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Thursday, December 20, 2007

Close Your Eyes And Count To Ten

Close Your Eyes And Count To Ten

From the floor, the phone starts to ring

From his mind, images of a ring
Clenching his heart, the fist of this thing
His pores scream, his eyes sting

He bangs his head against the wall
Anything at all to avoid the call
Blood and stone and steal and bone
On the floor, pieces of a broken phone

There's faint remnants of her in this place
The scars on his arms and tears on his face
He writes her poems in his mind and in dried blood
The memories weigh heavy like mad thick mud

From the floor, the phone starts to ring
From his mind, images of a ring
Clenching his heart, the fist of this thing
His pores, they scream
His eyes, they sting

In his hand, he holds a brick
In his throat, he chokes on sick
In his mind, he stops the noise
Head against brick, he chokes on sick

The bells don't stop and only get louder
Coughing on the air like stone powder
His scars bleed fresh and the tears come again

Close your eyes, and count to ten

-AP 12/20/07

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Nightmare Dance

Mental midget wearing bright pants
Does a self involved solitary tapdance
Red nosed and mute fever pitched
Prancing sideways inside a deep devil ditch

She's a crackpot wicked sexpot
Hair colored like stained rotted apricot
Her mouth wide open and lost in a scream
Mute fever pitched like a never ending dream

Her eyes embed into your skull a medusa stare
Quite impossible to erase like a mid day sun glare
Deadly toothed smile that motions you near
Vision blurred fear, intentions unclear

Solitary foot stepped sideways shake jig
Your tongue thick and wrinkled like a barnyard fig
You take her palms and spin into that trance
Never escaping her nightmare dance

-AP 11/13/07

Friday, April 13, 2007

That Bastard Chicken Scratch

I've done told a slew of stories
I've then ended many a' lives
The call me Bastard Chicken Scratch:
"The Swallower of Knives"

My pock marked split tongue likes the shine
Never lets me down, always hits the spot
Fills up the chalice, a darker brew of wine
Quenches on the road travelling days, so hot

Tents and trucks and nameless shameless fucks
My sun soaked beak pecks dents into flesh
I turn the page and recite in snapping clucks
The cuts on my tongue still succulent fresh

Tonight comes another stage side show
Feathered mane slicked back up top
The crowd will come and continue to grow
Endless sea of listeners to add to the crop

-AP 04-13-07

Wednesday, January 24, 2007


Here comes the musical undead marching band
With rusted nails for fingers in blood crusted hands
They step together, forward ominous and vast
Their horns blow out firey furious death blasts

The windows shut tight and doors bolted thick
Marching bone feet shake the buildings and brick
Drone zombies stare at the dawn's bare crack
Their eye sockets emptied and hollow and black

The citizens of this town hide in their cozy dark homes
In hopes that they don't become solemn dark tombs
Underneath furniture and locked quiet in the basement
Locked away praying, their faith tested and hell bent

The death march continues on through the place
Baton twirling clown monster with makeup on his face
Their steps move together like a septic army of ants
Unspoken choreography for the Final Judgement dance

The shaking of the ground soon slowly subsides
Onto the next town, the marching band strides
New members of the march seem to always appear
These towns forever shadowed in their blankets of fear

AP 01.24.07

Wednesday, January 17, 2007


A cracker jack box crushed and damp in her hand
Withered like a dead fox buried deep in the sand
Shells from the sea crunched under bare feet
Too far from the comfort of the hot asphalt street

Her hair messed and rain soaked, muddy
Fingernails ripped, cuticles bloody
Her eyes are dried up but her face is wet
This is the place where the two lovers met

The night before, they walked on the shore
On her shoulders, his jacket, she wore
Later that night, they headed to the bar
Just across the street, not very far

It was then that she discovered the monster within
His taste for the flesh and the fluid in her skin
She broke free and ran as fast as she could
And hid beneath the dead trees and the rain soaked wood

She stayed all night, with no place left to go
No shoes on her feet, no witness to show
The cuts on her hurt at the sting of the wind
While she clutched to the crackerjack box in her hand

01.17.07 AP

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Bronchial Distraction


Two glasses of wine and I want to whine. Fucking roommate has some guy in her room and I think he may be sleeping over. Only problem is he has this cough that is so loud I can hear it in the kitchen. But I'm in my bedroom. Sounds like he has bronchitis or something. It's 4:00 am and I wanted to go to sleep two hours ago. Oh well. MySpace isn't letting me into my page, so I am blogging this here.

I watched the rest of The Station Agent this evening. Really good movie. I suggest everyone watch it. Even those people who have no culture and ultimately are riddled with bad taste. Watch it, I'm sure it will bore you.

I went to Bang tonight. I had more fun there than at Perversion. Mind you, I didn't really dance but I didn't feel that I needed to. I enjoyed my beer and thoroughly enjoyed the company I was with (especially in the hip hop room).

.....seriously....everytime this guy coughs I jump in my seat.

I got to stop at the market and get a few things before going home. I know that's not really a big deal to anyone but it's simple things like that which make me happy now. I am a bit broke but it's been a struggle over the past year. Ya know...I used to think that my dream was to be a successful actor but I think I got overshadowed by the expectations that came with the dream...especially when the dream wasn't becoming the reality I wanted it to become. Now, though, my dream is to enjoy the life I live. Simple, I know. Yet...difficult. But I think I am closer to obtaining this goal. Just enjoy the simple things, not take shit for granted. I believe that if I do this, maybe the acting will follow. After all, it started from me wanting to do something I enjoyed. But it turned into me needing to do it or else my self worth would equal out to less than zero in my mind. was that for a bit of an introspective tangent? And...this blog is supposed to be for poetry. Feh! I haven't been in a poem mood recently, sorry. I'm saying sorry like anyone reads this dang thing. But whatever...the merlot got me sleepy and my bladder wants to peepee and if I was an Indian I'd sleep inside a teepee. Ok...there's your poem.

....FUCKING COUGH DROP! GET ONE! Jesus....I'm glad I got ear plugs.

New sleep goal for the night: be asleep before the sun comes up. Yeah...way to go, me!