poem I in The Chelsea Chronicles
He is no child
and yet spring flows so amply from his loins.
Where has his protagonist gone?
The Shepherds of Drink wade in his songwriter’s swagger,
indeed, saber-toothed revelers inspired.
Noxious devotees vapidly denote the man’s strength;
yet he professes lark, and lunacy bites their flattering pallor.
The ladies in the gaggle coo.
He does not see them, his eyes glazed over by politics.
Drink drenches his tooth, incises his bliss.
For them, a bliss confrontation.
They float home believing they’ve touched rays.
And he slinks back to the Whore in the Ruse.
He fucks her, nearly loses his teeth.
Her hallow could not care less for his demonic need.
He’s a franchise, nameless and green. She, a cunt, the Sistine.
Truly he seeks to touch them,
but returns to his own puddle unmoved. This
on the floor
of a stranger’s apartment
demonically smoking cigarettes, skinny and hungry.
He waits for the possession to pass
and for the world’s blasted love to return to him at last.
poem III of The Chelsea Chronicles
Petulant epigraphs sign themselves away to hell,
to devil’s not of their making.
Easing down into the graves of gradient yesteryears,
they shout: “Define me!”
Chance fling gives way to flight,
the nuclear smile’s conduit to sight.
And the cannon hurdles herself
up against the wall. Again.
Fish sleep in her underwear,
doubting the waterlogging of their reality.
What perfects her sight shall not be lackluster nor salty.
Those furtive chops she’s got whisper to her
about closets and doors and crows-
in there, where love is kept.
Swinging with bats and fans of you.
Smooth and protected early selves,
a spliff to the right, errant or not.
Bebop greats swim with great dreams.
And the shelf.
poem VI in The Chelsea Chronicles
He’s laden with pause, can’t come out,
won’t stay in.
But then he falls down the stairs,
to her feet.
She’s pleased; he’s shattered.
“Could I really need this thing?”
they both think.
Wrapped in outdated expectations.
The aftershock of having let someone crawl up
Inside your brain to nest with charm.
And in there, suckle at your ravishing blackness.
In the scheme of bygones,
We’ve let charity equal sacrifice
And become the changeling children of the asexual.
The deadlines for forgetting
continually pave our paths with ruthlessness.
For those loves still unforgotten
threaten, as if from a flaming star too close.
Even when sitting quietly, the naughty midgets speak through our minds.
Plebian thoughts plague our not so plebian aspirations.
A poor man’s thrombosis
your unscheduled passions, if not careful.
And you’ll become another fragment of your imagination.
If careful, you can eat your fantasies, bless your own God, and
Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke
In seasons we are, little but ourselves
straining our strangers through mirrors,
and emerging again, as neat shards of retractable dust.
We poof, we pout, we paint.
And still we end up looking the same,
at the legends of same, in the blood of same,
from the heartbreak of same.
Sometimes the nights move into days
before we have the chance to reconsider
our actions, our wealth, our skin.
Motives slide into decisions.
When we do evolve, our skirts billow
with the freshness of reflection.
Nights travel without distress, malingering under shadowy gauntlets
of childhood bliss, of mountainous duress, of the sensory caress.
Passing in and out of breath, we sleep
with more awareness than we ever had before.
For our souls, because we want to create.
The hesitance won’t stop my lumps from becoming horns.
With horns, my third eye gets swallowed up
and sinks back into the recesses of self-conscious predilection.
The devil may care, but demons are more palatable-
jazz animals with no kin nor faith.
Fortuitous berries stain our mouths furry
with Rorschach patterns, behavior fitting
for hedonist artists, derisory
and eating less until at last quitting.
Naughty plans release our minds from pining
for cream with our plate of appetizing words
for freedom from our elaborate stages,
for our way out of archaic attachments.
Springy noodles bounce out of the sky
into my motor center, and you know where from there.
You’re digesting them now; eat your fill.
To please me, to please yourself if I dare.
Dare ensnare, enlist you to my side
of this fanciful life second we get.
Come play with me, give yourself latitude
to be and not care, to care so so much.
The moon will bring you to tears.
Gigantic phrases energetically tease me,
flying by my apartment window in boldface fonts.
Subliminal by daylight, brazen by night,
they scream: “Write, write, write!”
My fishing net lays limp by my side;
but I refuse to trap them, to box them into my mind.
I’ll let them fly free to flap off their meaning
and drench my neighbors with their passion globs.
My miniature ledged Buddha goddess turns her head
away from me to wave control goodbye.
I think I do, too. But freedom keeps getting bigger.
Just when my notion of flying becomes unreal,
I die again and rebirth into more sky.
Only dregs give understanding of bliss.
I did not know you then,
but still I met you for an unexpected rendezvous
outside of pure chance, and inside of self-actualization.
And in between, life happened, struck me love.
I’m an eagle-watcher, go-getter, Earth Mother,
more feline than femme, mirage than mate.
Monday night, the demons again take holda’
The well-meaning shell of a disheartened guru might.
It only takes a first order, whiskey and soda,
Like every other unmeditated night.
Wiley gnomes emerge from his mind, unclothed;
Sardonic screeching alights their pathway
Littering the airway with candied souls betrothed.
To the solicitation of those wrath may
Eagerly consume caustic winged messengers
Whose only folly is their own blunt malady.
A waxing tendency to perch on impulse centers
Brazenly unravels idyllic spools of blasphemy.
Back to London, sweet soul. You’re poorly suited for possession.
Leave Jack to other would-be geniuses’ creative recession.