Murder Me, September 23, 2o13

Monday
Been away for a while. Gotta take a break now and then. This is an older poem that I wrote for a "challenge" some years ago. maybe the original was written 2o1o-11 or so. To tell the truth, I don't remember the challenge or what it was about. Reworked this one several times, and I feel as if it would make a nice title poem for my book . . . if I'm ever published. The ANIMATION work would the cover.

Murder Me

I can hear beyond the walls the vacant wail

of children . . . muffled screams, lips mumbling
unintelligible curses. Soft, whimpering . . .
tiny human things . . . slowly dying.

Nowhere to hide . . . out there . . . inside here

where the white monsters, the badger-men drag you.
The whisper room, the silent room . . .
Darkness bangs the door shut, the cold, grey floor
nibbles at your ears ‘til all goes . . . deaf.

They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . they murder me . . .

Thin, clean scalpels slicing wafer thick slits
along the hairline . . . opening the inside
of the skull . . . mind blisters, curdles, cringes . . .
a battery of drilling sounds gnaw at my brain.

The smell of cigarettes burning in an ashtray

near the Duster’s chair. He writes upon a yellow pad,
his scribble rips across the page, peels away
the festered layers of scab protecting my wound . . .
protecting me . . . from him.
He craves a deeper view of the deformities.

They’ve killed me . . . this time . . . They murder me

with comfortable wool-lined straps . . . restrain my
movement . . . the gel applied to the temples,
the hard, rubber mass shoved in my mouth.

I cannot breathe, I can’t . . . they lash

my head within a stainless-steel band . . .
They murder me . . . for sure this time. They—
—rrw o6-o9-12 (rewrites o9-21-13)

 

Shadows, September 12, 2o13

Thursday,
Finished this today after I spent a little time reading Whitman. Sadly, I never read much of Walt. I'm highly uneducated when it comes to poetry's American roots. Maybe a "little" of the Whitman style rubbed off on this poem.

Shadows

They're watching me again,
the shadows are. Right outside
the window. They huddle there,
a small crowd, a lump of gray
goo stuck to the bark, to the branches,
the leaves of the grandfather oak
right outside my pathetic window.
Annoying they can be . . . sometimes.
Even evening strains to whistle
them away . . . go . . . away!
Slither away, find some other place
to loiter, somewhere else to haunt,
someone else to bother.
And you, there, I can feel you there,
no need to deny it with silence,
no need to pretend it’s all in my head.
I can smell you picking at the lock.
I can taste you too, a bitter tongue taste.
Why can’t I spit you out, drown you out?
I should get up, flick the bedroom light on,
slam the blinds shut,  jam a sturdy, wooden chair
beneath the doorknob’s chin.TV on, full blast, cat
screeching loud, shadows screaming,
steel-grip fingertips garroting the ears.
I can’t hear you anymore.
I will not listen anymore.
You’re dead . . . violently dead to me.
rrw o9-12-13

Coffee Date, September 11, 2o13

Wednesday,
Short but, may I add, somewhat sweet little poem here?

Coffee Date

She had a dollar once.

She asked me out for coffee

way, way back when you could buy

two cups of coffee for less than a dollar.

No wonder lonely people unleash

the internet hounds to hunt  down love.

It’s far too expensive, these days,

to woo a lover in person.

rrw o9-o9-13

 

GREEN, Sptember 1o, 2o13

Tuesday,
Up again all night writing. Some of this newer stuff needs more work. However, not excited enough about it to work on it more. I think it's okay . . . But not great. So, here you go.

GREEN

 

The sun will arrive . . . again.

Shinning yellow bright . . . again

through the kitchen window, 

the one facing east . . . as usual.

My plants hate it when I write poetry

until five in the morning. I don't get up

early enough to raise the blinds

so they may bathe in morning light.

But I swear the ficus benjamina,

the pothos meditating on top the frig

are far more poetic than me.

Yet, they don't complain or if they do,

I don’t speak houseplant,

I can’t tell what they’re up to.

rrw o9-o9-13

 

Love Massacre, September o8, 2o13

Sunday,
   Late night ramblings. I think I found my muse. Wait until late at night and write down some nonsense and then the next day . . . turn it into something like a poem. I say "something like" cause I'm not sure anyone considers it poetry. Most the time it doesn't rhyme . . . most times the phrasing seems to disjointed. Proper English? Forget about it. But I do try to write things that are interesting and I DO try to be "unique." Most of the responses I get to my work are rather mundane, "good work, nice description." Damn it! My soul is in here! In every word I write! Maybe my spirit is a bit thin on profound meaning . . . but still . . . it is a soul.
   I need to find a new site with better font colors for the picture part of the poem. For some reason the one I'm using tends to bleed, become blurry. Don't know why. Maybe because it's free?

Love Massacre

I beg her shadow to get off the bed, “Come,

the couch is large enough for both of us.”
This only makes her frown. For couches,
of course, where made for sitting on,
watching TV, snuggling a bit, perhaps,
but sleeping? No never. Our dreams
would get stuck between the cushions
and we'd never find them buried in that nether land
amongst the ghostly quarters, dimes and pennies,
the stale  popcorn SHE flings into the air
each time we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We’ve seen that movie a zillion times.
SHE always jumps when ol’ Leatherface’s
chainsaw roars to life. And always SHE turns
her head and drills her perfect, little nose into my neck—
a trick SHE picked up from the dog.
Stuck its wet snout deep inside a half-eaten
bag of munchies I left unattended on said couch
one time . . . potato chip corpses all over the place.
Good company, I suppose, for all the other nasties
sleeping the sleep of misplaced garbage death. 
Ol’ Leatherface’s chainsaw screams,
the sexy blond actress he chases screams,
SHE screams and dog harmonizes
with a loud, mournful howl . I’m giggling
‘cause her pile-driving nose tickles. I’m
laughing  out loud ‘cause I can’t believe
How much I love this big wussy of a woman.
rrw o9-o8-13
 

Death by Comic, September o6, 2o13

Friday,
I meant to go to bed early . . . not a five in the morning! But I got busy writing some new poetry. Here's the latest.

Death by Comic

Too many people dying in the news tonight.

Civil war, of course, creates the greatest damage.
However, suicides and homicides domestic
are appealing to those of us who no longer bear
the shackles of a naughty, Arabotic government.
Personally, I would prefer death by comic. Ironic,
I suppose, but at least I’d be finished off
with a huge laugh. I’ve heard that men my age
can attract a heart attack, perish quite speedily
while performing sex. I do believe I have a better
chance finding me a sturdy, standup humorist
than a woman willing to make murderous love
to me, to those already dying from a lack of life.
But one can always dream. No matter how, or where,
or when I die, it will be (hopefully) quite entertaining.
—rrw o9-o6-13

 

 

Blubber, September o3, 2o13

Tuesday,
I don’t always cuss in my poems . . . but when I do . . . I cuss a lot. This poem has some language . . . so, if your offended by “language”  . . . don’t read it.

Blubber

 

Moby-Dick at a bar getting plastered,

“Motherfucker,” he muttered to himself.
“Mother fucking one legged bastard!”

“Hey! Hey!” the barmaid squawked,

“There’s no need for that kind’a talk!
We got ladies present!”

“Oh, it’s okay,” giggled Media quite pleasant . . . ly

while sipping at a quaint Chablis, “believe me,
I’ve heard worse from my twins.”

“Again?” William Shakespeare chimed in,
“Again with the fuckin’ twins?
Barkeep, tab me out.”

“Fucking peg leg son-of-a—“

“For God’s sakes!” Ahab screamed.

Everyone stared then whispered he,
“Jesus, Dickie, I said I was sorry.”
—rrw 1o-o2-11 (rewrites o9-o3-13)

Knittin' September o1, 2o13

Sunday,
I got caught up in this movie, Cloud Atlas, which has some scenes where characters talk in a Pidgin English. I was taken by it so much I decided to "create" my own language to express my poetry. Here's the beginnings of my "experiment."

Knittin'

I knit me-self a dreamy

out of darkly yarn, it binds me.
Longish sleeves, wide, gangly cleaves,  
sewin’ up the seeyers of my handys.
Me blubbin’ torso tumblin’ down
a black hole wooly, downhill deep
in boggy where the moon and starry-eye
do bolt to squawk when squawked upon,
pleaden with to yammer on and wispy up
a friendly sound, a bouncin’ ‘ bout
the cavern walls, a pleasin’ word or two.
A kindly thunk . . . me unforgettin’ you.

—rrw  o9-o1-13