Jesus and How He Must Have Felt
My life began with a skeleton
with a smile and bubbling eyes
in my garden of dandelions.
Everything else fell off the edge,
a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.
When young, I pressed
against my mother’s breast,
but youthful memories fell short.
I tried at 8 to kiss my father,
but he was a welder, fox hunter,
coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.
My young life was a mixture
of black, white, dark dreams,
and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.
Rewind, sunshine was a stranger
in dandelion fields,
shadows in my eyes.
I grabbed my injured legs
leap forward into the future.
I’m now a vitamin C boy
it keeps me immured
from catching colds or Covid-19.
Everything now still leaks, in parts,
but I press forward.
Staggering out Wee-Willy’s
dumpy dive bar, drooped eyes,
my feelings desensitising,
confusing my avocado fart,
at 3:20 a.m., with last night
splash on of Brut aftershave.
Whispering to my outcast
self-sounding more like pending death.
My body detaching from myself,
numbed by winter’s fingers.
I creak up these outside stairs
to my apartment after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco’s Windsor Castle
London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
I thought of Jesus
how He must have felt
during His resurrection
dragging His holy body
up that endless stairwell
spiralling toward heaven.
Poets In The Rain
Most poems are pounded out
in emotional flesh, sometimes
physical skin scalped feelings.
It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross
a Mary kneeling at the bottom
not knotted in love but roped,
a blade of a Bowie knife
I look for the kicker line
the close at the bottom
seek a public poetry forum
to cheer my aspirations on.
I hear those far away voices
carrying my life away-
a retreat into insanity.
All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak
sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.
Crazy, suicidal, we know who they are:
Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas
the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale
this group grows a Pinocchio nose.
At times I capture you here under control.
I want to inspect you.
All can be found in faith once
now gone in time.
With all your concerns, I see
your eyes layered in shades of green
confused within you about me.
Forgive me; I’m just a touch
of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle
Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly.
We don’t know if it is all worth it.
I have refined my image, and my taste
continues to thrust inside your crevices.
Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie.
Asteroid Ceres looks like you passing gas,
exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice
on a balmy rock just like yours.
I will wait centuries, like critics, to review
this fecund body of yours-
soiled, then poppies,
poetry in the rain.