A proto-poem
On storm scented days, the sky was populated by grey warbirds
their feathers consumed the bright, with lighting and rain for words
On war scented nights, all the stars joined into a sonorous roar
to shatter the million poisonous bits making up its dark core
Was it the grey, cold November rain?
Was it the beatings, or the silence?
Or the contempt in other people’s faces?
I lost my way somewhere back there.
It’s a book of tradition, a tale of sorrow,
like the snake on the mighty apple tree,
like a river of time, cutting through
generations of living flesh and mind.
I was a stone, hurtling through a shopwindow
I was the motherly impulse in a black widow
darkness whispered in my head, about divine justice
crushing ideas to bits, into dry powdery numbness
The Hunt rises, shy at first, she flashes a smile
bright and milky above the star light’s exile
shapes grow solid, fog turns to trees and hills
Isn’t this how the world gets its thrills?
Money is one sinister god I used to pray to
Me, the kid with the broken heart and faulty hue
Struck by the currency of freedom and power,
It’s not my conscience, but my hands I scour Continue reading “Money and Media”
VIOLETS
Violets, violets in the shadows /
let’s tell truth / if you must
violets, violets beneath the gallows /
Upon my hazel stick / I trust Continue reading “poems by my weird grandma”
