Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Four Poems

I know I said my next post would be about my first ever “pig slaughter” in The Czech Republic, but due to technical difficulties (i.e. I’ve been jetlagged as fuck and can’t seem to turn out a decent word) that post has been delayed until further notice. In the meantime, I thought it would be nice to share with you guys some poems I read recently at “Alchemy” – an open-mic event held on the first Monday of every month at “Napa Bar and Gallery” (Prokopska 296/8, Prague 1). There are four poems in total. The first three I wrote while on holiday in California this Christmas. The last one I wrote about a year ago here in Prague.

Now, I know y’all are used to my filthy, knife-in-the-throat humor, but these poems are a bit different. At the very least, give them a quick read-through and if they don’t tickle your fancy, I promise to castrate myself on camera with a lemon-juiced razorblade (just kidding).

Laughing About the Moon

I have a group of friends
They are old friends that go
Way back to the time
When I was fishing for boogers
And scraping my elbows on the asphalt
We’ve done everything together
We’ve even bounced the
Globe around and spun it
On our fingertips
I  Love these guys
And it’s sad
When I have to leave them
Every so often we see each other
And when we do
We sew our friendship back together
With booze, pot, and stories
On rare nights you can find us
In my garage
Sipping smoke from a
Jeweled horn
And laughing about the moon


When I was a child
I hated birds
So much so that
I scoured the canopy of our backyard
For their nests
And when I found them
I plucked up their eggs
And smashed them
To the earth
When I got older
And more murderous
I bought a gun
I loaded it with
And tiptoed around
The trees
And when I spotted
A swallow
Raven, dove, or finch
I cocked the hammer back
And blasted it
From its branch
In a “POP” of feathers
Now that I’m a man
And the rage inside me
Has slowed to a
I can watch a bird preen itself
Without wanting to
Crush it
With my boot heel

Have another Sip

I sat in my
Tiny room
And watched Bukowski
On my computer screen
And ate ham
And swilled whiskey
Bombes burst
Far away
In skies I’d never heard of
And mothers’ hands
Went up against the flashes
While they huddled their
Into mud-brick homes
Before being blown away
In so many flakes of ash
And I thought
Who am I
To be sitting here
Watching Bukowski
While all this happens?
Then I took another sip of whiskey
And forgot all about
Those mothers with
The ash-flake hands

Gods of Yesterday

We’ve shut them out!
Everywhere they turn
Another door
Is slammed in their faces
As they roam the streets
And riverbeds
Men with gasmasks
And weapons
Come to collect
They heard them into corners and bathe their bodies in fire
They hang them from the trees and let the crows pick out their eyeballs
They strip them of their skin and make shopping malls with it
They drown them
Till the streams
And oceans
With twisted and dead limbs
Those of our kind
Who take pity on theirs
Who listen to what they have to say
And keep the door open a crack
Are called crazy
And either locked up for life
Or given the same treatment
As those we used to worship and fear
What changed?
Why are the Gods of Yesterday
The branded figments of today?
Can’t the killing stop?
Can’t anyone give them a home?
They’re cold and scared
They’re us

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