love

Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

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Living in a boarded-up brothel, casting no aspersions

at all and ever on, or prayers to the holy

father casting judgement, for He has no hands to feel

eyes to see or heart to beat, being only

a fact of existence, that He’s done

what He did is a world worth living

for after all, I resent

the magic of it, the love expressed

among the infinite variations on one

three-chord structure, emotion seeped

in splattered paint, subliminally experienced

fractures of society, family and personality

existing as the background noises

of life, living is the background behavior

of death, whatever, the fact is

it’s fascinating to be alive, whatever happens

to this planet, so just pay attention.

 

While present, vigilance is warranted

for in the end, the truth,

it burns like a scar forever

joyous, horribly lovely

screeching pain forever, mangled organs

parade across bleating elephants

put butt-to-butt, but it’s funky

which is all that matters, because, joyful tranquility

is a salve, not a solution, the only option

available is a bullet, to speak truth

he loudest way possible to the powerful,

life and death being the only

things they understand, by the truckloads

we must die, randomly in tragic

happenstance or poisoned

by the groundwater blood, flood of death

come through merciful, hopefully

we’ll have made it count, in the end.

 

So if as we’ve surmised death is rendered

senseless by the fog, and our limbs could separate

at any moment, so to speak, or literally

because things that crazy have happened,

pointless chaos is the writ, but hope demands

clergy bound strong, chaining penitent

to the sky by their eyes is the way

to retain subservience, perhaps happy

songs jump to the ceiling, but as one

all dance alike in the church, into the future

without armor, knowing there is but one

way to be, hotshot, vulnerable

open and recording, for memory is all

that exists in the mind, malleably unreliable

as it is, existence can appear as a torture

storm or not, for the end is a mirror

of the past, showing that happiness

is a lie to yourself, until its not

behind you anymore, for it is always

there, just open the door to your soul.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 1

Poem: Everything

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Forgetting is my favorite thing to do

to you, because you are

not, at all, disappearing from my imagination

day and night at once, I remember you fondly

from your youth, rectified clean, bursting inside out

you seemed from your experience a worker

angel in disguise, pasting heavenly

sputum all the sides, intoxicating gasses of love

torn from plaster, irreversibly sticky

are these bonds which bind us

made to break?  Necessarily not

I suppose, for it is not the forgetting, this time

towing shame in a canvas bag

again, for opinions held

would help me a lot again

were they kind, if cruel

would I stretch over the pit

perennially of fire?

 

Yes, obviously, whatta you kidding?

 

It’s just that I would and could

bathe in fire for the count of five, slowly

ratchet joints the wrong way

stretch tendons to snap, if need be

becoming deadly, call me the whisper,

the figure that speaks forever

in a voice too low, sinister snake

jibber jabber monologue mouth

erupting, silently wrapped.  Laughter

is my prize inside the skin, giggle jiggling

over the cirrus as they waft

from left to right, and the birds tweet

outside as they talk, cursing and threatening

each other for sure is a cousin of a friend

or something probably, will split the world

in two, anyway so love that woman

with everything that is

you.

Poem: Everything

Poem: Fateful Founders

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What if my girlfriend felt perfunctory

and like it was meant to be

a thousand times a thousand, that would be awful

certainty, certainly

measuring the prose to fold the flow

so small it disappears

into nothing, dull as a watchword

lesson over what, would I finally be

happy?  Hell no, says the green-eyed

taxman flicking his tail and scarring

the children mentally at least, you would be bored

as fuck all useless, so praise the horizon

storm when it comes especially crushing

the sky light, forming a fiberglass

cocoon like a butterfly, evolving you

gradually infinite pacing slowly

conversation masks abound, revealing that

we were meant to be regardless

unavoidable futures, dead end craving

a conclusion of the heart, roasting in the sun

salutatorian shimmer, so sharply it bites

off the end, leaving a single sculpture

of the two of us together, fighting the predetermined

fate written on leaves of grass

tornado turning, we are invention of art

constructing fate, desire incarnated beautifully

fragile fortunes favor, made only of our

own effort, deciding what was meant.

Poem: Fateful Founders

Poem: What They Did

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I don’t know what she’s thinking, circles and star wand

waving speaks volumes but not to me

because probably, I don’t know what it does

or did, garble roaring from beyond and behind recalling

poison prejudice and misting it around, but that’s only me

living in past fantasy short stories I scribbled

on bathroom walls, but prison shower brawls

are titlating so never mind because that’s what ignited

all of my phallus fulcrum tilting face first

into fantasy, so maybe that’s her too, maybe.

Her name was Samantha.

 

I describe what I am as parts and pieces missing,

that’s all there is really and you’re all just weird

about it, no never mind is more than I’ll go, thinking over

what quote unquote nature puts as my outline

in this reality but it’s only rules, so they can fuck me

over with a penis, but I am what I am and that’s all

that I am a woman is all that I know and I can’t

live this way anymore so I won’t, and that’s all they need

to know, is that I am a woman, and have ever been.

His name was Jeremy.

 

Jeremy and Samantha burning lake of laughter

fuels a fire, an ignition inferno expanding and licking

all the lips, in and out shimmy shammy and they both loved

the inner body, licking his and her arteries exploring

each and every option of all possible permutations,

but then he discovered what she used to be and he laughed

and said that he knew, and that they should do

what they were made to do and so they did.

They made love and it was cool.

Poem: What They Did

Poem: Exorcism

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My apartment is haunted by a farting ghost

that I love, is a sensual certainty

beating heart batterer, occasionally depending

on the slings and arrows, she coughs fire

facials for me, wrathfully correcting the erection

of confidence unfounded, coiled springs tight

pound impractical timpani orchestras, might as well be

thunder far off, ominously percussive

sign that my trials are only beginning.

Poem: Exorcism

Poem: Lessons

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A death-croaking prophet, and other terms I borrow

of Sexus, by Henry Miller, recreate the sentiments on Plato’s cave wall

with reckless abandon, disappear the frozen night

as it chatters, the mouth of the past pulls us down

bloody curtains, life stained satirically causeless

monster gods, holy heavens of horror

blinding the innocent vision quest, until I see

nothing at all, is inside the slide, undignified.

 

Capital L logic is the only course, is a curse uttered wordless

windswept sweeping plains, chugging like a festival

express train, drunken reveries abound

all day through the night, picture shaping landscapes

under florescent clouds, shining from behind

through the moist meat, all of all gloried

terms of definition, most plain at end

which comes to us all, before no sculpture of consequence.

 

Joy is just a portal, on the other side is fog

risking all of it, for there is no finish for fury

filling sacks of invention, mystery is timeless

limitless progress, rolling up a hill only to fall

victim of the sanctified, this is why we breathe

smoke of factories warring, building to fiery death of all

we have created in the mine, cures for impotence

rendered pointless, Sisyphan love is happiness, truly.

 

Argue, fuss and fight your way to the truth

that pain is a doorway, certainly evinced everyday

in different ways, on a pianola roll rotating

paranoia dots ever on, twinkling constellation stars

in a foreign language, barroom brawl music

portending troubling times, sounding cheerily ominous

for a moment remembered, ever on in dreams

good and bad, defeats are steps just the same.

Poem: Lessons

“Exile on Main Street” by the Rolling Stones

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Whistle smooth, flowing free like the breeze in an alley

at night, “Rocks Off” by The Rolling Stones kicks, like a styrofoam

pink dice mule, and “Rip this Joint” claws through its velvet

curtains for you, a parading saxaphone hoists your symbol

up on a pike, piercing the god shadow of night’s

dark disguise, so by the time you boogie on the roulette

wheel you’re plastered, shaking your hips in a tumble

time of reflection, wondering whether wounded lovers

compose a jury, squealing like a one-string guitar

in a ballad for the moon, raised up on dice angels

low down crazy wailing, pleading in a rain storm

of “Tumbling Dice” enough is never said, but a mourning

dawn’s harmonica leads into a barroom

sing along chorus, scraping the shit off

all of our shoes, to see “Sweet Virginia”

“Torn and Frayed” brings a “Loving Cup”

full of mud, begging a drink, slowing to a pause.

 

I need love to keep me “Happy,” you’re god damn

right over horns again, we are all on the run

from nothing and everything, rejoicing in our losses

with an accordion squeeze, “Ventilator Blues” tether on a drum

beat slowly constant, building slowly on a desire

until we “Let it Loose” in the sky, floating over a choir

of beautiful spirits, patterned with piano

horn and organ, for a pal to join us

“All Down the Line” greasy with oil sweating

tears of joy, but I won’t break down

ever, into the piano pit with the blues

hounds all around, they’re all my friends and allies

chuffing me a good clip, releasing into joyous chorus

feeling the life of light, shining from the good lord

shining a song, calling you the “Soul Survivor”

with bell-bottom blues, spilling onto everything.

 

This is my favorite album, and it changed my life.

“Exile on Main Street” by the Rolling Stones

Poem: Ring the Bell

AndrewHalterOmniblog, , , , , , Leave a comment

It’s fight day, today

in the sun we’re roasting and anticipating

a bloodbath, packed in a blender

set to spray the walls with guts, screaming out the names

of our gods and loved ones, plaintiff

under the rolling pin

of progress, undirected asphalt sovereign

lords of deafness, under their hoods

we see the glowing eyes

are hypnotic, sticking us

with the bill, none are an ally

of any dead men pulling, permanent casino fixtures

glimpse hope as impossible.

 

I can see the hatch, above so small

to crawl through a crack

seems death down, to the core

of everyone, but they beg our pardon

telling to try again, once more to the breach

dear friends depart, clanking the shutters

down over the exit hole, glimpse the opponent

in the eyes, looking through

the mirror and me, locked in savage

combat of love

music art making,

Poem: Ring the Bell

Poem: Childhood

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In the muck, every step is a trial

for oneself the jury, a thick wet slog

against the ease of suicide, there is no thirst

for the future will be as it was before,

you know well, let the page turn

to reveal a picture of you when you were ten,

or four with your brother

in the bathtub, before life bared

its teeth, joy through the eyes

of your descendants, technicolor wash

saying you could have died

right then, but that’s a lie

because you didn’t think that, is memory

in the end, fitting puzzle pieces

wherever you can, that little boy

is a mystery, only now is

the time to come, enjoy yourself

in the gentle smiles of those you love.

Poem: Childhood

Poem: The Future

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A recording, unfamiliar, pleading

pathetic parasite, phone booth floor-dwelling

cur, do sixteen pushups and hit the rowing

machine like you used to, it won’t make any

difference in the run, because you fell

in love, and now you know such joy

as you could not have imagined, unless

you were in the middle of a fit or something,

in a paranoid fantasy you may have dreamt up

a story like this, where all you could need

is nearness, getting to know yourself is hard.

 

Because I’ve never experienced a feeling

like this before, and to have it all the time zapping me

to my reaching out, and to feel a yipe

singe, ya know, so I get over it but goddamn

it feels like a hell bite, like oh shit what did

I do?  To let this crazy bitch, with more baggage

than a freight train, into my brain bleeding

ecstasy, making me drunk on it, and I forget

that I sound like a retard, it’s disgusting.

 

It’s not terrible, I know, and I understand

that you know what I’m saying, but goodamn it

I know what it sounds like, it sounds like

a grocer thinking “oh boy, now I gotta deal with this

shit I don’t need,” but that’s not even accurate,

it can’t be expressed in words because

it is so subtle I can’t really be sure I’ve ever seen it,

the genuine reaction to my glorious voice,

but I am sure, because I feel it the same way you do

staring into space, when you’re shadow is

a lamppost, I can go nowhere but straight

forward, into your arms a thankful grin.

 

Knowing yourself is worth nothing, for your love

is not you, holding reins with orders

barking, your champion is the spirit of dawn

and dusk, pulling you on chains to the dawning

adventure burning into the sky with a singeing

tail, chattering wordlessly with your old friend

in the darkness, passing out on Theta house lawn

where they don’t talk to you anymore, opening

the door to a knife cut horizon, carving you

a path, downward through time and space.

Poem: The Future