In response to several requests, here's some of my old poetry. Gawd...this is a couple of decades old now (and it's a rare thing not to have been young and stupid once!) Hope you enjoy (Poe pieces are coming well, BTW).
Long faced, longing mysteries
Fall heavily round the blue gray winds,
Arriving too late
With all hoses broken
Their brains lay on the extra crunchy pavement
All over.
Their hatchets glide into involution,
While simultaneously telephoning
Amaretto gray war babies.
Wait for light, then proceed
Streams of desperate dire miffs
Scarcely graze this frididaire,
It hurts, it hurts, it ultra-hurts,
Neuralgia, neuritis, lumbago, gout
And you
Were always in my mind.
We know,
We know we know nothing,
Nothing nothing nothing keeps happening
All over.
The Shade watches ultimatums
In his garden grow,
And kneels in kind resentfulness
With caring hypocrisy,
He dare not face the overhead clouds,
All over,
And fears the catastrophic funeral machine.
By the light of his burning brain
He unrolls and chars in dismembered shock.
Love has given him nightmares.
The chorus of throats erupt in liquefaction
As the last extended fingers break their grasp.
The blue gray streets reverberate
With memories and explanations,
And auto glass and tears and fears,
And trying and crying and dying.
Could be, because, almost, forever, and snap,
As a disconnected bud sprouts
In overhead confusion
All over.
Long faced, longing mysteries
Fall heavily round the blue gray winds,
Arriving too late
With all hoses broken
Their brains lay on the extra crunchy pavement
All over.
Their hatchets glide into involution,
While simultaneously telephoning
Amaretto gray war babies.
Wait for light, then proceed
Streams of desperate dire miffs
Scarcely graze this frididaire,
It hurts, it hurts, it ultra-hurts,
Neuralgia, neuritis, lumbago, gout
And you
Were always in my mind.
We know,
We know we know nothing,
Nothing nothing nothing keeps happening
All over.
The Shade watches ultimatums
In his garden grow,
And kneels in kind resentfulness
With caring hypocrisy,
He dare not face the overhead clouds,
All over,
And fears the catastrophic funeral machine.
By the light of his burning brain
He unrolls and chars in dismembered shock.
Love has given him nightmares.
The chorus of throats erupt in liquefaction
As the last extended fingers break their grasp.
The blue gray streets reverberate
With memories and explanations,
And auto glass and tears and fears,
And trying and crying and dying.
Could be, because, almost, forever, and snap,
As a disconnected bud sprouts
In overhead confusion
All over.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
what bugged me a lot in college is discovering that no one really teaches Poe. i get the feeling he is sort of brushed off as kind of amateur or pop-ish. he's simply not mentioned, or if he is, it's a polite nod toward his fiction as the precursor to modern murder/mystery stuff. he was a poet first class! incredible handle on our language even if a lot of it involves morose-type words rarely found outside of funeral homes.