Poems

Vent

Several gentle things that I could say

They would nail me for, in mother's way,

And hateful Mary Kelley. Damn the day!

My mother killed me underneath the law.

Mary Kelley dealt the coup de grace.

Was it Jacqui Schiff behind the shades

Arranging those fantastical charades?
Mary Kelley drove the wooden spike

Through my heart and everything I like.

I have verse. She has a degree.

To hell with her. I live in poesy.

I can do it, and I do it well.

She can only slither back to hell,

Report to god that Jesus Christ is dead.

A book is closed I wish I'd never read.

Now I've written and my guts are spent.

Christ! Don't let this verse be just to vent.

8-4-13

 

Ted & Buck

Two bastards in my life have wanted me

For only sex, and mocked my poesy.

Ted and Buck. First names have to do

Lest they read this and decide to sue.

I was young, in love, without regret -

The two most selfish people I have met.

Alone with his superiority

Was Buck. And Ted a screw-up

In Virginia by the sea.

Bastards with no hearts. So there at dawn

I sat there and I watched them carry on,

Flirt and hint, two prisoners in the yard.

Then I left them both, and left them hard.

A little scared, I went without a gaffe.

Have sex with them? Even god would laugh!

8-4-13

 

7 Devils

I can only vent, I don't write verse,

Momentarily undo the curse,

Wake the dream, and break the darkling spell,

Cast the demons back into their hell.

7 devils, maybe only 2,

Said to vent is all that I can do.

I can't wrote poems. One must have a soul.

Though early in the morning, on a roll

Crisp and clear I write and never slow.

And it's good. The Muse and Jesus know.

Mixing fictions in a world of night,

And nothing but the hours when I write

Screws the bulb and turns on any light.

8-4-13

 

The Voice

A voice in my head tells me what to do

In matters of issue pertaining to you.

But how do I know what it says is right?

Everything baffling, obscured by night.

What else do I have for a guru or guide?

Even nature directs the tide.

I have no nature, not even a soul.

Shattered in youth, undertaking no role

Familiar on which those who would can rely,

A matter of trust, and no one knows why.

8-4-13