Hen’s Teeth & Horsefeathers

It never ceases
the turgid churn of garbage
morbid juices leaking from greasy bags
heavy with excess and prepackaged regret
filth strewn nonsense
abandoned beside the highway
or piled unto heaven itself.

Your name
scrawled jaggedly on discarded pages
concealed among crumpled reminders
other tolls to be paid
and declaration of formal surrender.

I am Caesar of this quarter-acre rubbish-heap
behold my empire of the picket fence
I am the satrap of rat-traps
overlord of the overflowing pit
I am the prince of old car parts
lord of leftovers and frozen delights
I am the scion of this scrapheap
sultan of the wanton and needless
I am king of this accursed place
and the waste rules over me.

 

Motel Two Oh Nine

Florescence flickering unevenly
etching awkward contortions
caught in the flash of relapse
our stop-motion lifelong obsession
conducting us with electrified dust
dry lightening strike
we float in the moment
sustained in suspense
we hold one another aloft
a hymn begins
fumbling for more melodious meanings
scored with sorcerous intent
bewitching us with healing lament
a dirge born from hidden depths
strung upon the lyres of heaven
crying words of angelic dread
this song becomes us as we succumb
with broken hearts and a little death.

Shark Spank

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I ate a dozen apples
devouring one after another
until their sweetness turned sharp
stinging in my jowl, my clenched jaw
aching with mechanical motion
like a cow grazing meditatively
I glutted myself with flesh and seed.

I slept all through the week
embracing each day like a pillow
clutched tight to my face
holding back a flood of contrition
reflexive jerk reaction to self-reflection
I padded my cell with layers of slumber
for a soft landing in the sea of dreams.

I burnt all of my blazing currency
flippant in a spiraling frenzy
until the lights blinked out
in one black moment, nothing
contained squarely and photo framed
until I broke my way out and awoke
famished, befuddled and alone.

Kentucky Fried Cassowary

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By the side of the river we began to unwind
as we pulled at threads throughout the night
unraveling Revelations
and tearing down shibboleths
we ignited the silence with our backyard science
and explored the cosmos with beer in hand.

“Become who you are” he told me once,
“There are no guarantees.”

Every limb was a story or a shopping list
twisted missives composed in faded ink
we spent another day dissecting lyrics
reading signs buried between the lines
and rejoicing
in the simplest conversation.

Our shared delusions drove us to the edge
and our hidden truths reunited us again
down by the water’s edge
unsteady, drunk with bubbling joy
“Mi casa es su casa” he said,
“Stay as long as you need”.

Hammer & Thresher

Nigel was a writer
he promised me once
deep down in those bitter cups
he told stories about the ocean
and his roving days, now long forsaken
yet recalled in immaculate detail.

He espoused all through those technicolour hours
clouding spent sentiment
with thick river sediment
while scraping barnacles off a bearded hull,
“Fish-scales in the sky, distant and white
a change will be coming our way”.

Until the next morning
he talked himself down
and curled on the couch like a contrary child
stubborn insistence that sleep be resisted
blankets clutched to his trembling chin
and when I rose he had passed like a storm.