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?
Sean McBride 