… This is just a tribute!

          
     
       < A Memory Of Past, Present, Future>    
     
     
Raymond, written across      
a box, on my book shelf    
-nothing fancy    
just black permanent marker    
on an old plain cardboard    
shipping box    
that had travelled 9 lives    
before this    
Had to open the box    
took time to it    
breathed it in    
Cut through the sealing tape    
Lifting a side    
found a dried snake skin,    
a pair of oven mits,    
reams of paper    
all with letters    
written long-hand      
in black permanent marker    
     
The oven mits had baked      
-baked more delectable foods    
than most people      
could fit into a century      
each burn mark      
bleeding a story untold    
each worn thread, paper thin      
spoke of having packed      
a different cookie tin    
That dried, delicate, dark      
snake skin    
spoke seven languages and fifteen      
dialects    
in the letters    
-oh the letters    
were a hand me down    
they contained    
a special "melktert" recipe    
and instructions for the moon    
     
I'll share the recipe,      
I don't have permission to share    
instructions for the moon    
     
 

        
       
       
one day,        
i'll find. the words.        
simple. concise        
but those are un-natural traits        
for [me]        
so. i. say       
- i love you, like fish love water.        
as i'll die, if you take        
me out of it / left on a river bank        
flapping fins        
like my arms        
asking what they did, before        
they. held. you.        
       
time is steady moving. i asked        
how long we had        
you said -'it'll take you eternities to get rid of me'
and you smiled - in a way that        
 
could make a man almost believe in god.        
       
offering my heart.        
ripped to pieces - because being [un]dead, isn't being alive.        
-you make me want-to-live.        
this. won't. end.        
i don't give up on shit. like this.        
yes, the story of love        
ends in graves.        
and i want yours        
next to mine.        
because death never had the strength        
to, end. this.        
to. end. us.        
       
it takes courage to become        
who [you] really are.        
i'm still working on it. i am nothing original.        
only the combined efforts of everyone        
i have ever known.        
especially, you.        
     
you, who        
took the words right-out of my fingers        
- left me with this.        
speaking in stolen tongue.        
       
       
       
-x-        
       
       
       
A word of thanks to Six-Out (Jon Rodgers)        
without whom this poem wouldn't exist and the writers before him, who inspired the original [ex]cited. I gave Jon's rather unique punctuation a try at the same time (un-sure that I got it, though) .        
       
       
Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, ee cummings, Sylvia Plath, Pablo Neruda, Buddy Wakefield, Andrea Gibson, Frank Sinatra, and Chuck Pahlaniuk.        
       
 

  
 
hold onto your knickers, this may roar  
 
   
   
   
Some things are underground for a reason  
Much mush  
pretty make up  
and half dressed    
mannequins  
have throughout history    
tried to turn    
the hardest    
of the underground movements  
into pretty-tinsel-laced  
e v e r y d a y  
environments  
It makes    
as much fucking sense as    
Michael Jackson  
being headmaster    
of kindergarten  
   
So while you read this  
thinking  
"yes but"  
I'm sorry  
-NO!  
If you're wanting to hear  
"hit me baby one more time"  
expect an axe guitar to the temple  
   
There are a million  
commercial    
pretty poetry websites  
There are thousands of  
publishers willing  
to print    
your wrecking ball  
   
But only one fucking  
underground  
that welcomes  
your cutting poem  
your sex change  
your death wish  
your hard core  
your heartache  
your heavy  
the love  
and the    
dark in  
YOU!  
   
Now I'm not saying pop  
shouldn't feature as an  
appetizing act  
I am saying  
we can't turn  
a death metal festival  
into grandma's  
peach-panty-tea'party  
    
While Karen  
and Justin    
arrive putting    
vases of daises  
on the toilet cistern    
-a mirror ball above the mic  
and a crop top on the drum kit  
   
pull out your leathers  
hold true to your heart  
swap it out  
for a skull coffin    
filled with    
black-fucking-roses  
   
Hold your own truth  
-apple pie  
has no place    
in suspenders  
and chastity devices!  
   
   
   
paint your love, in poetry as our forefathers did, but do it, just do it the underground way  
   
   
   
< end rant >  
   
 

              
               
               
"Lightning light me up, illuminate like fireflies
Medusa magic cast my dreams in stone" Kahn Morbee              
               
               
               
               
ANC fairytales,      
are not the same as the memory of The Roxy      
-that midnight you taught men to wear eye-liner
just, one of many times you upped the game
"we promised our parents, we were just having fun!"              
               
in front of a piano, choosing ivory, smiling at it's name
thinking of stardust galaxies and the road to china
knowing the gospel, "that goodbyes are never easy"
will live on each stone tarred to the journey's road
because "that's life" and I'm colorful              
               
You are my antidote as beautiful as there comes a man,                
I remain a loyal fan of your story, of your life design
so I tell myself you're "saving the best bit for tomorrow"              
               
I'm starring at the mountain, calling the devil I know            
I'm only human, your words remain             
a white blood cell pumping me alive              
while you silently read mine                
converting wine              
               
"what the hell were we thinking, were we thinking at all              
what the hell did we believe we'd achieve              
stood there with our hearts exposed              
as the elders said I told you so." The Parlotones              
               
                
               
               
               
 *for some reason this poem bumps on the mobile screen.  
Turn your mobile sideways for best results.

  
The realm between fantasy and reality crosses a fine line
When the yearning burns and turns from mind to body  
Every part of the cortex is provoked and vexed with want  
‘Til the reeling of phantasmic aching has you feeling naughty  
    
And it’s here when you hear that voice expressing hunger  
Delectable utterances stir the soul into transcendent bliss  
With near breathless tones it can render some speechless  
Flooding imaginations with images one simply cannot dismiss  
   
Oh and the stirring, the thought provoking visions are conferring  
It’s an alluring invitation to fleeting dreams at the edge of sin  
Like little deaths coupled with resurrections and awakenings  
Until the fantastic madness wears the veil of decorum thin  
   
And we, the audience reading and listening to the story unfold  
Delve into the scenery delighted by the enticing narration  
Where self indulgence and indiscretions can be boundless  
Reveling in the pleasure of a wordsmith’s magnificent creation