. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, August 30, 2010


A popular night among the many nights of the journey...

Ashville is burning,
her distant Appalachian hills aglow with the
     reflection of predawn carrot-colored embers,
shadows ebb and flow,
dance like water babies on the old oak wood of the wall,
Jack of the Wood,
where the downtown denizens collect,
Bluegrass fiddle sounds and churlish sing-song yelps,
herald call of the lost mountain men,
bring forth your hippies and shake those bejeweled earrings.

Mrs. Carroll, where is your baby boy tonight?
Sleeping in her naked arms,
her misshapen crimson cheeks and labored eyeball,
lost contact lens afloat on chlorine seas where the waters
     be stirred by so many weightless, shapeless tits,
by the frightened retreat of minimalist ball sacks,
the bull dyke hunts tonight,
and will shave tomorrow,
viscous milky smoke bubbles from the glass at her lips,
a fog across the hollow caverns and despoiled calderas of her upper thighs,
white hot sobering revolting revelation.

Carried along the night air to her bed,
propelled by a swift Carolina breeze
     and the enriched flames of a mystical mountain city,
a new baptism,
exposed in the soft underwater glow translucent and boreal,
blue-skin cold,
her soft, sad tears race each other along marshmallow cheeks,
to fall willy-nilly between her exposed tits,
sun dark skin,
over the rump of her belly and between her legs,
her lost sailor a thousand miles away,
her plastic passion on the night stand,
O’ Mrs. Carroll, if you could only see us now,
dance like a butterfly
and sting me
     like a bee.


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