I. the colonel / death
after Derek Archambault
it takes a lot for holy men to give up
so i killed god (took ten thousand dead
men to pull the trigger)
the holster fit / the barrel echoed with smoke
i looked a gunnéd man in his dimming eyes
& told him he’s just going to sleep //
i know what it is to be god
& i didn’t rest after //
i still wake in the night,
remember the river dirt beneath
my fingernails // the blood, same as mine,
II. the fool / the fool
a vulture kettles alone behind a trash can
& debris of Before //
a reverend & a sinner stand at one o’clock.
holy man holds a bag / looks like snow //
the vulture is just pecking around
behind the trash can /// still
there is time for our vices /// of course
a man would think himself god / what kind
of reverend carries around bags of snow / & how
on earth does he keep them cold?
photo courtesy of Face The Show (facetheshow.com)
Author’s note: all of these poems were written using a process I’ve come to refer to as ‘deconstruction’ – basically, I take the lyrics to albums by bands who have been influential on me as an artist, copy & paste them in alphabetical order on sheets of paper, and then proceed to write ‘magnetic poetry’ style using only the words that are on the pages spread out in front of me. In each of these poems, every word that was used appears somewhere in the lyrics to the respective album it is inspired by/taken from.
all words in this poem taken from "Songs To Scream At The Sun" by Have Heart
Ask me where I'm from & I'll say I live
in a cold city that reminds anyone of anything
but home. It's overcrowded & full of guilt.
I forget how to breathe. I never dance,
because my heart dwells too long
on insecurities. Sometimes the mail brings me
loveless magazines that leave the blues
in my stomach, because I am afraid
to be alone. Some nights, I dream that I am
a song-bird lost in a shoreless ocean
or a sea of blood. I think of my father
in his garden – he calls it Paradise,
will say it's greener than all of Eden. On TV,
there's a man begging to be dragged through
the fire. His hypocrisy is beautiful in the way
it's just like my own. I am still
my mother's only son. The rambling
prodigal with golden wings. She will
always keep photos of me on the windowsill.
I will always break every mirror. I will always
long to be swallowed by the water.
There are rules to everything.
us skater kids
used to make fun of
the way the rich kids would slit their wrists.
it was just so obviously
lose the keys to the jetta for a weekend
and brittany would show up to biology on monday
with a paper thin pinkish cry for help
wrapped around the underside of her wrist
as dainty as a charm bracelet.