This is one of those poems that I'll probably never be satisfied with. I've been rewriting it, taking stuff out, putting other stuff in for at least five years. Every time I think I'm finished, a month or more will go by and I'll look at it and think, this needs something more. This time however, I'm just not that sure. I may never be done with it. So, here's the Latest version:
a munchin' kitty fur, and globs of wadded dental floss.
All our years we grieve, we grieve like withered leaves
in bleak December. All those mourning cobwebs piling up,
all that dust and cigarette butts fornicating on the rug.
And there he is! Piss-yellow skin and eyes
a gangrenous green, yes, there he is!
that lifeless body as our hopes await
his resurrection in the soiled shroud
the blessed Bearded Lady left behind
for we mere specks to wonder on.
screaming lily white, and red fire tears
carve crimson rivers ‘cross her angel face.
We dance too close to sparrows. And our sin?
A desperate need for simple truths,
a simple ways that might encourage us,
the multitude of us still dying . . . lying . . .
naked in the winter’s snow.
than the mother who dropped us at the nunnery steps
beside the curdled cream the milkman left.
trample passed our wailing ghosts.
Too demanding we have been. So cruelly circumcised
from nature's tattered teat no longer can we recognize
the bourbon scented breath of poor departed father
as he staggers from that smoky barroom in the sky.
deep inside our youthful throats
then lick their sores like wounded dogs
and disappear into the fog.
They never loved us, no, not at all.
Woodie, 2oo8 (rewrites o6-27-12, 1o-22-13, o3-15-15)
Welcome To . . . the Freak Show
Shuffling footsteps down the hall
come one, come all the end is near.
Where breathing labors like a
vacuum cleaner
running out of suction! All those
horrible years spent a munchin' kitty fur, and globs of wadded dental floss.
All our years we grieve, we grieve like withered leaves
in bleak December. All those mourning cobwebs piling up,
all that dust and cigarette butts fornicating on the rug.
"Heya, Heya!" cries the Barker from the sideshow tent,
"See the amazing frog boy pickled in a jar!"And there he is! Piss-yellow skin and eyes
a gangrenous green, yes, there he is!
How our blue-stain fingers mock
him,
our skeptic sneers, cruel jeers torment
that lifeless body as our hopes await
his resurrection in the soiled shroud
the blessed Bearded Lady left behind
for we mere specks to wonder on.
So, better kiss me quickly, dearie,
while my tarnished lips
remember how your warm, wet tongue once
brought to life —
But she'll have none of that. She’s
far too busy now
her hands a burying the dead, her
tapered fingers screaming lily white, and red fire tears
carve crimson rivers ‘cross her angel face.
Our graveyard spirit spits too much
these days
and drinks too much these moments in. We dance too close to sparrows. And our sin?
A desperate need for simple truths,
a simple ways that might encourage us,
the multitude of us still dying . . . lying . . .
naked in the winter’s snow.
We shall sleep, no more. No more
may we sing
for better or for butter or for
weather kinderthan the mother who dropped us at the nunnery steps
beside the curdled cream the milkman left.
But willows weep and hang their weary
boughs
and mutter blasphemous oaths as the horsemen trample passed our wailing ghosts.
Too demanding we have been. So cruelly circumcised
from nature's tattered teat no longer can we recognize
the bourbon scented breath of poor departed father
as he staggers from that smoky barroom in the sky.
And that is where we’ll meet our
makers!
Brutal, careless gods who ram
themselves deep inside our youthful throats
then lick their sores like wounded dogs
and disappear into the fog.
They never loved us, no, not at all.
Woodie, 2oo8 (rewrites o6-27-12, 1o-22-13, o3-15-15)
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