I am no man of god,
but of broken glass and past tragedies.
More truth than lies fall from these lips.
I would lie to you if I could.
I would tell you of love that is not,
and sins uncommitted, damnation kisses,
and whatever you needed to hear.
I would seduce you with bad poetry and good wine.
Because every woman loves the badboy,
every woman lives for the dangerous,
but I have always been…too good.

But no more! I have given up my belief in disbelief!
Atheist no longer.
I live for salvation…for a need of forgiveness.
This life is now but clay.
Make of it what you will.
Your god is mine!

And, now, your parents will never approve.

Truly a bastard I will deceive to get what I want.
And what I want is you,
you harlot of Gomorra,
you bitch of the night,
slut of my nightmares,
saint without morals.
My sinning angel!

I sell my soul to a god that does not exist
   to get you!
Atrocity begets atrocity and you drip
   from my fingers
   as does your wetness.
And blood will tell.

Blood always tells.

An untruth untouchable by divinity. I do love you.
From our first awkward word to our last half kiss.
I love you!

Because I….

I am a man of god!

christopher…. ‘06

She is poetry.
Her smile, her stride, her sideways glance,
a sestina in motion.
But how many lines written about her?
A question best unanswered.
To imagine this personal muse once another’s unthinkable.
Or worse, many others’, promiscuous instrument of inspiration,
whole volumes given over to her name.
How many men have penned her golden hair,
her small unpainted mouth, her eyes bright wide and quick?
How many attempts to capture her in sonnet or fast couplet
only to languish in cliché? A sad smirk, an upturned chin,
a blush to humble all men and some few women,
humor and sense, open arms and slender hips, saying,
“Welcome.”
And the poets of yore, were they better poets?
Does she still yearn for their concise quatrains,
their firm grasp of image and simile?
Or perhaps she still unwraps symbolism and elegant
phrasings well into the night.
As a poem about a far star cannot compare to its light,
how can mere words on a page hold even a part of her?
Too many questions to answer in clumsy rhyme
or pathetic penultimate line.
But impossible these the first, uncreative words laid at her fair
altar. She deserves better.

´06

I was looking for love when…

She reared back her ugly head
and said,
“Do you not desire a kiss
from my sour milk mouth?
Or perhaps you would like something
a little further south.”
When I figured of what she spoke,
I realized to her it was no joke.
Neither was I laughing,
and I almost threw up
when I thought of being her king.
Vile bile rose to my throat
as venom dripped from her teeth.
She held out scab crusted hand.
“Come, drink my rancid wine,
eat my spoiled meat.”
I took her hand,
put my lips to hers,
and in an obscene way made sure
that she would always be mine.
I looked into her horrid face,
placed my head upon her sagging breast.
Oh, such a strange place to find rest
from my quest of love.
I was looking for love when…

I met my luscious succubus.

christopher…. ‘88

I’ve made a life of nonsense,
internal bleeding, flesh fungi, and hypochondria;
all as grave as the comfort of my own poetry.
Words are my terminal condition.

I’m sick with lines without meaning,
afflicted with gibberish,
a stutterer speaking in tongues without religion.
There is little substance to this life.
Etiology without beginning,
belief without basis,
and faith in need of proof.

Physics says a bumblebee cannot fly.

And cancer eats the best of us.
HPV, microwaves, plastic, free radicals,
preservatives, nicotine,
and each breath we take.
To live invites death!

A bullet will kill you faster than writing,
but either bears death all the same.
One word after another,
one word until shame becomes sorrow,
one word until some feel they understand.

This is no cry for help,
nor plea for consideration,
but, rather, an explanation,
sentences saying,
“I would rather be invisible.”

My illness is absolute,
a disease incurable and miracle-proof.
Only a world without ink can stop me,
and then, only if there is no way to open a vein
and write.

christopher…. ‘07

Ingredients:

1 biography
½ of 1 fifth of whiskey (substitute 750 ml of red wine if preferred or if you work the next day)
1 woman stuck inside your head
2 obscure references
1 baby done me wrong line
1 premature ejaculation joke or 1 self-deprecatory comment on penis size
Enough extract of misogyny to pass for honesty and to insure you go home alone
1 dash of irony and angst (flavor to taste)

Directions:

1. Write a sentence, any sentence, don’t worry, this will be deleted later. Drink half of the first drink. Sit back, ponder the woman you can’t shake, and consider what’s written.
2. Delete everything. Start over.
3. Write a sentence, any sentence, don’t worry, this will be deleted later. Drink the rest of the drink. Sit back, ponder the women you can’t shake, and consider what’s written.
4. Delete! And come up with a title. Consider this a good start!
5. It is best if alcohol is added throughout the writing process, pre-consumption often prevents anything intelligible from being written (though moderation inhibits completion as well). Sprinkle the first stanza with confusion and cleverness, incidental rhyme and deliberate alliteration. Drink as required.
6. Mix in your first obscure reference: Oh, and Charles, I do know what it’s like to slide up next to Betty’s warm ass. References like this, only understood by the poet, and devotees of Bukowski are essential. (Don’t worry, people always pretend they understand, nodding sagely or granting the nervous laugh).
7. Decide if you are going to go with ejaculation joke or penis size comment, having people think you are both sad and small will invoke only cocktail wiener imagery. And “Snocrates, the wise Snausages mascot, knows your dog will absolutely love the big meaty taste and cute sausage shape of Snausages.” The second obscure reference for those keeping track!
8. Honesty is the best ingredient, but few can afford honesty, or do it well, so resort to lighthearted misogyny —if pressed.
9. Mix well, include stark imagery if needed, and call this poetry.

This recipe feeds many, but never the one intended.

Snausages.

christopher… ‘06