. 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

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The French House Affair

Some personal erotica from those wayward, youthful college days, albeit written in Dr. Seuss'esque rhymes. Glad to know my poetry has gotten better, even if my penchant for sneaking into places I shouldn't be in hasn't...

The French House deserves her secrets
but it's time that this one's been told
of the day she opened her doors
to two lovers horny and bold,

The Freshman were served their gumbo
on the French House grounds outside,
the two lovers mingled among them
under blue skies and perfect sunshine,

He kept his flip-flops in his pockets
and ate in the grass and the sun,
she leaned close and she kissed him,
so was the French House legend begun,

They bade their own friends goodbye
and slipped in through the downstairs doors,
their passion turned hot in the shadows
but there were no empty rooms on that floor,

Her lips on the back of his neck as they searched
from one locked door to the next,
until they found their way up a staircase
and the kisses became more than quick pecks,

The conference room had a comfortable couch
and under the windows a long table and chairs,
the two became slaves to their lusts -
that wiliest of all human snares,

He threw her down onto the sofa
and made good use of his hands,
finding hiding places under her clothing,
his fingers performing a dance,

She threw her head back and sighed at his touch
as his lips found those of her own,
when he lifted her shirt and unstrapped her bra
she arched her back towards him and moaned,

The French House must have secretly smiled
as unbeknownst to the Freshman below
the two lovers found more delight on the floor
and discarded all of their clothes,

She was dripping with sweat and much more
as he pinned her down from above,
their hips moved in one rhythmic motion,
on a dirty conference room floor they made love,


In the madness of climax between them
a soft hand knocked at the door,
the two were naked, on fire and praying
that the knock wouldn't lead to much more,

But before their hearts could slow down
and the sweat could dry on their skin
the door to the conference room opened
and a pair of high quality loafers walked in,

The two lovers were hidden from sight
and remained as still as the table,
but the stranger would not be deterred
and without him would not be this fable,

He followed the disheveled clothes,
no doubt curious where the trail led,
until two naked kids stared up at him,
"give us five more minutes," the boy said,

The fact that the stranger consented
is perhaps God's greatest gift,
wide-eyed he wordlessly nodded,
quietly retraced his steps and then left,

The French House goes on to say
that no two people ever dressed faster,
before their deadline was up
the two lovers vanished without further disaster,

The French House deserves her secrets
but it's time that this one's been told
of the day she opened her doors
to two lovers horny and bold.


Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Million Miles

Keep your head up above the curvature of the Earth. And your heart open. Too many places are too far away...

Where are you in the million miles,
Holding close to your chest,
As I am,
The possibility of us,
In all those million miles,
Where ever it is cell-phone signals go,
In passing moments,
Days that feel like minutes,
In a kiss that disappears too quickly,
In dreams that fade with the first light of a dying star,
We exist as an idea,
As a hope,
As the full rich scope of imagination,
Words build up the fantasy,
But only my body next to yours proves any truth,
Your soft hand in mine,
The taste of your lips in my mouth,
Somewhere lost in the million miles,
Somewhere between here and there,
Perhaps in the static,
In the breeze that blows hot from the sea,
Perhaps all you ever were was a ghost,
Only travelling the distance home can I be sure.


Friday, July 6, 2012

The Shotgun and the Last Letter

Inspired by the darkness of love and one of my favorite scenes from television...

Red jacket 10-guage birdshot in the break-barrel 
     on the seat beside me,
Resting like a quiet passenger,
The radio glows in the darkness between us,
Too low to hear,
But I keep it on to remind me that there is still a world 
     alive somewhere,
The city is warm and smells like the ocean,
Street lights seem lonely at this hour but I can make them 
     become comets the faster I push the car,
Empty streets inviting madness into my mind,
But there is only calm there,
I push back the feeling that nothing exists,
That I could jerk the wheel and flip this car and not feel a thing,
Perhaps I was never born,
Or perhaps my heart stopped when I took that first breath of air,
And this has all been a dream,
Maybe I’m still in my mother’s arms,
Her tears falling among the discarded goodbyes,
Lifeless and cold,
Flying through a city of dying stars filled with 
     memories that never were,
A sawed-off shotgun at my side,
My last friend,
For now, neither of us speaks,
Though we both have much to say,
Tonight we’ve somewhere to be,

Against my lips I clutch your letter I meant to send:
I need to know,
It says,
I need to know if it was real,
I need to know if those parts of me that I gave away 
     were squandered like flower petals in a storm,
Or if your love gave them meaning,
Do you still remember what it feels like to hold my hand?
To hold me inside of you?
To cry so hard at the senselessness of life,
That your words became a torrent and washed away your dreams,
Did we hurt for nothing?
Did we break each other’s hearts like vandals tossing rocks at 
     windows in an abandoned warehouse?
Did it matter that we wrestled unto death,
With our own fears,
With our love,
Did it matter,
Does any of it matter?
I need to know.

The shotgun sleeps for now,
Nestled not like a killing thing in the caramel leather of my convertible,
But like a small bird,
There are things I must do,
That I can never return from,
Things only done in this darkest hour of the night,
When the city has no face,
Nor can see a man’s tears,
Were there tears to see,
No, it’s no longer the ocean I smell,
But blood,
Black as the deepest recesses of the heart,
Not accessible to me,
Accessible only to my friend in the seat beside me,
Eyeing me,
Daring me to believe in anything otherwise,

I hold your letter in the current over the windshield,
Release my fingers,
And do not look back as you flutter to the asphalt behind me,
Somewhere in the night.