"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Desolation Alley

Thanks go out to the editors at Things in Light for reminding me that April is National Poetry Month. Get your notepads and #2 pencils out and start writing, you have till the end of the month. Express Yourself!

I write poems the same way that old people fuck:  slow, sloppy and infrequently.  I posted several poems when I first started this blog, but I hastily took them down. It's with reluctance and a great deal of anguish, that I re-post. 

Welcome to Desolation Alley, where we wallow in misery, death and despair... purely by choice, of course.

"...the rest is silence"

The reaper's scythe grows dull from the harvest
this business of death... it affords him no rest
he reaps till they weep, yet they're not satisfied
pobre de ti... pobre de ti

Death is not an emotion, it's an inevitable conclusion
The emotional aspect is a human element
for in death....
to our limited knowledge, nothing is felt

The tallyman tallies our sins
and sends us down the appropriate path
The merchants of death stand in line with everyone else
awaiting judgement for their foul deeds

Even stone cold killers believe themselves worthy
of redemption in the face of God.

Winchester House

I was born a ghost, these words I must say
for on this earth I'm forced to stay.....

the voices you hear before you fall asleep
are nothing to fear just ghosts on the creep
whenever you wake with sweat on your brow
don't worry it's just a ghost on the prowl

the ordinary things you cannot find
the nagging thoughts that crowd your mind
the sudden chills rolling down your spine
of ghostly presence they are a sign

a woman looks on, a rifle she's holding
a silent witness to the scene unfolding
since their life's light the weapon did douse
they'll assemble enmasse at winchester house

at her direction....
an army of workmen cut and hammer all day
in order to keep the ghostly avengers at bay

unseen... unheard....
a gathering of  phantoms is summoned forth

the souls of men, set free of  mortal binds
forced to follow the Curve of the Earth
with no line on the horizon
and no horizontal departure
they are borne of the northern lights
conceived at the tropic of cancer
always shrouded in veils of asher
blowing over the plains of bonneville
filling the great salt lake with tears
drifting without rest or comfort
forever seeking a ripple in time

Razzle Dazzle Rose

i took a gun to a knife fight, so the story begins
i shaved my head, so the heat could get in
these dynamite walls crumbled right from the start
she put a yankee bayonet in my violent heart
a blowtorch bouquet from my razzle dazzle rose
a furnace room lullaby from the great below
Permanent daylight means vengeance is sleeping
how am i supposed to feel again?

a bouncing betty from my razzle dazzle rose
if you're paying attention, then you ought to know
i pick all my friends so careful and slow
if you're not on my list, then you ought to go
how am i supposed to feel again?

there comes a red light morning, so vivid without warning
a thousand yard stare from my razzle dazzle rose
how much i love her, she'll never know
with knives out i cut the rope from my heart
the distance between us is only a start
how am i supposed to feel again?

a camaro crawls into a california rolling stop
i'm searching my memory, but nothing will pop
i'm dialing for rides, but nobody picks up
a bullet and a target for my Razzle Dazzle Rose
how much she hates me, i'll never know

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