n***@gmail.com
2017-11-13 01:27:16 UTC
Watermelon Gut
...a sequel to Watermelon Moon (W. Dockery)
I'm going to drag this thing out
to the bitter banal end.
The poems have turned malodorous
and gone downhill but I persist.
Bill collectors collect at the windows
and my joblessness only pisses them.
Tried my best for the entire week
just to keep the lights on.
This morning I was barfing
Barfing over the river
at the professionalism
of early morning narcing.
And through bleary eyes
I saw how others also needed...
My poetic touch.
Even if they don’t know it
But I’ll give it to them anyway.
But when I look
in the mirror in the restroom
and I see those bloodshot eyes
staring back at me like poo, um
And I find that there is
nothing to love about me.
and remember others don’t either
and I hang around for free.
Because there's nobody else
quite as freebie as me.
What I try to say and think
Come out as two grease-marbled things.
I run it all through a blender
wish I could somehow
get inside the shelter
And tamp down me, the unbefriended poster
Compelled to post day and night.
Paying in foodstamps
for what got lost or fenced.
And I will never get hired again.
Strange laundry in my thoughts
like old socks and underwear.
Like something smells and I think it’s me
And in-grown hair germinating in my insides.
Memories whisper to me like
Phil Spector and his wall of sound
How can I water my grass
If I don’t have any.
And Phil is in prison.
My body curdled
in streaky, lardaceous noodles.
My poetry exposed at last
As seedy when I ate the whole watermelon
and drank rancid wines
because that was all that was in the dumpster,
dinners someone threw at me at the club.
I look at myself
with a crown of licey hair,
and my heart is straining to pump
blood to all my extremities
but is having a very difficult time.
My lips on the mirror
when I again see my face.
It is in there somewhere
like ravished brambles twisting or maybe twist ties.
But with an emphatic shake of my ass
and it keeps on shaking.
And the stage is majorly creaking with
the old tunes I still try to push out
from my Watermelon Gut.
...a sequel to Watermelon Moon (W. Dockery)
I'm going to drag this thing out
to the bitter banal end.
The poems have turned malodorous
and gone downhill but I persist.
Bill collectors collect at the windows
and my joblessness only pisses them.
Tried my best for the entire week
just to keep the lights on.
This morning I was barfing
Barfing over the river
at the professionalism
of early morning narcing.
And through bleary eyes
I saw how others also needed...
My poetic touch.
Even if they don’t know it
But I’ll give it to them anyway.
But when I look
in the mirror in the restroom
and I see those bloodshot eyes
staring back at me like poo, um
And I find that there is
nothing to love about me.
and remember others don’t either
and I hang around for free.
Because there's nobody else
quite as freebie as me.
What I try to say and think
Come out as two grease-marbled things.
I run it all through a blender
wish I could somehow
get inside the shelter
And tamp down me, the unbefriended poster
Compelled to post day and night.
Paying in foodstamps
for what got lost or fenced.
And I will never get hired again.
Strange laundry in my thoughts
like old socks and underwear.
Like something smells and I think it’s me
And in-grown hair germinating in my insides.
Memories whisper to me like
Phil Spector and his wall of sound
How can I water my grass
If I don’t have any.
And Phil is in prison.
My body curdled
in streaky, lardaceous noodles.
My poetry exposed at last
As seedy when I ate the whole watermelon
and drank rancid wines
because that was all that was in the dumpster,
dinners someone threw at me at the club.
I look at myself
with a crown of licey hair,
and my heart is straining to pump
blood to all my extremities
but is having a very difficult time.
My lips on the mirror
when I again see my face.
It is in there somewhere
like ravished brambles twisting or maybe twist ties.
But with an emphatic shake of my ass
and it keeps on shaking.
And the stage is majorly creaking with
the old tunes I still try to push out
from my Watermelon Gut.