imp and it ran in fear from me because I truly am savage

with love I never knew could be mine

I never realized I had wings and could wrap

around buildings and raise the dead

I can swing a bat and knock a house down

bring it home

to a warm bed and sweet sweet man who may

actually love

the bitch bedding

inside my bones

 

 

 

Empty

Let sleeping princesses be………

stop watching me when I sleep you might dirty my air

or suck my precious breath from me I have hated you for decades

yet you come in the night to watch and learn

you will take me…….my last breath……..when a princess I am no more

when the queen cometh/when the moon cometh/when we are broken

………..and collapsed

you will claim this sleeping beauty

as if I owe you…….but there is nothing left to take here

 

 

 

Hell hath no fury….

When dreadful

whispers awaken

that fury within her

when she comes to understand

she has been deceived

that electric shock

that reboot

when scorned

devils cower

from her quake

she is coming

cunting

ravaging…..

be afraid

Judge Santiago Burdon

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ 2 Comments
Lunch at Larry’s Loveshack
   Dancing for Dollars
I didn’t come for the food
But the Ham on Rye tastes great
Go dance on your pole and smile
Does every Titty Bar
play the same worn out songs
I’ll  kill the DJ if he plays Born To Be Wild
Get up on the stage take off your clothes
Don’t waste time with the tease
I’ve only have an hour
Before I gotta pick up da wife
Let me give that fine ass a squeeze
Come here and stick your tits in my face
How much for a table dance
Don’t tell me you can’t remember my name
I’m not here looking for romance
Don’t wanna a massage can’t afford a date.
Let me stick a dollar in your G string
I’ve gotta frog in my pants come ere sit on my lap.
I’ll give you some cocaine but I  won’t buy you a drink
Where you going get on back here
what the hell is your problem
Not enough money to buy your company
You’re  just a Titty Dancer you should gimme da respect
I’ll be back tomorrow
You can apologize to me

Ian Copestick

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ 1 Comment
Sleep
I remember once reading
That so called experts
Still didn’t entirely know
Why it is we sleep. Of
Course we need to
Both physically and
Mentally rest, but they
Didn’t fully get it. I do.
If our lives weren’t
Broken up somehow
Into easily digestible
Pieces, we’d go insane.
” Tomorrow’s another
Day “,  ” Sleep on it ”
” It will look better in
The morning “. All of
Those platitudes would
Be gone. Looking at
Life as one huge
Uninterrupted whole
Would be more than
The human mind can
Stand. Sleep helps us
To forget and to put
Things into perspective.
Without it, we’d go raving
Mad. Even more than
Usual.

John Grey

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ Leave a comment

THE UGLY TOURIST

The locals don’t understand.

Why are you here among us

if you’re not buying our trinkets,

paying cash to take photos

of our hard leathery faces?

I’m trying to immerse myself

in the culture of these people.

Yes, they have dances and rituals,

beliefs and behaviors

with symbolic meaning,

religious significance.

But they just can’t afford them right now.

Ian Copestick

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ Leave a comment
The Dirtiest Of Concepts
My first book, a volume of poetry
Has been on sale now for a couple of weeks
All of the old friends I meet ask the same question
With what seems to be the same voice
” What are you getting out of it, man ?”
” Yeah, cool but how much are you making ?”
” So when do you start receiving royalties then mate ? “
Bringing the whole thing down to one word :
MONEY
Not thinking that writing the poems
Is a way to escape from money worries
Not thinking about me expressing myself
Or finding out more about the real me
It always comes back to that dirtiest of concepts
The root of all evil, the dreaded money
People don’t seem to realise that
Like time, work and sin, money is just
Something that was made up one day
Another way to keep people in line
To show who is on top, who is better
Than who. Well, we’re all born with
nothing
And we all die with nothing. I seem to
Have wandered away from the point
I was trying to make. I may have taken
The scenic route but I think I have got
There all the same
For fans of Ian’s work, please support the art of your fellow human beings by checking out his latest book, “Detritus Of The Drunken Night ” on Cajun Mutt Press.

J.J. Campbell

~ The Beatnik Cowboy ~ Leave a comment
the house i grew up in
a howling wind
mother nature coming
to take what’s hers
the tornado hit the
house i grew up in
hit the bedroom
where i first thought
of suicide at the
age of eight
when i saw the
picture, i laughed
once again
she took her shot
at me and missed
it’s not like i’m
running
i’ve lived in the
same county my
entire life
apparently,
someone has
piss poor aim
———————————————————————-
tears of rage turning to blood
i get lost in your
darkness waiting
to be taken
to have this soul
devoured
to be held in your
arms and melt
tears of rage
turning to
blood
a pain lost upon
anyone who doesn’t
understand suffering
and as i look in your
eyes and calmly tell
you i love you
one day this pain
will hopefully give
you the kingdom
you deserve
——————————————————————–
purple sunshine
there’s this little woman
who sings me spanish
lullabies in my dreams
her kisses taste like
purple sunshine
or perhaps the cocaine
is now laced with honey
from the last living bees
on this earth
she peels back my skin
and finds puzzle pieces
that have been broken
and misplaced for years
in the moments where
she takes the time to
pretend to care, i
struggle to find the
words
we spend the mornings
in bed together
drinking coffee and
making each other
laugh
i always wake from
these dreams and
get sad
she still only thinks
of me as the poet
from the other side
of the country