Saturday, May 1, 2021
i’ve been hiding for so long now.
and i am tired.
i am tired of the hate and violence
as i peek out from behind my pink chiffon curtains,
sheers, really. just enough to hide
i am tired of the voices and perceptions
that are not mine but they are mine
and i have not the strength
to hold them deep within my skin.
i am tired of walking down the staircase
to the front door, to the car door,
to the freeway, to the place in the
shadows where i tremble in fear.
i am tired of his indifference, the repetition
in his movements, the sound he makes
when he is finished, the taste of his
lips before he sends me on my way.
i am tired of sounds and screams,
of being blind, of being alone
here in the deep recess of who
i will never truly be.
she lingers still
in the back of my mind
as i take his passion
and beg for his violence
and lay lost in my own fascination
inching toward the grave
sometimes i think of her as i try to sleep on my leaper’s bed
eyes slowly close, body aches, tremor through aging neurons
her face smiling as she speaks in a whisper telling me
that we should be friends, just friends, and nothing more
and i pursued her for three years, just as i pursue her now
in memory and in dreams
something is not right
the sky is dark
lions roar and fall
mothers clutch babies
to their bosom
a tire needs replacing
i fired my gardener
i am the gardener
vines climb through windows
i am quiet
everyone is screaming
i have no purpose
i am just dead weight
ballast for a voyage
one without return
never more so than today
have i felt my soul
torn away from me.
the demon gods of
corporate greed and avarice
circle around me
littering sotted silver
and gold coins
at my feet,
treatment of all
when all we do
is hammer the coffins
shut and dance
naked around a fire.
Sunday, April 25, 2021
Friday, April 16, 2021
American History X
“You’re the cocaine on the mirror.
The badly cut cocaine.” Zadie Smith
He was the self-proclaimed
president of the United States
of the Stupid. Alt-Right Fight
Club pioneer made famous/
gone viral, for punching out
a 95 pound woman with a
Love Trumps Hate sign.
Directed the dragging of a black
man to a parking garage to be
beaten by cowards with face masks.
All the better not to see you.
Not to provide that all important
Has tattooed 88 on the backs of
both hands, numbers that represent
the letter H as in the phrase
Exhorts others to Join or Die at
rallies in places like Charlottesville.
Buys a brace of tiki lights for hate
parades around statues of traitors
and riot shields for get-togethers
after rallies where things often are
wet and wild and totally out of
Is Extreme everything: right wing,
radicalized, white hood wearing
and proud of it.
Brings guns to a peace rally in case
Grannies Against the War go rogue
and attack: “The only good gray panther
is a dead one.”
Thinks the Four Horsemen of
the Apocalypse are: Robert Lee, Jeff Davis,
Stonewall Jackson and Bedford Forrest.
Says the Civil War has just begun.
May even have been the guy who
fired the first shot.
Blood of the Poet
She fancied herself as a model
for timeless works of Art by masters
such as Reubens and Renoir but,
in real life, was someone you might
find in a painting by Francis Bacon,
Lucian Freud, or Egon Schiele.
Chain smoked some hard to find,
off-brand, sub-continent cigarette
that permanently stained her fingers
and lips, smokes that tasted like what
was left in an ashtray the night after
the day before, everything spilled or
totally spoiled. Collected men the way
social strivers or con men bought
other people’s diplomas, trophies,
awards and claimed they were their own.
Owed more money than a rich uncle,
had there been one, could ever have
left behind: despite having nothing,
she always expected the best. Saw
the future as lush and limitless as if she
where viewing the world from a balcony
overlooking a forest instead from where
she was actually at: in some uptown
ghetto, in a flophouse, where even the
fire escapes led nowhere. Smelled roses
when other people detected leaking gas.
Ballad of the Sad Café
A bar before noon is a terrible place.
The plug pulled neon beer signs, cracks
in the night where the dark gets through.
The stench of the tap drains where the yeast
ferments, the slime and the bacteria cultures
grow. The backed up drains of the spill sinks,
the lingering scent of bad hops, dampness
leaking from every building pore, the odor of
sweat, stale cigarettes, ash cans and rotten
fruit. The broken glass and everything
stuck to the blackened floor where the beer
pitchers tipped and fell, the drink trays dropped,
blood splattered and vomit stained.
The click of the sound-turned-down juke box
cycling the selections for a song.
Hair of the dog breakfast: shit sandwiches
and dry heaves, stopping the shakes with
shots inhaled through half straws, powdered
speed floaters on top to kick start all the stalled
body parts, a brain pan sucked dry of life.
A day like any other day.
The sun rises or it doesn’t.
The Road to Perdition
The dining room floor of the truck-
stop looked like a waiting room
for an advanced placement in a hall
of the dead. And maybe it was.
The Hound stopped outside twice
a day, once coming, and once going,
dispensing people for rest breaks,
burned coffee, and stale white bread
sandwiches made with cold cuts so
far past a sell but date even the mold
had begun to die. No one ever made
eye contact coming to and from the
leaky pipe, no flush toilets, or at
the counter, pitted, cigarette end burned
Formica counter. Not the dead eyed waitress
or the resurrected from the out-back-
behind-the-shed fry cook, who gave new
meaning to working the graveyard shift
no matter what time of day it was.
After extended piss breaks, drivers
chain smoked Pall Mall longs, popped
Dexedrine like Tic Tacs and bought spiked
six packs of under the counter Sprite
laced with Vodka, for all the red eyed trips
to come, fueling the internal combustion
machine of their bodies for that long,
flat, straight two lane ride due West,
into the sun.
Never Let Me Go
“I must be dead for there is nothing but blue
snow and the furious silence of a gunshot.
Two birds crash blindly against the glass
surface of a lake. I’m cold, religiously cold.”
Will Christopher Baer, Kiss Me, Judas
Shown the way to the last whiskey bar
Date rape drug introduced into House
Special Ice Nine Cocktail
Waking up in a new dimension of hung over
Packed in ice
One kidney short of a pair.
“DON’T WORRY,” a voice says,
“YOU REALLY ONLY NEED ONE.”
Stockpiled transplant coolers
White exterior with a red cross on all four sides
Years of scalpel work tutored by the best
Dismissed for dereliction of duty
For consuming too many forbidden beverages
while on call
then showing up for emergency work
One slip and your done
There are no second chances during surgery
Still the fastest man on the block
with a knife when relatively sober
Neat and clean
Now a cutter on the underground circuit
Off the books
Cash in hand
Best job he ever had
Doesn’t dare think about fucking up
The guys who pay give dying the slow death
Torment and torture what they do best
Some day he might retire
If he lives long enough
Buy the Alan Catlin’s book ‘The Road To Perdition’ here: https://www.amazon.com/Road-Perdition-Alan-Catlin/dp/B08XLLF2GP/ref=sr_1_2?crid=37783NYLDTTUT&dchild=1&keywords=alan+catlin&qid=1618507259&s=books&sprefix=alan+cat%2Caps%2C160&sr=1-2
Monday, April 12, 2021
This is the latest release from John D. Robinson’s Holy & Intoxicated Publications. Gwil James Thomas is an English poet. Here is a sample poem from the chapbook:
I was the grey hair
on the baby’s head,
the ugly Casanova,
the bug that traded
his wings for feelings
and wished he could
trade them back,
the herd’s first
the vegan piranha,
the one who got you
back on your feet
and then the one
you left behind,
in wolf’s clothing,
the ghost of all that
was and ever will be,
never blending into
the crowd –
Buy the chap here direct from the poet: firstname.lastname@example.org
From the back cover:
“Gwil James Thomas’ latest collection Lonesome Wholesome Soup is exactly what poetry should be: humble reflections of the past, present, and unwritten future, coupled with straight punches to the heart. The first poem finds Gwil wandering with a cheap bottle of cerveza and ‘a poem always in my heart –/but rarely there when I need it most/on the tip of my tongue.’ This sets the tone for all 12 poems collected here. Lonesome Wholesome Soup is a wonderful collection of poetry that leaves the reader reflecting on their entire life, while begging for more.” – Tohm Bakelas: poet.
Gwil James Thomas writes with a rare thing- a pen that is dipped in honest blood. Raw, reflective, sometimes brutal or uncomfortable, these are not pretty poems. What they are is more and better than that. They make us confront the truth, ourselves and the dark shadows in between and that can only be a good thing. That is what poetry should do and thomas does it as well as any of them. I read Thomas' poetry whenever I can - so should you. Adrian Manning:Poet:Publisher: Concrete Meat Press