Post A Poem

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

-WB Yeats Originally Posted by Whirlaway

That made me think of someone and cry. Beautiful. I think I've heard it before. Thank you.

Memories

Basel Gentry couldn't remember the time
so he took to cutting notches in his arms
for every passing hour

Barrett Carry couldn't remember his thoughts
so he took to writing them down on paper
but then he forgot the paper

Emily Matters couldn't remember to pace her
breaths and kept passing out all the time

Seymour Shorly couldn't seem to remember
he was married and got caught engaging in
disquieting impropriety on several occasions

His wife remembered to load the gun

Memories

By Bojulay

Floating

Floating on acid air
calypsed with corrosion

He longed for the sea
the base air of the ocean

But more of a quieted respite
than a solitary notion

Potatoes, two bags for $5 at Walmart
Why do I always get the wobbly wheeled
shopping cart.

By Bojulay.

Hash House Plate

Casually crusted hash house plate
Winding road to a winding gate
Pseudo ephedrine breath breathed in
Shiny aluminum siding....both revealing and hiding

Crawl space clearing
The shadows are nearing

Call of the minarets
Vegas high rollers place your bets

17 single shoes found on the highway
Sid Vicious on the radio....singing, I did it my way

By Bojulay

Bramble Haired Girl

I once knew a girl that had bramble hair
She never seemed to have a worry or a care

She lived off of oxygen....because food was for dweebs
She always said thank you....but never said please
She had silky smooth ankles....but knobbly knees

Her mind would often wonder off to the Tanhauser Gates
She had a nose like Barbra Streisand and sang like Tom Waits

I last saw her getting on a bus to Oklahoma City


By Bojulay

I’m all alone in this world, she said,
Ain’t got nobody to share my bed,
Ain’t got nobody to hold my hand—
The truth of the matter’s
I ain’t got no man.

Big Boy opened his mouth and said,
Trouble with you is
You ain’t got no head!
If you had a head and used your mind
You could have me with you
All the time.

She answered, Babe, what must I do?

He said, Share your bed—
And your money, too.


50 - 50 by Langston Hughes

technically a limerick:

There once was a man from Racine
who invented a loving machine
both concave and convex
it could serve either sex
entertaining itself in between ....

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west!

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

Love u all...saw this and had to share

The Never Ends (for a Prostitute)

Abstract Inner-tube
Cherry sweet curly lube
Raw meat with coffee heat
Pig farm, sweaty sheet
Silky feet, lip leak
Life reposed
This death repeats
Tears from grins*in
The Never Ends

Beneath it all squirmy crawls
Tipped, ripped, lipped in bed
Zipped, whipped - being fed
Hungry still
Not a thrill
Wetty, sweaty, dollar bill
Without end
Not a mother
Like no other
But a lover*
From the hooker of a*
Friend*with
Calloused shins
The Never Ends

Kiss a list of wish and miss
Cry away this saucer dish
Break the floor with bedpan sores
Serving nothing
Beg for more
The belly ring of everything
Lies a leaping surly scream
From the harrowed, hollowed chest
Fresh face frolic fun arrest
Backpage boogie, outstretched bends
Forever lost*while bending over
The Never Ends

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Charles Bukowski