Submissions by crowe123
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
23rd Dec 2013 3:15pm
23rd Dec 2013 3:15pm
I died at the end of the trail, lost
I died at the end of the trail, lost
Mt. tops majestic mystic monochromatic
Chimney pouring smoke
I washed up on Big Sur in a clumsy wave frozen blood, bitten in half by a shark
Call forth the junkies and queens, cowboys and dwarfs; the exiles and dictators and the funny girls with broken legs; the clowns with swollen testicles and rabid mouths
A swarm of bees pours from the TV screen and into the old woman’s mouth. She is dead a week now her mouth agape.
stay warm under the bridge anamorphic lost again in...
Mt. tops majestic mystic monochromatic
Chimney pouring smoke
I washed up on Big Sur in a clumsy wave frozen blood, bitten in half by a shark
Call forth the junkies and queens, cowboys and dwarfs; the exiles and dictators and the funny girls with broken legs; the clowns with swollen testicles and rabid mouths
A swarm of bees pours from the TV screen and into the old woman’s mouth. She is dead a week now her mouth agape.
stay warm under the bridge anamorphic lost again in...
569 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
14th Aug 2011 6:37pm
14th Aug 2011 6:37pm
The Fall of Los Angles
The road child fights the
black top with bald tires
Into the future he rides
to blast away the dust that
settled across America like a gray flag.
Naked children are hanged and burned with Napalm.
The flamethrower expresses an orange cord of fire
that wraps around the players’ bodies
and pulls them into the roaring
red mouth of the fire tiger.
I light another cigarette and burn a hole in your photo-
graph destroying your face and a memory.
black top with bald tires
Into the future he rides
to blast away the dust that
settled across America like a gray flag.
Naked children are hanged and burned with Napalm.
The flamethrower expresses an orange cord of fire
that wraps around the players’ bodies
and pulls them into the roaring
red mouth of the fire tiger.
I light another cigarette and burn a hole in your photo-
graph destroying your face and a memory.
704 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
25th Mar 2011 3:15pm
25th Mar 2011 3:15pm
King of the Aztecs
My father ran the mining operation in Chiapas before the murder, he was almost as powerful as the potbellied man. The rule was: nobody crossed potbellied man. But no one ever told that to my father.
The matzos waded into green water hunting fish.
In the villa the potbellied man watched them from the balcony.
Across his bed lay his brown girl casually puffing on one
of his cigars. The ceiling fan above the bed turned silently casting its swirling shadow onto the naked girl below. The potbellied man sighed and returned to her.
Down river men mined the...
The matzos waded into green water hunting fish.
In the villa the potbellied man watched them from the balcony.
Across his bed lay his brown girl casually puffing on one
of his cigars. The ceiling fan above the bed turned silently casting its swirling shadow onto the naked girl below. The potbellied man sighed and returned to her.
Down river men mined the...
780 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
24th Feb 2011 4:50pm
24th Feb 2011 4:50pm
The Bearded Clam
Do not waste time on rhymes nor distant seasons
doors of equatorial pleasure.
Indian women are pure and clean their
vagina's placid homes for lonely cocks tired
of masturbating in dingy restrooms.
Let your voice be heard in the fields, canyons,
quiet meadows and soft valleys.
Home of the morning, of the afternoon,
of bee's nectar, drops of sticky sunlight.
Ants make slaves of aphids; Man makes slaves of man.
Do not waste time on timid nights of
coupling under sheets of clouds. The America bedroom. ...
doors of equatorial pleasure.
Indian women are pure and clean their
vagina's placid homes for lonely cocks tired
of masturbating in dingy restrooms.
Let your voice be heard in the fields, canyons,
quiet meadows and soft valleys.
Home of the morning, of the afternoon,
of bee's nectar, drops of sticky sunlight.
Ants make slaves of aphids; Man makes slaves of man.
Do not waste time on timid nights of
coupling under sheets of clouds. The America bedroom. ...
1287 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
24th Feb 2011 4:13pm
24th Feb 2011 4:13pm
An Empty Raft Against the Ocean
S. Crowe
Seas of still water/ trees of dancing
fire. What more can be asked of a man.
Gun play/ stores open then close/
Vicious dogs snapping toward sunset.
Morning awakes like peddles of a newly
blossomed nasturtium. Tables and chairs are placed
in an empty corner.
Men remember the triumphs of
their youth- a youth decayed in future
fever pitch.
We are but visions of our own wondering,
memories standing against a flood of thoughts.
We are souls forgotten for a time, living
under the city...
Seas of still water/ trees of dancing
fire. What more can be asked of a man.
Gun play/ stores open then close/
Vicious dogs snapping toward sunset.
Morning awakes like peddles of a newly
blossomed nasturtium. Tables and chairs are placed
in an empty corner.
Men remember the triumphs of
their youth- a youth decayed in future
fever pitch.
We are but visions of our own wondering,
memories standing against a flood of thoughts.
We are souls forgotten for a time, living
under the city...
777 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd Feb 2011 3:28am
22nd Feb 2011 3:28am
Wasted Lands Etched by Burning Hands
Wasted lands etched by burning hands.
Water drips from the veins,
nucleus,
carbon,
plasma, at
the
bottom
of
a
river.
Standing at earth's edge, nomads stalk
the wells gorging on drink.
And before the fog a
stallion life absorbed by the swollen sun.
Into lands...
Indians,
rock warriors,
petroglyphs,
hiding places where we'd party smoking grass,
having sex; drinking until day break- effigies in the long
shadows of morning- waiting for phoenix to wake.
Outside Tucson a man dies of...
Water drips from the veins,
nucleus,
carbon,
plasma, at
the
bottom
of
a
river.
Standing at earth's edge, nomads stalk
the wells gorging on drink.
And before the fog a
stallion life absorbed by the swollen sun.
Into lands...
Indians,
rock warriors,
petroglyphs,
hiding places where we'd party smoking grass,
having sex; drinking until day break- effigies in the long
shadows of morning- waiting for phoenix to wake.
Outside Tucson a man dies of...
816 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
21st Feb 2011 2:32am
21st Feb 2011 2:32am
The Last Request of Jesse James
Too late to glide on snow flakes.
Oswald takes aim at the
receding limo and holds its occupant
captive within crosshairs.
Can't lead it too much.
Below the 6th floor three black
men are looking out a window.
Boom! Click, click.
Boom! Click, click.
Boom! Click, click.
One messed up 24 year old with a cheap Italian
rifle-no one else.
Three shots...
Oswald takes aim at the
receding limo and holds its occupant
captive within crosshairs.
Can't lead it too much.
Below the 6th floor three black
men are looking out a window.
Boom! Click, click.
Boom! Click, click.
Boom! Click, click.
One messed up 24 year old with a cheap Italian
rifle-no one else.
Three shots...
850 reads
6 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
20th Feb 2011 5:38pm
20th Feb 2011 5:38pm
Night Song Danger
Passing the ranch in Glendale
makes me remember for a time that
I rode the holy hyw, smelt the
song of God, tasted the sound of the
devil and lived the Phoenix breeze.
Phoenix was a seed for demons to nurture
in the sky, with a sun that blazed so
clear and warm it looked fake, until you got to
know its fire.
makes me remember for a time that
I rode the holy hyw, smelt the
song of God, tasted the sound of the
devil and lived the Phoenix breeze.
Phoenix was a seed for demons to nurture
in the sky, with a sun that blazed so
clear and warm it looked fake, until you got to
know its fire.
883 reads
8 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
20th Feb 2011 3:57pm
20th Feb 2011 3:57pm
The Wind Kings
Lipizzaner stallions spread
their wings and
soar into the blue
vista high above
the white
mountains of clouds and
on into the kingdom
of the shadows only
to be shot from
the sky and eaten
at the feast of the Wind Kings.
their wings and
soar into the blue
vista high above
the white
mountains of clouds and
on into the kingdom
of the shadows only
to be shot from
the sky and eaten
at the feast of the Wind Kings.
811 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
19th Feb 2011 10:07pm
19th Feb 2011 10:07pm
Craigslist Cruising
849 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
18th Feb 2011 1:41pm
18th Feb 2011 1:41pm
The Death of Ben Tuttle Age Eight
I'm looking at an old photograph
You posed with us in cut-offs
Standing in the sprinkler flexing
Muscles, smile flaring
There was a day swiming over my aunt's house
And the time in the shed, all alone
You got a stomach ache laughing
Over my hard-on
First came the fevor
The doctor visits
Then
The vomiting
The fevers
The cough
The night sweats
The doctor visits
The delusions
The hospital
The ventilator
The death
All in a week, 1978
I shouldn't have teased you so often.
You posed with us in cut-offs
Standing in the sprinkler flexing
Muscles, smile flaring
There was a day swiming over my aunt's house
And the time in the shed, all alone
You got a stomach ache laughing
Over my hard-on
First came the fevor
The doctor visits
Then
The vomiting
The fevers
The cough
The night sweats
The doctor visits
The delusions
The hospital
The ventilator
The death
All in a week, 1978
I shouldn't have teased you so often.
734 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Feb 2011 3:39pm
3rd Feb 2011 3:39pm
Ode to Califorina and Karen Traders Mother Dead at 36
I remember the day you died
the freeway shutdown for miles
jackknifed tracker trailer
the road bathed in magenta.
The sky had opened and bled liquid sunshine,
you felt my worn breath, you
knew what I knew, you hid behind waterfalls
you were encapsulated by roaring bullets of sunlight,
the scissors through cortex,
the tungsten glow of the mind at sleep,
the nightly TV head.
I remember the day you died
there was quiet when I woke
morning was on her knees and I knew you were gone.
A...
the freeway shutdown for miles
jackknifed tracker trailer
the road bathed in magenta.
The sky had opened and bled liquid sunshine,
you felt my worn breath, you
knew what I knew, you hid behind waterfalls
you were encapsulated by roaring bullets of sunlight,
the scissors through cortex,
the tungsten glow of the mind at sleep,
the nightly TV head.
I remember the day you died
there was quiet when I woke
morning was on her knees and I knew you were gone.
A...
894 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by crowe123
