link to savvy

Poetry

Little Red Riding HoodWhen we were young and we had it all in front of us…Busy streets Walkin the BeastTogether for a Light ShowerA Time for IndividualityFighting Upstream on a Wild HorseGenerating a Present with PresenceAnd it's Like That, Ain't It?Gluttonous EyesInto the Wildheel meSteamrollin like an 18-wheelerBody WorkStranger. Killer. MuseHer Heart in MineDisdainedCapped in the ShinBreaking BravadoPortrait of a LadyIn TruthAmong the Wildflowers

Breaking Bravado

Restless on the floor boards,
Bottle of whiskey on its back
And the words all scatter the same.
Fuck stick throbbing to inch,
Memories all stitches
Cover me in layers of oak
Dye my eyes to darkness
Implants
Of filthy disrespect and ruthless truths
Bring me home,
John Daniels.

Hard wood,
Thick as a canoe, unhollowed
It's long plank winding
And candles lit along it,
Stench of cigarette butts
And dry cum,
In boxer shorts
And a long sleeve shirt
Staring at the ceiling
As she stares at the ceiling
Then staring at me,
The hapless shmuck
With only a half throbbing stick

The last log burns,
And coals with little gut now,
Our bodies tremble
To the outdoor air,
It's morning glares
And New Coat of Paint
Reminding us of
A burgundy moon.
A rap at the door,
And our faces like deer's meat -
Scattering for cloth
while J. Daniels
Rolls under a high stool;
It raps another time.

Long, dense smoke
Coiling lung
And esophagus,
'Hold it in as long as you can,' he says.
'Hold it in, til
Keep it there,
As long as your face keeps its color.'
A billowing sea
Of stretching cloud
Comes out
And into the
Dark, stale beer
Mid-morning glare
In through the window
Room.

The bathroom walls
Dripped of sweat,
After night cold
Soffocated inside,
Now lays,
As tears;
Wallowed drops
Hanging on
Porcelain sheaths
Though falling,
Seem to rise,
With exhilarating
Heart palpitations;
Bone knuckles
Press against my
Trembling back -
Tumbling down
Parallel,
My cauterized
Throat.

Bar stools once full,
Stand
Dull, exposed;
Tired in age,
By incoming
Window light;
Glass pipe falls,
Exhaust fumes
Bail hay
Rimming hard rays,
And beckon
Kalidescope patterns.

The lady,
Once with pants
At her ankles
Jerking
Hope to life,
With saliva, mulch
Acorn grip,
Now channels
Her valley of
Warhol faces
Floating inside
My irises
While I follow
Ewoks through
Her long strands,
Of thick, dark hair.

A chamber once
Filled with
Candles, sparks
Up a second time
And the daggering brows
Of Jack Torrance
Illuminate again
As our guest
With the
Crystalline case
Offers a bizzare
Ride, to
Our laying
Bodies once more -
Long forgotten,
The tales of
American scotch
Or blistering tonic;
Long and far
From Wilma's
Smiling beak
On the brink
Of Hallucination
With an eye
Almost catching
The fetus of earth.

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