My hands are no longer stained of ink nor blood,
My teeth, my tongue no longer sharp.
My TV cuts into the darkness,
And shines light on my sleeping rebelliousness.
My eyes are week from too many hours
Too Many Hours
Filed under poetry
Winter
My forest is dark,
The trees, sad
Their sap runs slow and purposeful
I wander through this blackened wood
Deprived of joy and sleep
The icy branches above my head,
Weighed down in melancholy’s pain
Threatening, menacing
I pray that I could leave this place
And see the sun again
Filed under poetry
Dear god
Fuck!
To drive a hook
From wrist
To elbow
While
Wilde
Recites
In the background
At least
The person
Who is
Responsible
For the bottle
Knows I’ve got at least
Two more in me
Wilde!
Please
Oh …. Please
Filed under poetry
Robert Johnson
Climbing footsteps,
All arise
Soft guitar
An eerie voice.
With a mystery attached
There was a myth.
A meeting
The sold soul,
What was real,
Little is known.
29,
27,
The years, the compositions.
Hazelhurst, Mississippi
First
Then gone.
Another key,
That won’t fit the lock.
The balm
That soothed the bondage.
Then the relief
I believe
I believe
Filed under poetry
Sentimental
The cool water clarity
Up an old gravel road
In the passenger seat
To see the black gardened woman
who spoke with cruel words
But served us up pie
When none of our parents were watching
Cutting peaches
The big busted woman
Handled the knife
Quick and clean
We left a mess
Filed under poetry
Amongst the Rhododendrons
Bathed in dew
And fed on roots
Raised on the hammer claw
Slandered on the mountain
In need of rest
We waited for some symbol of defiance
The romance was simply not there
Because of the cameras
It became shameful
A theater amongst the rhododendrons
Filed under poetry
Cooler Sky
The air has released me
from an oppressive grip
and lifted itself into a cooler sky
which soon will paint the landscape
in a swath of color
The preparation for slumber
beneath a blank canvas
Filed under poetry
hungrybison 