Nerve (Selected & Neglected Poetry)

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Immaculate Ejaculate

You spew male dogma, certain that

we need the life in our

dead‑womb‑minds

as surely as you need

nodding approval from those

you subjugate

your swollen, phallic ego has

offered you a tyranny of

dreams, and you kneel and let

yourself be knighted because

it is your duty

but stop

greedy guardian, for I have never

asked for your tutelage

and my mind is not your womb.

smudgylines

Fat Crowds

I sit at the bar, cigarette in hand,

And worlds beyond,

Sultry skies mixed with sea hues of grey and blue.

My brain sleeps, yet in that moment

I fuck desire.

Heed the writing on the walls.

As fat crowds fill the streets;

Searching for what?

 I hold autumn close, squeezing her ass,

a pitiful tangle of dreams gather;

plastic gadgets for plastic people,

use your plastic card,

Where the inner self meets a soulless void and

bickering lips suck champagne,

And fat crowds drain from the streets,

doors slamming.

My hot breath fights against the wind.

I walk the promenade, gliding

And gone

smudgylines

Napkins from the Bar

 

I sit and drink my beer,

imagine you with your Crown

fitting for a Queen,

keeping company with a clown.

Scribbling lyrics on this napkin,

borrowed pen, and all

Fending off advances from

the local Neanderthals

Who wish to enlighten me

with their darkness,

try to make me laugh

A stupid conversation,

I don’t want to have.

I’ve always been a little too late,

a little more far than near

when the likelihood of fabulous

has whispered in my ear.

Whether it’s a fruitless fantasy,

a dangerous liaison

Love still tried to wander to

the chance that now is gone.

Gone like all my tight young skin,

and leonine good looks

Gone like passion, sweet and tender,

I only read about in books.

My timing, still, imperfect,

my standards way too grand

I still await the one for me,

believing that I can

I avoid the karma

touching you would bring

But I’ll still think about it,

dangle it from a string

And admire the pretty colors

in the prism of romance

Maudlin over might-have-beens,

tired of the dance

Creating fond scenarios,

while I listen to Spanish Guitar,

Writing songs on napkins from the bar.

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