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Posts tagged “bowling alley

A Song for Baby

While I work on the edits for “a place you cant come back from” I thought I’d give you another Bowling Alley poem.  In my opinion this one, “First Date” and “Sullen, but not quite repentant” are the quintessential “radio hits.”  They represent, more than anything else I was writing at the time, the attitude and demeanor I held during this time period. It’s risque but somehow dry, with that ever present youthful anger.  Enjoy…

 

 

A Song For Baby

Your Pedantic search for truth

through unsuspecting lives,

leaves girls wondering

faith and cosmopolitan sexuality;

leaves men pondering God,

in tumultuous copulation.

The vulturous squalor

of your predatory eyes,

the death you feel in age;

the uncouth joy you find in

Desire.

I see the innocence,

the pure unkempt

Youthfulness

in your smile.

The only vestige of

the life you desire.

You perspire and

extrapolate the need and desire of

men and boys.

The purpose your life has

derived.

With grasping limbs

and intertwining extremities

the pulse of distinctive,

and purely diabolic,

hearts pound in unison.

The power and force of

your vapid conjointedness

juxtaposes reality.

You ask for Faith

You ask for Belief

You ask for Hope

Why don’t you realize

these are pronouncements

only for the Holy?

What you really crave

what you really hunger for

is Desire.

That lust in a young man’s eye

The postulation behind the

Powerful.

That un-touched

That un-satiated

That un-natural

Desire!

The type which doesn’t exist!

What you love is lust,

but what lust could love?

When is a lecher good?

When is lasciviousness absolute?

With your talk of luxurious tapetries

and proportions of men…

Wallet or otherwise.

The vivaciousness of women

competent  or otherwise,

of your overwhelming

denigrating Power.

Your false Hubris

Do you know?

How weak?

Disheveled?

Degraded?

How useless it is?

Your

Desire?


She was Perfumed with Cigarettes and Beer

These are both from the Bowling Alley period.  I find when reading back through them there is an underpinning of angst, fear, loneliness and anger, but there is an underpinning of hope strewn throughout, weaved into a tangled skein of confusion.  There were a few “desire” poems from that period and I submit one for your approval.

 

She was Perfumed with Cigarettes and Beer

She stomped her feet

in defiance.

A gesture only known to youth.

To encapsulate beauty

with he word “cute”

Would be presumptuous;

superfluous really.

A life of desire

only known through gestures

of copulation for redemption.

Speaking of love

in the throes of ecstasy.

The drug of choice.

A modicum of desire

is all that’s required.

Alcohol, the catalyst

of wanton cruelties,

ruling consciousness,

the pain of friendship

and the flurry of seduction.

The moniker “cheater”

so deferential as to

abandon hope.

A life separated from a

promise of dreams

a promise of touch

a promise of love.

So valued as to capitulate

the necessity of abandonment.

Where is home?

Where is love?

So abstract a concept,

only to be requited by the foolish.

Unrequited,

the only vestige for the depressed.

She downs the wine with

one singular swallow.

Devaluing the past

with a hope of the future.

A desperate cry of my name.

To bring resolution to pain.

To bring absolute restitution

to choices so wrongly executed.

But how to absolve?

How does one abandon

that driving force to mend others?

How does one ignore hope?

ignore love?

ignore life?

to adhere to pretensions held by priests?

Who am I to absolve

the pain of others when

I cant evolve through

the pain I derive?

Love contracts hope

but desire trumps all.

Matters of the heart are forgotten

for individual moments

of ecstasy.

So she stands and pounds her feet

with the beat of my heart

and I smile

hug

console

then abandon her to problems

as I embrace my own.


Sullen, but not quite repentant

I’m going to give you another of the Bowling  Alley poems, since you have another week of Another Ace in the Hole coming in Podcast.  This one has gone through many lives and currently lives under the name of “Trailer Park Lullaby”, but I think that might be a little pejorative, a little more than I mean to at least.  It was once (and maybe when it was at it’s best) “Sullen, but not quite repentant” and the reason that I brought it back here was because It’s my battle cry.  This poem is for the dreamers and the hopeful who see no hope; to the romantic and faithful, who are without love.

 

 

Sullen, but not quite repentant

What men do for promise of  Home?

The dogs of factories,

The slaves and drones

That live their lives in bars

Taking hoppy medicine

That drowns reality

Where believing in yourself is a Dream.

Where reality is a

Sore that wont heal.

Where substance takes precedence

and Joy is the difference

between the insane and the abstract

Normality.

Words like Queer, Kike, and Nigger

feel succinct.

That world deranged into

Black and white.

Intelligence means you know pop culture

You win at Trivial Pursuit .

Where life is derision,

Confusion, contamination,

What is solace?  A woman’s touch?

Pedantic fantasies of love and submission?

Where priests are pederasts

and Presidents are puppets.

Where Solace lives in a

Bottle, or a

Pipe, or a

Line on a mirror, or a

Syringe?

What is life

But a series of mistakes?

Leading to an ultimate

Derangement of consistency.

To be laid in a hole, to feel Peace?

The power of the brain is punultimate

only to the passion of the Heart.

To live, to dream, to die,

No more!

The arrows of fortune

Are diligently avoided

And Powerfully Presuaded to

Destroy the weak;

The Deranged powerful

For the truth lay

in the heart and mind.

The power conjoined,

The passion omnipotent,

The opposition like

A lone bowling pin awaiting

Devastation.

Money is money and power is power,

but Hubris is the contagion

that destroys worlds.

Never mind the fragility of personality.

Avarice controls the world and

Destroys passion of the artistic mind

The Glory of civility is a myth.

These are peons who cautiously protect

the King and Queen.
Pawns

In a cosmic chess game of

Power and verisimilitude.

Life is the game  of chance

Will you land on the right square?

Take the right career?

or will there be degredation and repression

in the mines for decimation of the soul?

Belief.

Faith.

Words only the fundamentalists

Hols as Gospel.

But precisely what is needed for Life?

Belief in the intrinsic merit of Desire?

Faith.

And the everlasting hope of Humanity.

The desire to live your dream.

The frenetic evaluation of the soul.

The life of ones own dream.

Belief and faith in the dream.

Happiness is for fanatics

Like Whitman and Thoreau.

Contentedness is for

Realists and dreamers

Who understand that success,

Comes not from a bottle

Not from a mine or factory,

But from the heart,

Faith and belief in your heart.


The Melancholy Malaise of Last Nights Memories

I’m bringing you a poem this week, since the podcast will follow along the lines with the book and I preempted the podcast by posting Carol-Ann and the Nothing Man first.  So enjoy listening with Carol-Ann this week and enjoy the poem.

This was the second poem I wrote during my “Bowling Alley” period.  It’s simple enough, my friends went through a bowling phase, of which I’m not much a fan so my imagination ran wild while.  In between rolls, I looked around at others through the beer haze of the alley.  I saw old men gathering, I saw teenagers trying to steal drinks, I saw homeless looking for a place to stay, and women, old and young trying to seduce others.  These images and personalities clashed in my mind and brought forth some of the most brash (If not outright ranty) poetry and prose I’ve ever done.  Hope you like it!

The Melancholy Malaise of Last nights Memories

Your pedantic search for truth

through unsuspecting lives,

leaves girls wondering

faith and cosmopolitan sexuality.

Leaves men pondering God

in tumultuous copulation.

The vulturous squalor

of your predatory eyes.

The death you feel in

age;

the uncouth joy you find in

desire.

I see the innocence,

the pure unkempt

youthfulness

in your smile.

The only vestige of

the life you desire.

You perspire and

extrapolate the need and desire of

men and boys.

The purpose your life has

derived.

With grasping limbs

and intertwining extremities,

the pulse of distinctive

and purely diabolic

hearts pound in unison.

The power and force of

your vapid conjointedness

juxtaposing reality.

You ask for faith.

You ask for belief.

You ask for hope.

Why dont you realize

these are pronouncements

only for the holy?

What you really crave,

what you really hunger

is desire.

That lust in a young man’s eye.

The postulation behind the

powerful.

That un-touched,

that un-satiated

that un-natural

Desire.

The type that doesn’t exist!

What you love is lust,

but what lust could love?

When is a letch good?

When is lasciviousness absolute?

With your talk of luxurious tapestries

and proportions of men,

wallet…or otherwise.

The vivaciousness of women

competent…or otherwise,

complimenting your overwhelming

denigrating power.

Your false Hubris.

Do you know?

How weak?

Disheveled?

Degrading?

How useless it is?

your

Desire?