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Ikea Invites You to Plant Your Butt on an Xbox Joystick
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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
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