Paris 1991 April 20, 2008
Posted by Phineas in : Lyrics, Music, Poesiac , add a commentRain drops smack upon the boulevard
roof tiles crackle in the sun
I don’t think I’ll ever go so far
as I did in Paris in 1991
I don’t know who was President
I don’t know what war we were in
but it was all going on
in Paris in 1991
The Parisians were so busy
and the tourists were so busy
and the immigrants were so busy
but me I had a revelation
in Paris in 1991
You ain’t seen Paris
unless you saw Paris
in 1991
news from home September 4, 2005
Posted by Phineas in : Poesiac , add a commentin stars and stripes news from home the bastard's dead from way over here it seems odd the news from home, the headline is something about you you hate the bastard now he's dead, good for you news from home your home is gone, wiped away like a frown in a hurricane it's your personal nine eleven your neighbor asks you want to say how do you think I feel? your nonna asks she visits in a dream, being long gone after all you have to say ok I'm OK. you add your name to the board listing OK names your town is gone, wiped away like a scowl mopped up by a sudsy froth around the world another town is wiped away all the men taken out and shot boys too in a town around the world where your nonna did not live but has the memory in her blood she remembers a future war she comes in the night to find you grieving when that town went down, where were you? soaking in a frothy tub feet up, sipping grappa melancholy relaxed quick to forgive yourself gasses fume and steam in mucky streets gassed and rank and sad that's not how he died, though that's just some TV news those people could be your people but they are so much darker
the first shower
Posted by Phineas in : Poesiac , add a commentthe first shower after days of it it feels like it will never be enough not enough water, too much water more soap please not hot enough the water you soaked in for days it has a film, it has teeth, it grips you and infects you this shower water lacks any strength it's far too congenial it will take a dozen more showers to feel clean you open your eyes and your arm is brown that's OK, that's normal, you think you close your eyes and the brown is a grey black green it crawls up your skin it drips down your skin the warm street water the stale humid street air you close your eyes and her dead face smirks her wet bloated face, laughing, forever laughing
a new book August 7, 2005
Posted by Phineas in : Poesiac , add a commenta new book waits, flat on its back, legs spread
hot and dog-eared
it’s got smells and stains and leathery thighs
it sweats and sighs and wags its tongue
the book smokes and drinks and curses you
makes fun of your pecker
the new book is not new at all
it’s seen its better days
the new book just shows up
like that
So that’s how it is, you say.
That’s how it’s gonna be.
makes fun of your decor
makes noise late at night
You will have to say sorry to the old lady
You’re in too deep
the book with all those beautiful lies and whys and wherefores
smarter than you
enticing you
makes those lies beautiful
but still
you have to say sorry
or else you ain’t gettin none tonight
sorry doesn’t cut it
makes you wonder
where all those finger stains came from
all that tobacco, I guess
You worry about the other books, what they will think
Will they be jealous? Will they judge?
the book is yellow and weighs an ounce
it’s barely there at all, really
the author sneezed, and out came the new book
this effortless thing, this body spasm, this nasty habit
You offer a drink, but the new book clinks ice cubes
in a sneering gesture that says
Scotch, remember? Like you could forget.
Like you’re sitting around, waiting for word
or words
What does the new book drink?
What does the new book smoke?
The new book drinks Scotch like a fish
smokes Winstons
who the hell smokes Winstons?
The new book does. Better have plenty
grab yourself a glass
it’s gonna be a long night
you beg the book, Forgive me.
you say sorry.
it’s never enough
no matter how many times you read the new book
you lay in on the new book
you can’t take no more
you tell the new book how you really feel
how you’ve always felt
no more secrets
no more lies
no matter how beautiful
you hate the new book
for ravishing you so
you hate the old lady
I hate that old lady, you tell the book
But it comes across too strong.
the book is hoarse and out of breath
the book cackles with derision
outside it is raining, storming,
one of those Mississippi downpours
out on the porch, the author sits in a rocker, but still
you pull the blinds ’cause you want no part
of the storm, or the author and his rocker
You know where this is headed.
Why fight it?
you and the new book go at it
it’s indecent
a rough night of love and mean words
muscles and fingernails and papercuts
until words stain your dripping chest
and purpled words smear across your mouth
and you light yourself up a Winston
what the hell
there’s nothing left of the book
just ink stains and pulp
there’s nothing left of you, either
it was pretty much a draw
we’ll soon forget
this night, this book
until one day next Spring
a new book waits, flat on its back, legs spread
Pome Randomizer July 21, 2005
Posted by Phineas in : Poesiac , add a commentI decided to include randomly selected, randomized pomes here on the Foo, just cause. Please feel free to add lines to existing pomes or create a new one.
