Four Laments For Familial Dysfunction

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The title and poems are self-explanatory

Submitted: October 05, 2014

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Submitted: October 05, 2014

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The House

I once knew of a house

bigger outside than in,

like the heart of my forefathers

who faltered before fetal connection

under weight of fatal mountains

long ago scripted for them to scale...

... of my foremothers who withheld their milk

because they'd been starved on the screams

of crucifiction,

in the womb of fears, hatreds,

of rituals and dogmas long worn-out,

spirit-tissue shrunken on lost nurture

beyond flesh and blood

to an interior death.

The house is the grave

of the cycles of histories and times

and love which finds no room...

It is all-encompassing...

I still go there

seeking to rearrange dimensions.

~ ~ ~

Drive-By Love

for Victoria

...waiting, apocalyptic waiting

to the whisper of wheels,

engine hymn, gloves of growling steel:

hangin' with the rhythm

of drive-by love,

down, track-side, tattoo-parlor-down,

way down on Elm,

smokin' in revved-up shadows

crocheted by train whistles

in the rappin' dark of night pounding

lust-blood up through

the tight jeans-leg of heat,

weeping, surging, apocalyptic-silent...

...use me -use me -love me

with your dead-on leather -

- boots grinding butts into pavement,

pieces of everything in the puzzle

beyond the edge. ..

...use me - love me

with your reckoning, caressing,

satan-satin beyond the fried-out sizzling taunting me numb,

while Big Daddy, now at home

after a blistering day

behind the liquor store on Cojones St.,

drags his mamma across the bed,

brewing cycles of loathing,

retching, wrung-out-mouthed and

spewing rituals dug from soul...

...use me,

accupunctuate, make me feel

the dead-on blazing of your eyes, and

if I have an edge, take me to it,

help me hold, or perhaps let go

and fall into the deep, high-hat crash

of your inside, boiling soul -

way down,

hangin' with the wailing, kickin',

punch-punch beat

of an emptiness wrung dry

into purple caverns of dime-bag silence so frenzied-deep and frozen,

I can hear the alley walls...

use me...

whispering to the dead...

love me...

and the blacked-out synapses of trees

bending over to fart in revved-up, smokin' shadows

around my head:

my hair -

my mouth -

my nostrils (flaring and bleeding the stench of here and beyond) -

my ears -

my eyes -

where have I gone?

the purple is so deep,

a cathedral-length

from virgin-orificed absolution (madonnas leer and grin),

while the chasmed purple drools

pulsing ripples,

And the rap?

the rap, rap, rap goes on

while my spirit-doors fling

wide in answer,

looking for embrace, perhaps,

watching through windows

too many to count,

watching mama struggling still

to absolve the still-born reek of

Big Daddy's shame...

and I am here, gone...

somewhere...

... help me feel it, wherever,

track-side, tattoo parlor-down

and waiting,

hangin' with the rhythm

of drive-by love,

down, way down on Elm.

~ ~ ~

From Behind The Bush

Suicide of unspoken pain,

reeling chamber of fumes,

cigarette butt floating serenely in my beer despite uneven legs,

nightmares leer at me through cracks

and I feel a compulsion

to open doors for prostitutes,

pay them well at the breakfast table

half a block from my car

parked on the hope-chest

of an empty trunk

and the expired license

in my eyes from behind the bush

across the street,

watching my mother and me,

and waiting,

my fingers meeting my father's in a tangle of her hair

where secrets are kept

and not released in the sound of train whistles across the river,

Submissively, my mother shrieks,

my father sighs in silence

and the legs of my table

jostle the floating serenity

of my cigarette butt

for a brief moment of joyful sin,

then restrain themselves in a pattern

that is square and lockstepped

in a hollow-dimension-righteousness superceding human flesh and souls,

plucking hairs from the tail

of the pagan cat

searching for milk in my mother's hair

between my father's fingers and mine,

looking for response

to her caressing tongue

while my mother and I look for picnics

in my father's eyes

and are hypnotized, paralyzed

by the soul-stained glare

of church windows

masking altars that are bare

but for sacraments hidden beneath a scum of green,

The Masters Of Control genuflect

with the scum in their hands,

holding it forth, mocking the hunger

of whispering lips

afraid to invoke another hope

in the mysteries of hexagrams,

cowering under the Queen Of Heaven

and her pentagram of Love,

while laughing shadows mask their glee,

In vain, fire hydrants beg

for leg-lifted relief

from dogs baring teeth

around stripped bones,

howling rituals among the tombs,

winter wind through the empty echoes

of deja vu between my mother's legs,

my father seeks and finds not

while her toes do not curl

with sensual pleasure: strangulation of numbed ganglia,

Closed for business

she contemplates compensation

dripping between her fingers,

in lurid drool of green,

Lips tightened in desperation,

I wind up my toy,

it slips through my fingers

and smashes hydrants,

relieved, at last, they unleash a flood

which promises to soothe

beneath a sea of forgetful denial,

Cackling, the Masters Of Control return to their dens of frozen lust,

dealing cards of necrophiliacal gain across the uneven table and

grinning lewdness at my drowning cigarette butt before tightening

screws

in lockstep righteousness

superceding human flesh - and souls

reflected in the eyes of the cat

as she turns and walks away,

and my father, my mother and I

watch from behind the bush

across the street,

exchanging glances of wonderment

over the quiet smile on her face

and the dignity in steps of the cat,

then avert, avoid ourselves and separate,

wandering, looking for milk

and a place where we can hold hands.

~ ~ ~

Wherever

Train wheels

sparking steel beneath

wind wailing blue

along the staggering bridge of time,

lost on its way

from cradles to

son-orbits born of women

-stumbling -

mothers

their men

staggering over ends of untied faith

between iron rules stretching,

 

beckoning toward tottering bliss

which they stash

with bottles of sloshing hope

in paper bags,

crumpled,

cursing caresses

which fall upon rails

instead of waiting curves...

haunted by curves

of waiting lips -

pursed in pained mockery of bags

paper, crumpled,

-curves -

and sparking wheels

lost in passage

where angels have no need to tread...

...no fear, but cringing destiny,

eaten by billowy

choo-choo smoke,

watched by coal

eyes of black,

steel caressing steel

while paper mouths , soundless cries

wail blue

and kiss the suckling curves of time

anon and goodbye...

"I'll see you, mother,

when I get there... wherever..."


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