. 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

Friday, December 22, 2017

Of the Hammer

Where suicide lovers leapt to that icy stone
broken heart
broken bone
they shouted, it's only the storm that's growing
swollen momma clouds engorged towing lightening
     and the sounds of the hammer against Thor's forge
I've known loss
and the pain of lives like light tossed
but this

this hurts more

They said it's only a storm passing
I said it's only destiny laughing
old friends dancing with old faces grow in their graces

the crowd settles
the curtain rustles


everyone to your places.


Monday, December 18, 2017

Over The Moon

She was absolutely over the Moon
I was doomed when she kissed me under sweeping tendrils of toilet tissue
reissued as kite strings swinging like un-tethered astronauts
unclothed knots of human flesh
no rest in the craters and canyons like pioneer pirates
no longer silent sailing the shadows in the Sea of Tranquility
kissing her nipples like the bejeweled hands of the nobility
Queen of Curls
Queen of Cats
ruling most royal a world of this and thats
unsettled in sweaters but better to wear panties than to buy bikinis
standing pale on the shores of the Sea of Serenity
her skin the fields of fertility
in my shower she proves her agility while the water rains warm
still her heart is an ocean of storms

what harm can a single clever girl cause this great wide world??

unfurled she charms like the yellow orb of the full Moon
but on the other side of that constant satellite
sisterhood of the dark sky
eternal night looms.

Image: Phil Noto

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Her Spit

She licked her spit from that precipice of pink lip,
pussy for the boys with the guns on their hips,
the last life-jacket remains forever hung in the cabinet
     'cause the captain goes down with the mother fucking ship,
twist her ankle,
spank her and pinch those tiny tits,
she slips like venom through my veins,
like mixed feelings through Cain,
like the very heart of civilization through my stiffening dick.


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.


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.