chapbook

[snake0067]

Some stuff I wrote

A String Theory

The weaver spins
his ravished threads
the beat picks up
over righteous fans

his ravished threads
there's hope in that
over righteous fans
he'll strum along

there's hope in that
collage of quick fingers
he'll strum along
make them ride the high

collage of quick fingers
a line of mixed notes
make them ride the high
give them every inch

a line of mixed notes
let's slow it down
give them every inch
of our connection

let's slow it down
pack every pluck
of our connection
through those strings

 

[snake0067]

Beautifully Flawed

A flower so perfect, so
endearing to the corporate hearts and candies.
A flower of the young flawless laughing down a beach.
You see a perfect flower.
Done?
Now see me, see the flower
faded to pink around the broken stamen,
sparsely pettled on one side.
Fuzz coats my leaves as a light foam.
You see
me, an aside
to the perfect bloom.
You see a flower,
stunted, possibly beautiful;
but perhaps
at a few steps back
we are
those perfect flowers.

 

[snake0067]

A Big Blue Door

Short wide desks
smooth and cold;
a slanted intercom
has an older masculine voice with static, an unwavering tone.

Teacher wears an ugly suit, with the pointy shoulders.
Backpacks lie in a pile on the wall
by the door
the door
a big blue door
with scratches
always kept close.

The growing loudness of the words
I heard over and over and over.
Draped in a flower dress the tall girl
with black hair
hiding most of her glasses;
her hand
beneath the table flicks me off.
Why?

Teacher's hands clutches the frame.
Her head is lowered; blonde hair has fallen out of place.
Her heel
is buried in the stomach
of a small black boy, pinning him in the corner.
Snot
and tears
are all over his face.
He whines a little louder
when he sees the door is open.
"Go in the other way."
I see a big blue door
and not what's on the other side.

 

[snake0067]

The Manly Office

I have seen the shores of Oceania
cold, gray, lifeless beaches
I am the fist, the rock, the island
the man

In dreamy 'scapes with flowered hills
I might hope to cry one day

Hollow! I am commanded
be drab; inert
and drink beer I hate the taste of
and for god's sake son cut your hair

Offer quips over fallen foes
who dared oppose this mighty man
made heavy-crude
to bash skulls in

Be lulled little doggy
and don't you ever cry

 

[snake0067]

Crock-pot

In father's narrow kitchen, in brilliant madness
concoctions fuse to conch fritters,
scallop and mushroom filled crepes with cream sauce,
and lobster bisque
from the ruined useless corpses of lobsters.
Aside, the oven where Punkin'head baked
her blackened
cookies flambé, a wretched thing stews
-- waits to be unleashed
upon hapless taste buds,
it hisses in the morning darkness
Michelle is drawn to look
through the moisture laden lid, to see
the green arrowheads of basil, and the black, dull eyes of a shrimp
vibrating in the light bubbles.
A fear, a fear of knowing
when the sun shadows the other way,
and crock-pot
has bubbled to a lewd sludge,
and the pink crustacean muscle, the vibrant beta carotene,
have been broken to brown paste.
To the shelf where
she clutches her savior,
her bag of Lays.

 

[snake0067]

The Evisceration of Mullets

Old roads long ago cracked,
cut throught brick buildings of dilapidation.
The metal, on the buildings
and on the boats,
rusts to unusable
orangish-brown flakes with a light breeze.

Old men clean their catch for meager pay
on the gray docks protruding into the inlet
which opens to the bay.
Deep wrinkles
of an assaulting sun
mark the men and split the boards.
Pylons jut up, what the held rotted long ago.

Blue balloon bodies of Partuguese Man-o-war litter the beach after bad storms.

Evisceration of mullets,
by the millions,
draws schools of pinfish
and blue crabs to sit atop oysters and nibble.
A sandbar or bonnet head will come to feed.
Pelicans snatch cartwheeling intestines from the air, before they hit the brackish sea.
It's late.
The shrimp boats head out.

 

[snake0067]

Haikus on Football


On the lineman's face
over the coat of sweat
trails the line of blood


I'm waiting
for my first downs.
Hurry catch your breath.


We have football
he'll shift spin juke and dash
down the sideline.


Just keep running
as his body burns like fire
just keep running

 

[snake0067]

Haikus


colors of trash
unspectacularly dim
through the plastic bag


the dying hawk on
the Newberry exit still
snaps at Dodge tires


A full laughing
table -- from the bar, that looks
like a lot of fun


bright blue eyes of
scallops open and close
behind their shell

 

[snake0067]

Come to Me From Down the Road

A chink chink of lolly in his satchel
bouncing in rhythm of his steps
as his fellows huffed up the muddy road,
by the grape fields (of which
they could not help but privy themselves to
with sweet juices popping in their mouths)
of that foreign land. Things better served unseen skittered,
or perhaps writhed.

Garments clung in a sticky bog of dripping skins,
abashed with the slight breeze tasting of silk,
so cruel in coquette's fashion.
The moans and moonlit silhouettes are all that alert each other to the rest.
No one talks, all just walk,
walk to me the thing they have not seen.
They speak of "the squeeze" and laugh.

From my vantage
on the lone branch of the rotting trunk which
draps over the road I watch.
My eyes grayed by a half-hearted moon
are fixed upon them with a wild madness.
The parties look is dipped in fear.

Aware of me now, they do nothing,
they quiver.
A silent parley of emotions and I know I have them.
Perched I stare unblinking, unmoving.
My little horns outlined by the moon.
Silent wings bear me off to feed on field mice
skittering through the grape fields.

 

[snake0067]

Strings of a Puppet, and a Boy

They would not cut the puppet's string
to do so would leave him a coaxless doll
so they spit him out a tangled thing

This child's delight of laz playing
he and puppet did the downhill roll
they would not cut the puppet's string

Despite jumbled threads he kept abiding
a boy with not quite enough good ol'
so they spit him out a tangled thing

Far off the boy went to keep them dying
feeling unsuited to this thankless role
they would not cut the puppets string

In soggied boots he lacked in fighting
"why" never mattered in West's death toll
so they spit him out a tangled thing

Before a fire he rocks there sitting
as the fire breaks his puppet to coals
they would not cut the puppets string
so they spit him out a tangled thing

 

[snake0067]

That bad huh?

 

[WickedEve]

That bad huh?

You never stated if you were here to share or if you wanted feedback. Besides, a long list of poems--in a thread titled chapbook--looks more like personal storage. I'd be happy to leave feedback, but there are so many poems to wade through. Any suggestions on which one is your best or which one you'd really like feedback on?

Edit: I did a quick read of most of your poems and they look good--good enough for me to come back later and read some more.

 

[snake0067]

You never stated if you were here to share or if you wanted feedback. Besides, a long list of poems--in a thread titled chapbook--looks more like personal storage. I'd be happy to leave feedback, but there are so many poems to wade through. Any suggestions on which one is your best or which one you'd really like feedback on?

Edit: I did a quick read of most of your poems and they look good--good enough for me to come back later and read some more.

Eh, no big deal either way really, but you're right the thread title was a bad idea.

 

[kinkikittyn]

beautifully flawed...perfect flower.


lovely works. thank you for sharing.

 

[snake0067]

beautifully flawed...perfect flower.


lovely works. thank you for sharing.

lol wow I'd forgotten I posted these.

Thanks glad you liked them.

 

[snake0067]

I swear it never fails, if I go back and look at anything I've ever written I always hate it lol.

 

[Angeline]

You've got some good stuff here. You're nimble with words. Crock-Pot is so well written it really grossed me out--then made me laugh at the end.

 

[snake0067]

You've got some good stuff here. You're nimble with words. Crock-Pot is so well written it really grossed me out--then made me laugh at the end.

thanks