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HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;

with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things

Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;

with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering

Pumpkin DaysWindy and gray, the colors of autumn muted beneath the heavy-handed skies
Treetops dance, nonetheless, shedding more of themselves without regret
Inside, the lights are on, a television screen flickers, dust settles
Watermelon days are a memory, pumpkin days are here, suicidal leaves fall

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

Recession A man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.

He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.

Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

HalloweenThis is October's last song, before the winds
Rip the trees bare and November's cold grasp takes hold
The celebration of dead saints and sinners
The lonely wandering song, the looney tune
Flickers from porch-pumpkins grinning like skulls

This is the dreamworld, the fertile earth of imagination
Wet leaves underfoot, the song is carried house-to-house
Curses upon that house that does not receive it, spirits
Will play their mischief and sing louder than the wind
This is October's last song, beware, hear it well

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

DescantDescant soundwaves bounce off of my forehead
Seeking entrance to my brain they want to
wriggle through like high pitched worms;
Insistent, hungry, throwing themselves forward.
Long after I've retired they still seek entrance
How can I sleep?

Always YouOpen my head, reach in, see what you pull out
Nothing but images of you
You in the Hallowed Hollow, you in fancy dress
Flying with the crows through the winter snow
It's always only you

You're on my TV selling cars, fighting mutant worms on Mars
You're in my fridge behind the juice, on jar lids just a bit too loose
You're in my closet wearing my jeans, somehow they fit you better than me
You're in my car, you're in the air, you're in my dreams in your underwear

Open my arm, my vein, see what I bleed out
Nothing but platelets of you
You in the spotlight in New York, you dressed all in white
Healing, working, dancing, dreaming
It's

ClockThe clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking
Only owls can save you from the crows, but the owls are all dead
You trade your minutes for magic beans, but they only stretch
The minutes into hours, while you wait, expecting something more

Forever and never are the same in the schematics of a life
The crows constant cawing and pecking remind you that you live
The touching against a friendly soul now and then makes you want to continue
The clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking

Reason flies out of the window with a shiny trophy in its beak
Love falls into the earth and becomes dust, unforgotten, unassuaged

TiredI am tired, heavy-footed, worn with wear I wear my hair
down long
Cold air blows through windows trying to nip the buds
long gone
I watch the cigarette smoke whip through the air currents
blue-grey
Saddened by the sun's insistence, shining on a day like
this day

I am rust, I am crushed metal, junkyard darkness, graveyard
sunset
I can't remember when I remembered what I'm trying so hard
to forget
Fire in oil drums replace the sun and the screaming and singing's
begun
I can't sing anymore, like Clancy can't, and the noise in my head's a
throb-thrum

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

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That Same Old Story

Arch-typically typical on tippie toes he tippled trippling waves of wires like wine
A yellow poncho and he was good to go with the uniformed girl in the line
Pretending to pay attention paid little, no one could pay in those days
The money was paper and people were papal so they never paid anyway
A windy wind gusted and blew off the shoe of the gnu who had heard all these things
But arch-typically typical tippie toed trippled he to the time travel thing

Welcome to the smorgasbord hello friends hello
Welcome to the dreamy days hello
Welcome to the mellow things the fluffy pink jello
Welcome to the smorgasbord hello

Ponchoboy left to

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Submitted: July 18, 2011
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A Drunken Hymn

by =Bark, Jul 18, 2011, 2:46:22 AM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Urban & Spoken Word

Fuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the why.

Would you like more sedimental drudge?
More holier-than-thou septic sludge?
Perhaps Saint Peter will come box your ears
And leave with a wink and a nudge.

(I like brats with kraut, my demons in bottles
My kittens with cream and my train at full throttle
Forty days, forty nights is nothing to me
I don't want your soul, but I'll take your body.)