. 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

Thursday, November 3, 2016


on the devil's license is the name Marty Vanderlew,
it says he's an organ donor too,
although don't wait around with baited breath for him to offer a kidney in lieu
of the one you've lost,
because of the camera flash his blue eyes are crossed,
tossed curly hair with frosted tips and lips perfectly puckered and soft,
his clothes might be a little unwashed but the cost
of always looking disheveled has been minimal to this whirly devil,
a freckle here and a very special metal cross hanging from his ear there,
rebel eyes beware,
he looks at you with a devil-may-care attitude that comes off as either lewd
or a madman pursued,
he'd love to catch you posing in the nude but wouldn't dare intrude due
to the way his daddy raised him since he was just a little root,
it would behoove him to stand a little straighter
so that he doesn't come off as some stooped anti-angelic traitor,
layers and layers of charisma
which is an enigma
because this red-handed gorilla is only after your soul's shapely hour-glass figure,
inwardly bitter rigorously whispering do-nothings into the ear of the sinner,
that ol' trickster,
a true killer through and through,
that well-mannered Mister Marty Vanderlew.



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