Yearly Archives: 2020

Gunpowder and Whiskey

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A crystalized lowball glass sways; 
Jigging the rocks around the whiskey.
Holding the glass is an aged hand, 
Belonging to an aged man 
Just threatening to tell a story. 
The bar listens with tense ears 
And choked breaths.

"She was my first wife; 
June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; 
Too much so at times. 
She wore her hair pinned 
At the crook of her neck 
With a single silver barrette. 
It softened her harsh features 
Just a little you see. 
I came home one day 
To discover her on the floor, 
Deceased, 
With a single silver barrette 
Plunged deep in her eye socket. 
But nobody knew a damned thing!"

The lowball swayed mores
And the tavern slouches listened on.

"Next there was my second wife, 
Anna-Marie. 
She was a pious woman, 
And her slight figure would pray 
Before performing any activity 
And i mean any, before the Lord. 
She tied the waist of her dress
With a bright green ribbon; 
it was so tiny that waist of hers. 
Shame I found the ribbon 
Around that pretty porcelain neck. 
And for some reason, 
Everyone thought nothing of it!"

The lowball was empty.
Once the bartender topped it up 
The man continued.

"Finally there is my beloved Jessie. 
Far too pretty and young 
Especially for this old ruffian, 
But she would ignite the fire 
To warm any man's soul. 
Now she's still alive. 
But that there stiff 
That got my gun going 
He's the bastard
Snatched her from me. 
And with God as my witness, 
She remains my wife, 
So she belongs to me."

And with one long final sip,
He left the bar without his gun;
High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
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Poly-Cotton Shield

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Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not ready to face the world
And all of its sharp edges.
I’m warm under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Hidden from those peering, prying eyes.
I’d rather be smothered in poly-cotton
Than drown in the darkness out there.

Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not prepared to face the world
And all of its harsh voices.
I’m calm under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Hidden from those intrusive, prying eyes.
I’d rather be veiled in poly-cotton
Than exposed the judgment out there.

Don’t pull the covers away;
I’m not equipped to face the world
I’ll just crumple at its feet.
I’m serene under this comfort blanket,
Safe under my safety net,
Here I cant be vilified for being.
I’d rather be concealed in poly-cotton
Than pretend I want to play this game.

Having ‘That’ Conversation Again

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My Dearest Armistead,


Is life a perpetual cycle? 
Because everything seems 
To be happening repeatedly. 
I found myself, again, 
Engaging in 'that' conversation. 

The conversation where 
I hold another person's life. 
The conversation where 
There is only one chance 
To do the right thing. 

I can only hope 
I made the proper choice, 
But I dread that with each cycle 
I am a step closer 
To getting it wrong. 
It seems inevitable that 
I will have blood on my hands 
From being unable 
To do enough 
Or get there quickly.

Every time I have 'that' conversation; 
I am left empty, 
Wishing I could have spoken to him. 
Wishing that I could have soothed him. 
Wishing that he was here, 
And it was all a horrid nightmare.

Why can't someone else 
Accept the burden for a while? 
Why does it have to be me?

Yours,
​Armistead.

Buying Happiness in Room 208

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The cheap cotton shirt 
Rubbed on his plump neck 
As he sat on the edge of the bed
Watching her adjust her cheap polyester bustier. 
They’d discussed pricing. 
He’d already paid half. 
He was nervous, 
Hesitant, 
Didn’t think he could
So she cut him slack.

She pursed her lips 
And tugged at his zipper. 
When she was bobbing her head
He was positioned staring at the ceiling 
Unable to sit. 
Before long his face, 
Once a grimace, 
Glowed from completion. 
Slipping out another twenty, 
He passed her a tissue and left.

Forever Linked

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We Got matching Tattoos
And we laughed when they sketched them.
The needles buzzed,
But we didn't pay them any mind,
We merely enjoyed their sensations.
When the guns were pulled back
Our hearts had matching hourglasses,
But yours was half empty,
And mine almost full.
We assumed an artistic difference
Nothing more
And delighted gleefully,
Content being forever linked.
I didn't see that last grain,
But it fell faster than mine.

You Were Right

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My Dearest Armistead,

I hate saying you were right, 
But you were. 

The smile on my face 
Was a temporary mask 
That has been peeling away 
Ever so slowly. 
My insecurity has bled through 
The white linen robes of my naivete 
And caused me to run to dark corners 
To bleach them clean before anyone sees them. 
Perhaps one could blame 
Our re-acquaintance; 
Nonetheless, I fear this feeling, 
It, would be dreadfully lonely without you.

My eyes feel extremely drowsy, 
But they are failing to rest. 
My mind feels heavy and intoxicated 
By the recurring nightmare of emotion, 
It haunts my every waking hour. 
And my heart is too preoccupied 
With its' reminiscing 
Wo live with the rest of me.

Armistead, 
You have trailed us back 
Through every corner of our suffering 
And imagined them feats of ink.
Do you not see these moments 
Are open wounds? 
They are the episodes in our life 
That we wrap up in neat little stories 
To hide the scars they are transcribed with. 
Yet, for some reason, 
I have removed the bandages 
And allowed you to lick and 
To gorge at the fresh lacerations.

That grief you see 
Sat upon my shoulders 
It is ours to share. 
Are you prepared to split the burden? 
Because Armistead, 
It will continue to grow.


Lovingly,
Armistead

An Angel on Fire

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The feathered wings smelt the worst,
Like plastic had fucked hair and created hatred.
The smoke those feathers created
Wrapped itself around every breath
And burned our tracheas raw.

At first, His visit was delightful,
But as judgment reigned on our indiscretion
The townsfolk yelled witch
And bound His wings with the rope
They bound their wives with at night.

We were entranced by the screams 
Just as we were oft enraptured in each other’s sex.
Gleefully we cheered melting skin,
And screwed as the fat charred,
Breathing in roasted celestial.

The final flames danced at the messengers’ feet
As townsmen recovered from climax,
And wives licked each other's wounds clean.
We satiated all violent and sexual desires,
The day we set the Angel on Fire.

The Girl That Could Dance

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Outstretched legs that could reach the sky,
And nails long enough to lose an eye.
Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined,
Face tight, flawless, and often kind.
Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise,
And affection that came at a price,
Back tickled with golden hair,
A body most beautiful bare.
Elegant movements, jeté, plié,
Childish as very cliché.
Parents who raised their child right,
With the grace of a mythic sprite.

Shame everyone else had loved her too.

Mrs. Delora

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Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!

I took the man up on his offer,
And sat on a stool inside the tent.
Across the large wooden table
Sat a Fortune teller
Drowning in hemp cloth
And gold charms.

Her face was haggard,
As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes.
Her breath, strained and heavy,
And the smell of stale smoke,
Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs.

She placed her hand out on the table,
And coughed, wordlessly
Demanding my hand in hers.
In my open palm she placed a red stone,
And closed my fingers tight.

Are you a whore child?
I gasped, offended,
A whore! How dare she!
I guess you’re just promiscuous,
Don’t be offended,
I’m just teasing, child.

She started laughing,
Throaty and coarse she cackled.
But her humour was fugacious.

You’ll be barren of life,
You’ll just be a stand in,
A temporary.

Her words spun around my head,
As they tightened the garotte
Around my throat,
Pulling burning breaths
And twisting them under my tongue.

Would you like some tea?
It helps with the truth,
Makes it palatable…

I sip the mossy coloured liquid,
It burns my mouth,
But I can breathe again.
I can breathe much slower,
Pulling air deeply 
Into my famished lungs.

Yes child, that’s it,
Breathe.

I nod, and bare my hand,
The red stone in my open palm,
It was tinged with black,
Like a plague was spreading
Tainting its surface.

You won’t have to worry,
You’ll not be left a spinster,
You’ll be left,
Penniless, naked,
Alone in a ditch.

Wha… Wha…
The words slur incomplete.
My breath long but shallow,
My eyes open,
Unblinking.

Just breathe,
Let Mrs Delora liberate you,

Come take a seat with Mrs Delora.
Find the answers to your questions,
Discover your truths,
Explore your future,
And marvel at her talents.
But, beware,
You may find more than you seek,
You may learn more than you need,
And you may leave... Liberated!