Categories
Poetry

PHILADELPHIA LOVE

She was fat as a pimple,

dumb as scum on the Susquehanna;

but no ordinary Philly whore:

she was a drunk dirty lady

from down in lower Darby,

a stinko queen who had,

or one of her sisters,

been on the scene since the beginning of sex.

I creaked up the wood stairs

and swung open the hard-sprung door

into the hallway and the door banged behind

and left me in the dank stink

of fried eggs and catpiss. Ambled down

the butt-scarred hallway

to the number the man sold.

Brushed dust off the knocker

and banged. She waited for the word;

I said it, went in; she kicked over a gin bottle

with a flat grin and etiquette evaporated

as we rolled on the floor like boa-constricted sweathogs.

She was no ordinary Philly whore,

she was a fat dirty lady

from down in lower Darby,

simple as a pimple, ugly as a bug

in a wino’s beard, dumb as

scum on the Susquehanna,

but sexy as that Lexington shot:

you heard convulsing 400 pounds

round the world

that night for ten dollars we made meat sing.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

GO BUY IT

Media urges me to buy it.

All my friends tell me to buy it.

People at work insist I buy it.

So I decide to go out

and buy it.

Take along my AK.

Couple hundred hollow points.

Because what is the point?

Take along a crowd a thought –

we can all buy it together.

Drive to the store. Hop out. Duck

in. Inside cluster scores

of that social insect humanity.

Just call me Raid. Read the label

on my can. Watch me spray.

See antennas, iPods, glasses twitch.

If you duck lucky, make it out

before I train on you my sights,

make the world know

I just came down to buy it.

And if you call me sick,

let it be thus.

Let’s make a play –

on words playing bullets

from my automatic.

Take this pain. Take that death.

Carry in your head forever film 

of the spatter to prove

while I breathe I still do not yet

buy it.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

Literary Masturbation

James Joyce uncircumcised

Virginia Woolf circumcised

Emily Dickinson uncircumcised

Barbara Cartland circumcised

Franz Kafka uncircumcised

Henry Miller circumcised

Philip Roth uncircumcised

Adomnan of Iona circumcised

Julian of Norwich uncircumcised

Jack Kerouac circumcised

Agatha Christie uncircumcised

Fernando Pessoa circumcised

Carson McCullers uncircumcised

Ann Kavan circumcised

BS Johnson uncircumcised

George Orwell circumcised

William Shakespeare uncircumcised

Sappho circumcised

Homer hummmmmm

Peter Berdyaev

Categories
Poetry

Time

There are pieces of us

That hide in little lockets

And a tide swarms in and drowns

A hand that sneaked

A dozen faces into secret pockets.

No one tells you

Who you are and no one really

Knows you.

And every casual romance

You caught in the corner of your eye as you glanced

At the dance of some momentary love, has already passed.

Has been hated and forgiven.

Every moment; stolen.

Tick Tock someone else’s clock

Was always ticking for you.

From the corner of times eye

Time watched you tumble down the stairs but couldn’t help or step inside

Or stop you.

Stuart Knowles

Categories
Poetry

The Gunslinger

The Gunslinger died this morning

A driedup worm on El Paso concrete

Happened in a child’s bed.

There was a pillow & a blanket.

There was a scar around the neck

Not the scar of a failed hanging

But shirtcollar too small.

The Gunslinger was more Cagney

Than Fonda.

Hammered cowboyboots heelshaved and leaky.

The spurs rusted.

Gun missing.

And no wife outside wept and no whores

Drank rye

And the cardplayers

Never missed a hand.

The Gunslinger said twenty-eight men he shot & killed

In Reno just to see them dance.

The Gunslinger possessed  

Thanatic Magnetism

Said an old whore in Cali

She refused to believe his Irish redhair

Was gone

Nobody in the hotel knew his name

The dead Gunslinger.

To the grave the Gunslinger was

Carried

In nothing but purple Yfronts.

Anthony James Bergman

Categories
Poetry

HOW THE COPS FIXED MY ASS

I was bung outta dung.

I was bunged in.

I didn’t know where to crap I was

gonna get any more dung.

I checked inside my wallet and

nope, not a turd, not so much

as a drop of piss.

I was bung outta dung,

I was bunged in.

I knew there was a lotta dung downtown.

I could smell it. All that dung rolled inside

paper assholes, crammed inside cash registers,

bung up in the banks,

bunged sky high to the lid of the First National Bank Tower.

I tried bunging my way onto a bus,

but nope, no soap,

the driver slammed the door in my nose

because I didn’t have so much as a drop of piss.

So I hitchhiked and it rained

and I got downtown a little later than I had hoped,

but Lord! the stench of dung was overpowering!

Bunged-out winos crumpled to the sidewalk

like men made of turd. Businessmen shiny as piss

walked by and

grinned at themselves in shop windows across the street.

I was sickened… there was nothing else to do:

I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans

with clean green dung.

Easy as pie. One, two, three. I

ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it

to the new car I was about to buy,

when Bung! Bung! Bung!

the cops shot my ass off.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

I think you may be smiling

I think you may be smiling

When you see your sunburnt feet.

Remembering the traders

You bought trinkets from.

When the sunlit cartwheels of the twilight turn to dreams

And everything sounds empty

In the photograph.

There is time to fall apart

And sometimes time to sieze

You can’t catch the feeling of a hug

In pictures.

The strident lions stamp their ground

And gently play their song

Singing

This is what we sing

And what you’re working for.

My hip was bitten by

A windy door

Can’t set my feet

Everywhere I look just looks like yesterday.

The tearing tides just swiftly

Strip the drifting shores I mind

Put them far behind

Shipped away

To twilight isles where I can’t find them.

Stuart Knowles

Categories
Poetry

DATING THE INFINITE

I went out with the infinite.
We swapped spit
in the backseat of a jalopy.
Explored ourselves
while ignoring the movie.
Walked home from the parkinglot,
falling all over each other.
Detoured through the park.
Dallied on a bench.

I sneaked a hand up her skirt.
She held me by the stones.
We gazed at the stars.
I wanted to go all the way.
She said I could have more and more,
but not that.
My mouth to her bosom sank.
I kissed all galaxies known to man.
Above a zillion crickets,
she giggled: I hadn’t scratched the skin.

My chin found her lap.
Her thighs spread.
The egg wet my face.
Till awake I became suggested.
Alone on my threshold,
with a scent on the fingers
and a hint in my tongue.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

Beautiful Loss

Over in un-

cut autumn

light all before

and possible

pouring in

there in golden

so fleeting

settled peace

comes to a place

passed

unnatural I may

be this is magnified

life       I

follow for

but seconds

its scent on

me all life-

long     looking

and losing

looking and losing.

Caroline Clark

Categories
Poetry

On the Abuse of Daylight

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