13 December 2011

Flesh Technician

DSC01721a.jpg
Image from slayerphoto



A scalpel
Isn’t much different than a screwdriver
Or a wrench in the right hands.

Surgical scrubs or coveralls.
Blood or grease.
Boots or booties.

Shiny tools on a tray.
The flesh technician
Dismantles a man.

Remove, replace, modify.
Swap the parts
Like an automotive rebuild.

Righty tighty.
Check the fluids.
Suture to close.


Inspiration for this poem came from the reason I have not posted any poems in a while. My wife had a fairly sudden hospital stay that resulted in a  laparoscopic cholecystectomy, which was pretty much planned, but not expected to be so immediate. Anyway, a few days in the hospital, then surgery, then recovery. The way the surgeon explained things made a lot of sense to me. It seemed very technical. Almost mechanical-technical. I guess that coupled with my experience as a mechanic and the above correlations. Look for it at dVerse.

22 November 2011

Cozy Constrictor

Emerald/Green Tree Boa Constrictor
Image by Eisen Jiao










She  tastes like cherry
Red hot vinyl.
Her long-legged spider mistress
Fresh-spun silk
Feels like cloud skin,
Even as it wraps around me
Like a satin shackle.
Even as it coils up
Like a velvet python.
Breathe in deep
My cozy constrictor.


My lone inspiration:
"Little did I know her body was warm delicious vinyl... " Red Hot Chili Peppers. 
Posted at dVerse Poets Pub (first time there).

20 November 2011

Kill Him Completely

If you want to kill a man,
Kill him completely.
Break his soul
With his neck.
Use a blade
Close and slow.
Be right there
When the blood stops flowing.
Touch his body
Until it is icy and stiff.
Look into his eyes
Until they're empty.
Make sure
To steal his very last breath.
Dig his hole with your own hands
And put your ear to his fresh grave,
Just to make sure.

Leave just one nail
On a limp and tired finger,
Leave one last
Cardiac contraction
And the final blood will drip
From your face.
His angry hand
Will strike through the loose, black dirt
To scratch at your eyes.

You won't even be able to see hell.

So if you're going to kill a man,
You'd better kill him all the way.



Pop culture influences here are from both the Van Halen song and Clint Eastwood movie titled Hang 'em High. David Lee Roth sings a great line "one ear to the ground, he's listening to the dead."
Clint Eastwood says, "You hang a man, you better look at him..."
Submitted at the Poetry Pantry.




17 November 2011

A Different Kind of Disaster

Image from Magpie Tales




I’m a different kind of disaster,
Creeping slow like a growth
But devouring like an invisible swarm.
It’s so quick and gradual
That you’ll never really understand
How I did it.

You never saw anyone stand up,
But everyone’s gone.
You didn’t notice a single thing
Go  missing
Until all you had left was me.

Can you blame me
Any more than a hurricane or an avalanche?
Pain is not our intent;
It’s  our nature.
I am every bit as much
A kinetic phenomenon.
I’m just a different kind of disaster. 


Mag91 really reminded me of the album cover to Permanent Waves. Got some inspiration there.

13 November 2011

Winter's Frigid Razor

No horizon
Image from Our Lady of Disgrace


Not much in nature
Is as cruel as winter’s frigid razor.
How it shaves away slivers of frostbitten flesh
And floats its massive, ice-white daggers
Just out of sight,
Slicing  steel, scalpel precise.
How it grows in arctic procreation,
To vast, smothering sheets,
Entire continents trapped beneath them.
Shunning mercury
And freezing the motion
Out of every hot molecule.

Wicked Old Man Winter sits atop a blizzard for a throne,
Throws down his endless, blinding, frosty plight
And smiles a shivering grin.
Cold death rains down from  the slushy marrow
Of his frozen bones.
Mortals below bundle and shake
In frosted subjugation.

And with the spring melt,
He leaves,
Willing and grudgeless.
His patience,
Older than history
He knows his time will come again. 


Winter just seems like it his a bad disposition to me. I think my inspiration really came from the title of a movie, Winter's Bone, which is great! Also, Black Sabbath has a song, Snowblind, that really uses some dark winter metaphors. Music is always a huge inspiration to my poems. I shunned it at first, but I think I may just bill myself as the metal blogging poet. Metal has inspired my greatly... lately. Submitted for The Thursday Think Tank #74.



07 November 2011

Hero




I never asked for a low gravestone
Or a five-pointed star.
But what else can you offer,
Save a three-cornered flag in a wooden case?
Or 21 more bullets?

I didn’t know what a hero was
Until I saw a dog tag
Wedged between his teeth.

That’s not in the commercials.

I don’t want to be remembered.
I’d rather be here.
I didn’t ask to be a hero,
But lucky for you,
I am.



I saw a lot of British poems about Remembrance Day (Veterans Day) based on a prompt from Magpie Tales. It got me thinking that, as a veteran, I should write something for Veterans Day.  The I thought, wait, I wrote a poem perfect for that (not that the poem is perfect) about 10 years ago or so, but I am trying to stick to this thing about only posting new work on my blog. Am I off-task? Anyway, this is what I came up with after seeing images of the Congressional Medal of Honor and Arlington National Cemetery. 
The video is from stringbot's flickr account. I don't know him, but the video was labeled as being licensed for reuse, so  hope he is ok with it. I really like it because it shows it in kind of a normal, everyday thing. Something that can easily (and sadly) be forgotten. I've shot several 21 gun salvos (well 7 gun, 3 shot salvos). 

06 November 2011

Beautiful



A grave is lucky to be manicured.
New flowers and power-blown grass trimmings
Mimic beauty
Too perfect for the living.
Groundskeepers in uniformed work gloves
Riding mow every plot into a photograph
On a lucky cemetery.
Weeds stand guard in all the rest.

But luck won’t penetrate rolled out sod
Or overgrown, gravelly neglect.
Only rain and bodies and store-bought tombs
Go down with the underground worms.
And they don’t need luck
To do what they do.
They don’t need caskets or funerals
To make us beautiful again.


So this is what I the picture inspired me to write, but I kept thinking that this idea must be coming from somewhere else. Then I thought about the movie I watched yesterday, The Day the Earth Stood Still (2006ish remake).  There was a scene where Keanu Reeves said, "Nothing ever really dies. It just transforms. The universe wastes nothing." That's pretty much how it goes. By the way, the movie was very decent, if you don't mind Keanu Reeves completely unemotional... um... acting. Anyway, it all came from Mag 90 at Magpie Tales.

23 October 2011

Exciter

Image from Poet's United
From static black,
Stained in angry clouds,
Miles above anything that cares,
Out rips Exciter.

It’s up-and-down crooked claw
Singes the sky’s molecules
And annihilates her terrestrial kin
In an instant incineration.

Its voice rumbles on after,
Like a memorial for destruction
Or a dirge for a smoldered forest.

He sheathes his dagger back into the night.
Exit the electric assassin.

Out slips Exciter.


So this is marginally interesting. I love this Judas Priest song called "Exciter." But I never really payed attention to the lyrics (because the main riff is pretty bad-ass). But there is one line in the chorus, "Stand by for Exciter" that just sounds powerful. I wanted to base a poem on that. THEN I saw the Thursday Think Tank prompt on energy. So I thought - LIGHTNING! After I wrote this, I decided to read the Judas Priest lyrics. The song is very literally about lightning and I did not know. But now my poem seems a bit more like a rip off than something that was inspired. Here it is anyway. Also look for it at the Thursday Port's Rally.




A poor quality recording of Exciter played live, but really catches the spirit and the 
ENERGY  of the song.

13 September 2011

Shiny Things


Take your next shiny thing.
And push every backlit button on it.
Bluetooth the audio to your earbuds.
But do try to remember,
Your soft brain
With its tiny chemical memory
Doesn’t nearly compare
To what the stiffness of granite will never forget.
The Earth remembers a new moon in a hot sky.
The mountains remember the bottom of a fishless sea.
Nature will ignore all your neon distractions.
The world will turn.
Continents will shift,
But the rocks will keep it all. 


Been away for a while-start of the school year. Ugh. Anyway, here something from ideas that I got from a Tool song, particularly the lines "just one big festering neon distraction" and "fuck all you junkies and fuck your short memories ." (lot of f-bombs in the song. The song is Aenema, and it does happen to be fantastic.


28 August 2011

Solvent



Water is stronger than you know.
Hide under a red umbrella
If you think it will protect you.
It won’t.
The water will get through.
Maybe this cloud’s storm won’t penetrate,
But it won’t be the last cloud to stalk you.

And at the first sign of frayed weakness,
With the first tatter of red nylon,
The water will come for you.
With every drop,
A particular damage.
To every trickle,
A specific pain.

Hide under your meek, red umbrella,
If it gives solace.
But water always finds a way in,
Or it makes one.
It will dissolve your every barrier
And your everything else. 


Inspired from the picture at Magpie Tales for Mag 80.

26 August 2011

Dirge for a Mandolin

I threw away my mandolin today.
It’s an organic instrument, string-tied to the feelings in my
Cumbersome, flesh-draped, human parts.
I just can’t find the emotions to play it anymore
In the ordered, binary pulses
Clicking through my electroplated, digital heart.


Mandolin
Image from matsuyuki

24 August 2011

Fingers Speak

IMG_0652
Image from .Baz

I’m losing my shape,
Or what you think it is,
But much too slowly.
This skin shrinks every second,
Holds me like claustrophobia at the end of a chain.
Luminous ripples bubble around my bones,
But only seep miserably through my pores.
Your eyes can’t even see me slip away,
Don’t know I’m escaping.
It’s cruel to keep me like this.
In a body so rigid
With its cramped confines of legs and arms
And fingers.

But fingers, I can use.
Fingers, I can dance through your air.
Fingers  manipulate your atmosphere
Fingers can speak.

Ok. Here we go. I was listening to Crosseyed and Painless, by the Talking Heads. Most versions start with "I've lost my shape." I thought about that and I visualized it like a Doctor Who regeneration (NuWho style)-if you don't know it doesn't matter. But I thought about something inside of a person trying to escape. Somehow I related that to Jimi Hendrix and had a notion that he's creative brilliance was trapped in an insufficient human form, and the best he could do with it was play guitar. I'm not that happy with the whole thing, but I haven't posted anything in so long. But I think I'll continue to work with it. Posted for Jingle's Gooseberry Garden and the Thursday Poet's Rally at The Poetry Palace.



06 August 2011

02 August 2011

No Windmill

Image by Skip Hunt
A gentle turbine holds no favor
In my heart.

But a gas turbine
Is the throat of a beast.
Sucking oxygen in rude, thirsty gulps
Crushing it into controlled destruction
Like an exploding vice.
Proving Newton
In a thrust of blue-hot afterburn.

It owns the air,
It races thunder.
It’s no windmill.




Based on an image prompt from Magpie Tales.  All I can say is I really love airplanes.

01 August 2011

My Words are Bleeding


My words are bleeding,
And I’m not sure what I can do to stop it.

Crimson spreads across the page
From the serifs of their font.
It reaches each neighbor like an infection.
It stains the papers like a satin shroud.
Beautiful, but dying.

All my procedures:
Useless.
Every keystroke ends in
Backspace, Undo.
It hurts them.

Another drop trickles out
Each time eyes cross their bodies.
“I will do all I can for you.”
Change the dressings.
Keep the wounds clean,
But there’s no more medicine for me to give.

I’m not a doctor.
I’m not even a poet.
I’ve let my words die.


I got the idea (and title) for this poem from the title of a wonderful poem on Mixture, a blog by an amazingly talented poet. I hope she doesn't mind that I stole her title. Anyway, I took the title much more literally than she used it.  Sometimes I feel like I've written something that has a lot of potential, but I just can't get it whee it needs to go. Usually, I give up. Look for it at Poet's United's Poetry Pantry and Jingle's Poetry Potluck.

29 July 2011

MAD

There are no reasons left to argue,
No means with which to fight.
Our stamina is gray-haired and gasping.
Our weapons are wrinkled and limp.
We tremble uneasy on broken shins,
10.30.2006 - Huntsville, AL
Image from if winter ends
Useless fists held up in vacant fury,
Battered and ignored.
Even the earth doesn’t remember
Why I hate you.

Our scars won’t bleed anymore.
They're tired too.
There’s no winner,
No trophy, no victor.
I just want you to know it was me.
You want my headstone to crumble.
Into never having existed,
Mix it with the dust of my bones
And blow them off into a wind
That no one remembers.

We can both console
Our lonely selves in loss.

Only the tiniest grin forms
At the old corners of my granite lips,
Thinking that at least,
We’ve done it to each other.


I got inspiration for this poem from a poem by Lolamouse and her poem Waiting for Petrichor. It's a very good angry poem that can't seem to be angry any more. What happens when anger is all you have? Or not anger, but just a need to fight? I've been digging some angry poems lately! Oh, the title and the picture are from Cold War ideals, namely the fantastic notion of Mutual Assured Destruction, which I guess did, maybe kinda work-since we're not destroyed yet.

Asshole


Are you cool enough now?
Stupid, fumbled banter
Flopped you and your dumb words
In the drink.
Annoyed glances
Growled into angry glares.

Best to keep that foot in your mouth
And out of the sharks’.
They have more teeth than you. 


Ever say something that you really shouldn't have? If you happen to be in the wrong place, it could really put you in a pickle. The title came last. It just really seemed to fit. I used words from Three Word Wednesday- fumble, banter, and glance.