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
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