#classichours

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The Turtle

Originally posted: March 13th, 2012

I eagerly hope for contact without effort, until then, I hide.

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Absolute Beauty

Originally posted: March 15th, 2012 (circa 1999)

Her movements define grace.

Her features define beauty.

Her voice purrs with passionate song,

yet, I could never please her flawless existence.

And I now burn with icy pain;

Worse than the loss of white innocence,

to watch her admire one who does not deserve

the affection of heaven made flesh and sweet blood.

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Just Two Turntables and A Son

Originally Posted: May 31st, 2010

Scratched in the heat of a Kingston love song,

an introspective bass line so guttural

it sometimes drowns the world out with a rumble,

so I let it listen to the bleed,

Crafted in an instant,

a wriggling demo between two soundtracks

close to their big time

but just couldn’t make it

a coffee-colored mixtape from two records

one you played if you liked your songs

to hit the track drinking,

he was soft rock

on rare Sunday brunches,

the other rocked me to sleep

she was like Al Jerreau in the mornings

time for school was the hook

Never matching each other’s

beats per minute,

they complimented each other

when played together

he sounded like the blues

dipped in a Johnny Walker Black hue

that’s all I knew about him

his favorite drink,

his favorite song,

that famous refrain

from Clapton’s Cocaine

and liner notes filled with excuses

I made an effort to listen

but craved distance

from his lost album

and am afraid to request it,

fearing I'd hear the chords

I'd inherit.

Hers are the songs I'm less

reluctant to spin,

the sounds of cooking against

the din of all the nicknames

and 2-minute tag games,

her chorus some days was Sade

and some days Marc Anthony

sometimes she sang to me

sweet and halting just to make

me smile because she wanted

to see me happy and catchy

like Swedish pop

even when she was sick

from chemical breakdowns

her own lymph nodes sold out

and ended like every Behind the Music

for anyone famous in the 70's,

despite missing her sweet melodies

I still carry them within

proud to be the son of

a black magic woman.

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The Crumbling Temple

Originally posted: July 16th, 2012

You were once a sweet servant catering to any whim I created in the folly of forgotten moments you failed to remember your place you failed to remember mine calling me outside of my name in order to crown yourself some unnamed deity

Yet without my adoration without my venerating touch you are but a statue carved out of lifeless marble not such a wonder to behold any longer, best left to be forgotten in the dust of your neglect made stale by the falseness of your airy benedictions that now fall on deaf ears and dead temples, devoid of welcome or want for your wanton wishes that brought about luminous shudders scarlet contracts binding us until you retraced the steps of Judas and devoutly desecrated eternity.

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14 Miligrams

Originally posted: February 29h, 2012

1.

Fingering furtive,

I eye the striped straw rolling

in the still June night

2.

A perverse stage fright

overcomes thumbs, this is not

a ho-hum feeling,

3.

New ceilings break on

the first inhalation whooshed

loosed on my brain stem,

4.

orange rockets pulled

into pockets patching

the septum reeling,

5.

I wonder if frying

my brain is worth it

as I work the straw,

6.

A pen shakily tumbling

over tense knuckles

like a dancing coin,

7.

I sniff readily

as the pen begins

deadly pirouettes across the page.

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The Seasonal Lover

Originally posted: May 11, 2014

I was a warm salve welcomed when it was cold but now loathed in May I was a bitter drink too weird to put lips onto not interesting enough with the coming sun more drugged-up sirens will knock your parlor ready, wet Still I'll be writing weird poems trying to forget your brief taste for me.

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Hydra

Originally posted: July 6th, 2010- Featuring Kat and Solo

Wielding triple-folded sentences rendering innocent whetstones defenseless, militias metal mandibles maim moist pink petals that hang perfectly over the horizon, cleaving but the goal still tauntingly out of reach, syllables can slash but can’t breach realities, now through sun-soaked intellect rip portals to achieve our task.

Raping lathered beads of sweat, Neither vice nor sin can harm it Figure out a way to disintegrate and meet me post-haste in the wasteland between form and cute sheen, I want to get up in the guts of visceral grammar cuts commas are the blood, periods under the fingertips scraping and gouging open the paragraphed landscape, bringing about the letterocalypse.

[severelyimpossiblecrown]

Protests of a Marionette

Originally posted: July 22nd, 2010

Skeletal jester, the fool dances starry-eyed to the whims of snakes.