Tuesday, July 29, 2008
A Murder In The Fall
One day, I stabbed young Eli Pope
It was a Monday when I watched him slip
His eyes emptied out any sense of hope
I left the knife in him to dry the drip
See, he was sleeping with my dear lady
I found picture proof one fine old day
Their actions bared fruit, oh so shady
The Lord set it upon me to make them pay
One day, I shot my dear lady in the back
It was a Tuesday and it happened in the Fall
Her beautiful body collapsed onto the track
Veins rained red against the old white wall
It was cold outside and it was raining
I remember I was wearing one black glove
The dark tree is where I left her hanging
In the dirt is where I buried our love
On a Wednesday, I set fire to the house
I laid on the bed overcome by the heat
Flames took hold of everything I knew
Placing my body onto the mercy seat
The clouds shot down the heavy rain
Against the flames, it waged its war
I closed my eyes and took the blame
The air soon left me, to breathe no more
7/29/08 AP
Monday, June 30, 2008
Passing Torches
Thompson Hewitt threw rocks at Old Man Jace
Hair like rope with pock marks on his face
He always smiled big with jaundice stained teeth
Amidst the town, the folks, the dark earth beneath
Everyone paid heed to this man dressed in robes
Shedding like skin, his normal every day clothes
They would nod and always send pleasant day greetings
Yet, the man continued with the stick n' stone beatings
One day, the town's folks up and just disappeared
The buildings crumbled just as the young man had feared
Thompson Hewitt stood with bare feet and a rusty old shovel
In the middle of the road intent to bury the trouble
Old Man Jace appeared for his afternoon jaunt
Dressed in his Sunday's best, looking much less gaunt
He waved a tall slim hand at the confused young man
Proceeded to disappear like a castle in sand
Onto another folk, another people, another town
Old Man Hewitt found himself dressed in a robe-like gown
The passersby paid heed, giving pleasant day greetings
Hair like rope, face marked from the stick n stone beatings
-AP 06/08
Monday, June 16, 2008
Waits
With a stomp, a shiver, and a milkless shake
The man on the stage tips his hat and grins
The crowd before him sways under a red brick quake
On the tips of his feet, he howls and spins
Before him lies a cloudy sea of clear eyes
A creek bed of 'he said she saids' and sandcastle skies
A heavy lidded ocean filled with lost lovers' cries
He owns this space like the hair does his face
Arms outstretched, fingers jingling invisible bells
His voice like gravel echo the miles he's done traveled
Bellowing out songs like pagans do witch spells
Howling at the moonless sky
Yelling hello; white whisper goodbye
The spies sigh; a skyless pizza pie
Blues tramp sins are raised up on high
Knocking forth and back the whiskey glass
Sour and sweet, the near distant memories pass
Stomping bodies and shaking hands make fists
Grinning, he bellows and croons with crossed wrists
The show, my friend, is coming to an end
The piano has been drinking and he isn't a friend
Big Black Mariahs and Raindogs unite
Because we'll be putting on the dog tonight
-AP 6/16/08
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Way Out
Clasp down.
I feel the bones break like they've done before.
Break into new shape but not pieces.
Outward inward and before me are sparks.
I see light and I feel stuck but there's movement.
Fluid.
Formations and mutations.
I see a destination.
Past echoes whisper to bad memories.
A quicksand back pedal.
Clasp down.
Remove the shoes but keep the feet.
Just keep swimming.
Just keep swimming.
-AP 4/3/08
Friday, February 08, 2008
Bullet Proof
I woke up in the marsh today
amidst the mist and fists
I pissed myself thinking
that I didn't know my right from wrong.
Inside outside mellow blue.
I think of you.
I miss my shoes.
Bare feet on bear rug and barely knowing
yet completely showing.
There's that growling noise again and...
I run through this marshland space.
No face.
Race..
Races...
Spaces....
Mist upon mist and list in my brain.
Where am I? Why am I? Who am I?
Spartacus.
No race or races just spaces and faces.
I feel full of nothing and nowhere
and this blue becomes gray.
The marsh becomes harsher
and the blades of grass feel like ginsu on my heels.
Wheels spinning while the face is grinning
and I'm still running but my legs don't move.
The blades find the groove
and the green becomes red.
Spilling from me into the ocean's bed.
The mist becomes thought
and my brain feels wrought.
Iron clad and nude irony.
Spiraling spirals.
Viral, my thoughts
Killer shots to the arteries.
I'm in the forest being chased by trees.
The leaves cleave and the green becomes red.
The blue in my head.
The mist amidst the fists to the chest.
I tried my best.
I shed the vest.
Bullet proof, my ass.
-AP 2/8/08
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Bone Parade
The music man sits amidst the pile of bones
Eyes crooked on dirty wrinkled face
Humming an awkward sound in awkward tones
His hands move fast in strokes through this space
Clavicle bone now clutched in his left hand
And a clean baby femer in the other
He rises to his feet, searching for the band
Awkward tones form a song for his mother
Feet stomp to the ground below him
The bones clank and move all around
Neck bone, t bone, steak meat trim
He hollers loud to find the right sound
The clavicle collar provides a rock steady beat
Baby femer drum sticks and feet without toes
The bones beneath his skin accompany the heart its heat
The band meets his highest highs with their lowest lows
They march in unison and follow his lead
Hammering their dense bone machines loudly
Up ahead, he hollers and skips to pick up speed
Marching steady, banging his drum proudly
-AP 01/30/08
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
Politic
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
Sand
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
Friday, November 17, 2006
Hell's Kitchen
Hell's Kitchen
Bangin' loud, heavy on the table with an old tin pot
While the Devil's on his back, swingin' in his skin cot
The coffee's burnin' fire on the ol' linoleum floor
And the pigs are laying down outside the corner drugstore
Chicken feed and gumballs make up his inner sin
The Devil sings a laughing song, in that bunker made of skin
The metal din ricochets off the walls inside this room
Outside the orange light brings the roses to their bloom
Still bangin' on the oak slab with utensils made of steel
The Devil plays solitaire while the walls begin to peel
Now the pigs all smell like jail bait to distant fertile fish
And the figs out in the yard get picked for his dinner dish
Clankin' and spankin' in the land of crazy dreams
Satan applies thin layers of very heavy creams
All this time, the man is stuck makin' noises, makin' calls
And the Devil applies the bandaid to the bleedin' peelin' walls
-AP 11/16/06
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Black Bird Tree
Dangling from a branch by a rope of sand
Is the dancing man with the birds for hands
They squack and chirp like the kids inside
Tucked away under blankets they laugh and hide
The boards of their floors creak when it's dark
The dancing man smiles, mouth toothy, like a shark
Cloudy skies turn to mud when it leaks the rain
The bird hands are tired from the dirt rope's stain
This black tree stands strong in a field so vast
Its roots, like whale parts, grown thick to last
A body dances on every limb, swinging to and fro
And when the sky is muddy, their hands caw to the crows
-AP 10/26/06
An Ode To Old Man Flynn
Wind whispered from the window to wash back the dirty scent of gin
From the breath of the whithered lips of cranky Old Man Flynn
He laughed at the cracks in the walls every day and every night
The heavy lead curtains were taped closed to keep out the light
He would pour the warm liquor sweetly down his lanky arms
It would clean over the wounds that he got long ago on the farms
The blood, dried and crusted, remained like drugged memories
The cracks on the walls itched at him along with the fleas
At times he would laugh like a hyena being skinned alive
He would count the toes and fingers from ten down to five
The jars he kept under the bed, locked to keep out the air
Inside them, treats for The Devil with no room to spare
The wind whispered sweet Spanish songs into his swollen ears
He'd smile and hold his eyeless teddy bear to fight off the tears
Naked and bruised silly, he would stare at the wall's cracks
Hoping any minute, to pick up the scent of long lost tracks
Old Man Flynn would pace up and down the length of this big box
In his own heavenly Hell, feeling rabbid like a death hungry fox
Cutting away at his cuticles for fear of them cutting at him
Dousing his internal flames with another pint of sweet smelling gin
-AP 10/26/06
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
A Hooker Named "Blue"
There's a rat-a-tat blues jingle
That blows down the street like kitchen smoke
And she calls your name from the red room
You brush back your hair, step from the window
Her voice reminds you of last September
And you think, maybe you should call home soon
To the bed, where the neon red light is casting its color
She pats the mattress inviting you over like last Fall
And the whisper in your head makes your head swoon
Her wide eyes remind you of years gone past
The skin exposed looks like porcelain sex, illegal
Lingering in the air, sounds of a blues jingle croon
It's nights like these that turn you toward the bottle
And after the interlude finishes, so leaves this model
Left alone, under neon red, feeling more like a bafoon
With the telephone in your lap, you stare at the walls
Only seven numbers separate you and certain ghosts
And asleep you fall, humming that rat-a-tat tune
-AP 10/25/06
Friday, August 25, 2006
Ice Cream Man
Hear that rickety music box jingle melody?
Do you see the ice cream truck just down the street?
With windows impenetrable from the rocks and dust
It's muted side menu just as weathered and beat
The wheels are all different shapes and odd sizes
Its white coat turned brown and yellow in places
There's a weird noise like a buzzing of bees
That follow along with the smiling childrens' faces
The kids call and run down along clean lawns
To the Ice Cream Man just up the way
There's a trail of oil that looks almost copper red
Through the sprinklers, they laugh and play
This clown car, it comes every day now
Never stopping to hand out the goods
The song seems so god damn familiar and friendly
At night, it disappears out into the woods
One may wonder if what lurks inside driving
Was not meant to quite ever crawl out
It's broken record lullaby song forever off key
Never stopping while all the little ones frolic about
-AP/MH 08-25-06
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Mr. Dirt
Mr. Dirt
Them voices they won’t go away
Ain’t no matter who I done kill
Can’t eat my morning flakes in peace
Without ‘em disturbin my breakfast meal
They kick me in the head to listen
And I plead and beg them wrong
Still keep their barkin’ & complainin’
After dozens of dem folks are gone
Still, they keep a gabbin’ & blabbin’
Pesterin’ all damn live day long
But I keep the red crude a runnin’
Yep, still flowin’ & goin’ strong
So I just keep on goin’ by the dirtside
Til there ain’t no road left to kill
Them voices won’t sleep or go away
And I’ll never seem to get my fill
-MH/AP 08-23-06
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Another clown poem
Untitled
The clowns! The clowns!
How they come always around
When the weather is angry
And the sun long gone down
Taunting at my plated windows
With their wrapping on it’s glass
Under cover's quilting, I hide
In heaven's hopes, it will pass
With a knock knock
And some tap tap taps,
Each of them pull trinkets
From beneath colored caps
The fat one bears flowers
Big orange and fat red
Pointing it smiling, he squeezes
Petals wilting, soon dead
The thin one brings to you a doll
With one eye knocked clear out
From the socket, crawl maggots
Begging to enter fresh lipped pout
And lastly, is the tall one
Whose head is bald and grey
He tosses worms at the window
Warm and sticky, yearning to play
The clowns! The clowns!
When they come back around
Someone always comes up missing
Never again to be found
Only through the long winter
Dancing bone crazy in the rain
They gnash all about madly
Whispering softly my name
-AP/MH 08-22-06
Legends Wander
Redheaded Ralph was swiftly travelling South
On a rickety train being pelted with rocks of rain
His destination was a crotchety dust bowl cut town
Where the atmosphere was vermooth dry and rust brown
His straw hat pushed low to cover his furrowed brow
He chewed on thin sticks made of redwood and oak
Arms folded and rocking to the beat in his head
Heavy breathing, heavy heart always fighting a stroke
Remembering the woman he left behind with the years
The canteen to his side filled with whiskey and tears
Skin wrinkled yet tough like the bag on his back
His record is long yet was derailed from the track
The whistle blew long and hard like a banshee's wail
He laid back in the freight car, eyes cold on the rail
To sleep is to conjure the memories and great glories
Future books will be filled with his many true stories
-AP 08-22-06
The Tale Of Box Spring Susan
Her name was Box Spring Susan
She was used to the bruisin'
That Carl inflicted at night
Always awake and scared
Her pink flesh laid bared
She gripped the bottle too tight
One day she done well snapped
Too many whores had been slapped
The drawer was open, under the light
And when Carl came on home
He took three bullets to the dome
And Box Spring Susan felt high like a kite
-AP 08-22-06
Posts
