The Prodigal Daughter

I have been writing poetry again…In other news I saw Beck for free at the Launchpad, and extremley small venue. I was about 8 feet from him. He is a slight man, but still knows how to put on a good show. It was like watching him front a funk cover band. Very enjoyable. Here are some poems (Keep in Mind they are NEVER finished):

The Church

Mouths are too happy to receive a drink
From bar to hand, to bottle to air,
To cup to mouth, for a familiar warm sting
Of alcohol; consumed for shelter
From what rational thought will do at tables
Full of cautious bodies slamming

Drinks in themselves and from the floor an audible slam
On a drum kit as the musicians ask for drinks.
The patrons look up from their crude tables,
Their mouths gape open for air
From under the door to the establishment/shelter
As it protects them from the wind-sting.

Some kind of anxious yearning sting
Forces patrons to this place as they slam
The door behind them and into the shelter.
Patrons are congregated to drink.
Not the blood of Christ but a similar heir
Of a different crown written on a tablet

Made of the establishment’s tables,
Etched into the wood as a stinging
Reminder of why they come to air
Their woes, or promises, or sins of nights seemingly slammed
Past them, and their lips, to drinks
As they mutter for some words of shelter.

The liquid promises shelter
As tired slumped shapes lean on tables.
Now they have had too much to drink;
Patrons’ once empty, now liquid filled stinging
Stomachs, clutching the alt(b)ar as slamming
Thoughts lurch through patrons’ air-space.

Those being that there is not shelter from stinging comments slung
From the smeared mouths of other patrons’ tables, hurdling, slamming, and crashing
Against the drink glasses toppling every bit of honesty out into the air to remain evaporating.

Arena

Mouths are locked with eachother
Saliva forms a crude adhesive
Around the edges of their smiles
That have become tangled with eachother
They seem to be fighting a battle
That’s hard to deter(under)mine;
To be free or stay locked
In this grotesque embrace of human
Affection
Effection
Infection

Directions to the bar
There are only two streets
We don’t dare venture to the
The the routes parallel or perpendicular
To stray is to be unfaithful
(Be)coming unfaithful is sacrilege
We could not accept another
Church or congregation into our
Small and Selfish human
Cask
Mask
(A)Lax

Flask is peeking with its
Shining metal cap out from
About the back pocket of
Sweat drenched jeans covering the
Shelf of that girls ass
It’s too late, she saw you
Perhaps she will fight
With your mouth later during
A session of false
Intimacy
Delicacy
Tenacity

(In) mass we
Go
Congregate
And eventually fade
Into the smokey arena

Grey Matter

I
i saw the
remains of a baby
bird grey
and splayed on
the frying side
walk
its head and wing
still partially in
tact the rest
of its bones
on display for
walkers and i
am sure that
some greedy house
cat killed it
and left it
for his master to
see only misplacing
it for me
and any one else
that happens
to look at the ground
while on a walk
maybe it fell

like the rain
did today
like some kind
of eastern blown
philadelphian storm clouds
that i got caught
in on a different walk
but i still
had that image in
my mind
yet now
the skeletal remains
would be washed
away from concrete
small bones
dry guts
re hydrated and
washed away
like so many
memories of spies

in this town
the walls have
eyes and ears
and limbs
that stretch to
reach with maimed
and incomplete
parts to steal
your breath like

the cat that
left the bird
who fell from its
nest into the
rain of a years
worth of a sky
holding its
bladder

II
put on a persona
exaggerated or retracted
made in the negative
or obscenely in the black
red
b(l)ackwards and forwards
pacing with feet on
unfinished wood flooring
long ago lost its sheen
dull
mean faces made and lost
in shadows of brows
overhead lighting fixtures
transfiguring gross
partial
Morose fornication with
some kind of ego
flirtation device
the organics long lost
found
costly art of conversation
some kind of cocktail
salon including miniature
meatballs slathered in
out
of a rounded doorway
into torrential
philadelphian rain
just to seek you
me
through this farce
of a city gorging
with spies repelling
from spanish tiles down
up
from the hard roach
city sewers come
reptilian urges and
broken exoskeletal remains