. 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, December 5, 2017

For Blood


Who gave the wolf a gun
already threatening to tear his howl from my throat
festering in his fur
and hung
the wrong kind of smell on the air
beware the smell
of the gun powder
of the woman's wail
growing like a cock or like cancer
in the hallowed halls of my black lungs
the bullet cutting through courage
through my tossed luggage
through the diatribes of fussy pilgrims on a long voyage
hunting for the heart of anyone
but bound for MY blood
for blood
for blood
for blood
for blood
for blood

and fuck all the soft words
what's done is done.

TA
2016
.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Loud Pulsing Lewd Primal Proud


They called for my head,
the gallows high the rope strong the wood stained red,
let them gasp
   and find false hope,
feast like fools
   on the lies they've been fed,
me, I'm destined for greater things than death,
the drumbeat in the center of my chest
is loud
   is pulsing
      is lewd
         is primal
            is proud
but cannot be heard by ears in faithless rest,
turned deaf by lives lived in jest,
down with those who've forgotten adventure and who
no longer dream of distant sunsets,
   down with soft hearts,
      and your father's fears,
         and your stolen grace,
            and your sad eyes,
               and your miserable lives,
                  and your silly threats,

me, I lived my existence full,
and without regret,
everyday choosing life,
by my own free will,
   by my own hands,
      my cock,
         my sweat,

call for my head if you must,
roll dice for my clothes and place bets,
know this, ye unhappy fools:
my body is but baggage I'll have happily left
   as my soul flies away free
      on the last of my breath.

TA
2016