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@kevinblainharrison
Water Lilies at Midnight (So Says The Soul)
She told me meet her, donned myself in white.
Be this her will, I ought to die, I think.
If even now I must drift off in black,
As carcass wilts, my heart will rise to brink. So says the soul of he, the speaker's self.
~Kevin Blain Harrison
You alone are the central port of male attention. My peers and I must all flock to you, and covet your gravity. I pray that you redirect the others elsewhere. You will allow them the privilege of discovering their own way, and honor my confidence that I’ve found mine.
If you trust me, it will be done. If you do not, I’ll be jettisoned at too much force to ever think again.
~Kevin Blain Harrison
The Heart'll Be by Kevin Blain Harrison
The heart'll be what it'll be. Your generation is in a squeeze, but you'll remain with what you believe. You're trapped in somebody's chamber, but no change to what you can see. The demons bleed out in the darkness, Playing their prey is the fee. Sometimes you get what you request. But no one ever promised the rest came without sacrifice to your rest. But at least you'll get an arrest on this fake and disdainful jest, And the story you love'll just manifest and get off your chest.
The Coastline by Kevin Blain Harrison
I really hope that the therapy isn't hopeless. I really hope all our problems can settle over mimosas. I really hope we eat our next breakfast over the toaster
While we're both wearing my shirt.
This is only year one, I hope the rest doesn't hurt. The barrista downstairs is sexy. I hope that she doesn't flirt. Any response I could realistically conjure would just make it worse, And I need you to stop me from convincing myself nothing works.
But it wouldn't be the first time. And the next time won't be the first time that we find both ourselves lying. But next time would be the first time time we're both fine at the coastline. Because every time you touch sand, you get to thinking about old times. And every time we talk plans, you say you were planning the whole time. I keep asking you not to do that until I figure out if we're both mine--
If I don't have me, how can I have you? I know that on the uneventful days you say you're happy, but is that true? Plus the active times are what matters most; When it's gametime, can we have truce? To be honest, you look receptive, and that's a great sign, but can I have proof? Heard emotions attached to your namesake through the grapevine, but is that you?
If Bookmarks Savored Justly Thine Sweet Lips by Kevin Blain Harrison
If Bookmarks Savored Justly Thine Sweet Lips
artistes would not guilt quivering for thee
But what they pen would strike no fear in me
For what we have stretch farther than the quill
It stretch laid long on thoughts bedded within
In cavities cut well to sculpt your curves
And synapses to keep warm every word
You wish to speak, til on page you lay still
And once well-sheeted, spoken, and much sought
The sheets of your will archive books of gold
Your fibers tightly to me, never soled
Body absent, thine name still head the bill
So should I savor your lips by the line--
words like you resonate with every cult,
Hope you not see my permanence in fault--
A bookmark to reach thee shall be my pill.
Forever, moments sought beyond my will. This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published April 22, 2013
A Madman and a Martyr, All At The Same Damn Time by Kevin Blain Harrison
Every night I go to sleep and have a nightmare In which I will have gone light years At a failed attempt to escape night fears and night terrors Only to face heavy treble when my mind tunes in reflexively to its own frequency As I've dealt with it having done oh so very frequently I can even currently feel it committing to this very stated frequency In a way that I unfortunately cannot truthfully say I've felt it do much more recently than this
Because secretly there's nothing more I want much more seriously than this Because secretly a mind like mine has dreams and nightmares one in the same and all at the same damn time, and what's the glory that Dimethyltriptamine awards you if you never take that almost-fatal risk?
It's nothing, just chemically drenched tissue crumpled like your sorrows' metaphysical, metaphorical tissues, in a hole biologically set to be dark by intention, only to accidentally turn into a dark hole leaving itself to diminish. ...Or maybe I'm the anomaly; would you offer your consciousness to its own abyss?
I welcome the burden of the fact, but the fact just may be that this burden is my nightmare's very wish. I promise myself constantly that I can absolve the burden of it all and gain this ability by grabbing it consensually in my own two fists But for all I know, shit like this might just be me dreaming and making a wish.
But when I let my consciousness arrest my consciousness and take the risk to make a wish like this The problem amplifies like the volume of the instrumental behind the psychological, dark, mechanical, cerebral lyrics I feed it with To have that very conscience believe that I'm the person it's pleading with But if it believes that weaving of a fairytale I'm slinging it, I'll have to leave my home, run downtown to Brooklyn to pick up the deed to a bridge I'll have to sell myself
Pledge to spend my wealth in ways to spare my health Thought or monetary currency, hell or high water I will lace up by boots, look in the mirror, brag to myself about how much of a walking fucking paradox I am, sleep and stay up all at the same damn time to stand in the crosshair of a madman and a martyr All just to save myself This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published March 31, 2013
I Sit In My Room (Does it Make A Sound) by Kevin Blain Harrison
Every day I sit in my room, next to my window to the world, And attentively, but silently, surf the waves of cacophonous discussions. I understand how many could appreciate these waters, But they’re far too cold for my taste.
Every night I sit in my room, next to my window to the world, And attentively, and loudly, wade in the shallow pool of silence. This time is that which I appreciate most, Because I hope, If I scream to the night sky, and no one is around to hear it, That it does still makes a sound. I downright believe that it does make a sound, And I scroll down the archives that depict today’s surfing, To prove it to them, as well as myself.
Every daybreak, right before the sun rises, I sit in my room, next to my window to the world And attentively, but silently, look and see that no one is here, And no one can hear the sounds that I play for them, Knowing that they don’t believe they subscribe to the same audio philosophies as I.
Every sunrise, I sit in my room, next to my window to the world, And attentively, and loudly enough, check the archives once more, And I wish that the world was swiftly trapped in a topped jar when I spoke, Hoping, after noticing that no one has responded to my witty musings, That the sounds I made just one night ago Won’t disperse. This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 31, 2013
Deep Sea Diver by Kevin Blain Harrison
While I appreciate the way you dive into thought, I fear that if I follow you down, I’ll end up in too deep.
I commend you for learning to swim boundlessly, effortlessly, Almost as if to bring Deep Sea Diving to an art form, But for me to even float atop these waters is a miracle, one burdensome at that. Truth be told, I was only able to get to this lake of thought accompanied with a life raft.
I used to be upon the highest tier of the highest ship, my head in the clouds, Above the millions of people on deck, who were, and remain, dry enough as it is. When I learned that such a life was unsustainable, however, I decided I needed to come close to the water, for both social and health purposes. So, I took to this lifeboat as an emergency means to save my life.
Since my head WAS so high in the clouds, I’m sure you can imagine why, even ‘on water’ by pure technicality all this time, I never actually learned to swim.
Hence, I can only travel these seas thoroughly enough to say that I did, And can only reasonably allow myself to tread these shallow waters. I’ll admire whilst you dive so far down that you wind up over my head, Hopefully like you’ll admire the statue I’ve commissioned to be built at the ocean floor, To show people, falsely, how far down I’ve been, And to prove, falsely, to them that I’ve seen how far down the rabbit hole goes. But if I dare to actually challenge myself so far down— Which, mind you, I’m even willing to do— I’ll surely end up in too deep, and drown. This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published February 1, 2013
Steam (Take One) by Kevin Blain Harrison
Bright lights set our skins ablaze, The booms set up around us, like long grey stars And the camera starts to roll.
On the scene now filming, we dine. The camera pans, showing the hottest of foods, The steam doing nothing but magnifying the heat from which we’re all suffering.
Regardless, we sit, and we smile. We scoop, we twirl, we pass, like a perfect and happy family, And we do what we once thought to be impossible.
See, these lights are hot enough to boil our skin, But the steam emitting from this fettuccini before us Is too glorious and powerful a heat to be sustained by a floodlight.
So we sit and feast, upon our steaming plates, Suffering, But we will only suffer on Take One without the faintest intention to reach Take Two, Because we suffer for a living, and we know to overcome.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 31, 2013
Fixate by Kevin Blain Harrison
You are the star in the sky around which I fixate. I lie, with my hair and back indented in the hills Admiring your glow, hoping that, Amongst the millions of lives you illuminate at this moment, I might, greedily, get to be the only stargazer to really admire your light.
I track your spot in the sky Hoping to see you scar the black midnight sky with your luminescence, So I can admire the gracefulness with which you move.
And while the worst part of my night is the cue by which I’m forced to leave, I worry not, because amongst a uniform militia of stars above my head I could never fail to recognize which you are.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 29, 2013
I Live In A Fantasy Land [They Will Have Fun] by Kevin Blain Harrison
I live in a Fantasy land, with a whole army of gingerbread soldiers.
Instead of depicting our art in shades of grey, We dream and speak in Technicolor, of colors never familiarized, but still appreciated.
Instead of living in decaying mortar fortresses, We live in cascades of crystal castles.
Instead of breathing every breathe to our death, We breathe life into the universe.
Instead of wagering our funds on the brazen and efficient cavalries and foundations, We use money like it’s disposable, because as limited as it may be, with it we create opportunities.
Instead of forging impenetrable metal armor, We decorate ourselves in candy and frosting, because we are sure of our safety.
Instead of piercing flesh with a plunging sword, We pierce mentalities, if playfully, and challenge them
Waiting for them to take initiative, and play the game, Because once they play the game, they will have fun.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 28, 2013
A spy is only as good as him team As if I am to continue this mission, I will need the resonance of your voice in my earpiece, telling me what to say
Because lord knows, That if I couldn’t rest my thighs on your shoulders I could never raise myself high enough to hear the meetings of the wise, the cultured, and the knowing through the vents, And would promptly fall flat on my face. Your sultry voice, not only soothes me, But, more importantly, gives me a sense of direction, So nautical you, and nautical me, Can faithfully Take to the seas. And should we crash, let the record show, Let the history books shout in italic and bold, to waves of students and connoisseurs, That we died in the heat of warfare, Robbing the time of pain from the rich in clandestine, evil riches And giving time of solace to the poor in desperate, honest rags. And should we hit the bottom of the sea, Our bodies dancing horizontally, We shall find for the bodies that the desperate, honest rags wear, A treasure that they’ve given up on, Because, nautical you, and nautical me, Have never yet taken to the seas to find it, And never yet fallen, like dripping ink, into the history books As the martyrs that gave to the universe, A rich treasure. A treasure in the form of a painting, That shows the boundless beauty, Of the intellect we’ve amassed for the well-being of our nation, stuck to the canvas, As me, hearing you, through my earpiece, With your sultry voice, not only soothing me But giving me a sense of direction, Nautical you, and nautical me. This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Aug 22, 2011
Eventually by Kevin Blain Harrison
Eventually I yearn Eventually you learn Eventually they turn
Eventually I seek Eventually you meet Eventually they heat Eventually I dare Eventually you care Eventually they stare
Eventually I ask Eventually you’re glad Eventually they’re mad
Eventually I race Eventually you haste Eventually they chase Eventually I’m yours Eventually you’re floored Eventually they hoard Eventually I’m beat Eventually you pique Eventually they reach
Eventually I peak Eventually you’re weak Eventually they speak Eventually I think Eventually you think Eventually they blink
Eventually “I’m young” Eventually you run Eventually they’re done Eventually I’m done Eventually you’re done Eventually they’ve won.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published June 2, 2012
Cold Pavement (Hot Chili Pt. II) by Kevin Blain Harrison
Cold Pavement here lies Thought his sorrows were lies but the tears in his eyes Softened any despise With the ground just as wet As when the pavement was set I refuse to just fret at his every regret Had circumstances been not I wouldn't be here to rot but'tempers cannot run hot With such sorrows in plot But regardless of cries We're all here with the flies With my son, half my size Who has met his demise Our angers shall both have to die. This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Dec 19, 2011
——- Drink Responsibly. http://www.drinksmart.com/ http://www.madd.org/drunk-driving
Hot Chili by Kevin Blain Harrison
Hot chili my meal Cold water to chill Cold whiskey to deal On my way to the wheel Full on leaded to last Loud music To blast Drink my liquor down fast Cut a saw through my cast Push the pedal with bone Pour my whiskey to stone Take a shot to the dome Down the av'nue alone I'm numb off the pill Hit the 'standers stood still Left a pain in my will That neither could feel Our fam'lies shall both have to deal.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Dec 18, 2011 ----- Drink Responsibly. http://www.drinksmart.com/ http://www.madd.org/drunk-driving
Syntax by Kevin Blain Harrison
I try to change my change my syntax So truths don’t sound like thin facts, but truths come at the price of repetition— It’s a Win Tax.
I try to change my viewpoints See this corridor from two points, A pencil shade of twin sides Will win me only two points
I’m stuck in the captivity, Of all my scenes nativity, Like Brothers Grimm, Darkly call, A need to switch my imagery.
The way I speak grows hollow, The old me I will follow, And if I don’t fix this shallowness soon, The same I’ll hope tomorrow.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Dec 15, 2011
Manually by Kevin Blain Harrison
Manually, I stuff fluff into my head, The same way an A-cup stuffs tissue into her bra, In hopes to come up to my peers With my neck held high, chest poked out, And wear a fabricated hubris like a badge.
But those who, correctly, question my new found respect Sneak right in front of my eyes, creating an aversion, Reach into my head, and pull out the scented, triple-ply fluff And leave me here embarrassed, Hubris deftly deflated, leaving me to retract my chest, And to pull my torso in with my arms.
The next time, I’ll reach out for a more definitive fluff As if to brainwash myself into admitting defeat, And succumb to the enhancements to which I’ve been guaranteed, The quality assured by every channel on my television
So next time I face this encounter, They will try again to reach into my head and pull out the scented, triple-ply fluff And will find that they cannot, but their judgments become no less fragile Because my manually-installed fluff becomes no more authentic.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Dec 14, 2011
