I hear the music
The noise
The clamoring
I smell her sex
The divinity
The blossoming
I witness creation
The violence
The reckoning
Hear it
Loud and clear
Braille tattoo
CEC
2/24/2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Pen & Cranium
I am writing this poem with my right hand
I am writing this poem with my left brain
I’m drinking Coca-Cola
I’ve recaptured the parts of myself I like the best.
Once upon a time when rolling stones gathered very little moss the notion of absolution troubled me very little; now I wrestle with it like Jacob wrestled with a curious angel or Elvis wrestled with another ill-fitting jumpsuit.
Once upon a less exasperated time I was both the sheep and the wolf and didn’t concern myself with the clothing worn on my back like a suicide or fashion risk.
I am writing this poem in Paper Mate Med. PT. black ink
I am writing this poem with my own red blood and white semen blurred into the mix
My glass needs refilling
My personhood is sick and tired of being left out in the unmitigated cold by toxic assets and leap years too tired to leap.
Rapunzel is in the tower with her newly shaven head and reaching her will obviously not be possible nor plausible in these times of banks too big to fail and children attempting to blow themselves up because their IPod-ideologies have gone on the fritz.
I am on fire and feel no actualized pain
I am out of breath and ready to take a much needed nap.
CEC
January 9, 2010
I am writing this poem with my left brain
I’m drinking Coca-Cola
I’ve recaptured the parts of myself I like the best.
Once upon a time when rolling stones gathered very little moss the notion of absolution troubled me very little; now I wrestle with it like Jacob wrestled with a curious angel or Elvis wrestled with another ill-fitting jumpsuit.
Once upon a less exasperated time I was both the sheep and the wolf and didn’t concern myself with the clothing worn on my back like a suicide or fashion risk.
I am writing this poem in Paper Mate Med. PT. black ink
I am writing this poem with my own red blood and white semen blurred into the mix
My glass needs refilling
My personhood is sick and tired of being left out in the unmitigated cold by toxic assets and leap years too tired to leap.
Rapunzel is in the tower with her newly shaven head and reaching her will obviously not be possible nor plausible in these times of banks too big to fail and children attempting to blow themselves up because their IPod-ideologies have gone on the fritz.
I am on fire and feel no actualized pain
I am out of breath and ready to take a much needed nap.
CEC
January 9, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Prodigal Son
Must return.
Must return to this place of skull drudgery.
A place to fixate upon uninitiated love.
This poem ain’t for Elvis, I did that long ago.
This poem ain’t for Jesus, I can not roll away that stone alone.
This poem is for Peter Pan and I refuse to grown up.
The Prodigal Son must return to the town in which he or she was first deemed nonredeemable.
The Prodigal Son stands alone in the rubble of a civilization it refuses to prop up any longer with rusted excuses and unholy bones.
I know the world must end and I’m not all that concerned as I wrestle with my own angels and wish I had a sharper sin to cut my throat open with.
The Prodigal Moon looked directly into the Sun and went deliciously insane from the wickedness of a betrayer’s opened mouth kiss.
You were warned if you looked back you would turn into a pillar of poor ratings.
You were told exactly how the deal would go down so don’t feign ignorance now when the Earth decides to pack it all in.
He is the Alpha and the Omega.
He is the Ascension and the Dispensation.
He is the first bastion of hope and the last call in the middle of another dispossessed alcohol soaked Siberian winter.
Must return.
We’re all on trial.
Our red, white and blue mask is showing its age and has lost whatever moral compass it may have believed it once possessed.
Charles Cicirella
December 13, 2009
Must return to this place of skull drudgery.
A place to fixate upon uninitiated love.
This poem ain’t for Elvis, I did that long ago.
This poem ain’t for Jesus, I can not roll away that stone alone.
This poem is for Peter Pan and I refuse to grown up.
The Prodigal Son must return to the town in which he or she was first deemed nonredeemable.
The Prodigal Son stands alone in the rubble of a civilization it refuses to prop up any longer with rusted excuses and unholy bones.
I know the world must end and I’m not all that concerned as I wrestle with my own angels and wish I had a sharper sin to cut my throat open with.
The Prodigal Moon looked directly into the Sun and went deliciously insane from the wickedness of a betrayer’s opened mouth kiss.
You were warned if you looked back you would turn into a pillar of poor ratings.
You were told exactly how the deal would go down so don’t feign ignorance now when the Earth decides to pack it all in.
He is the Alpha and the Omega.
He is the Ascension and the Dispensation.
He is the first bastion of hope and the last call in the middle of another dispossessed alcohol soaked Siberian winter.
Must return.
We’re all on trial.
Our red, white and blue mask is showing its age and has lost whatever moral compass it may have believed it once possessed.
Charles Cicirella
December 13, 2009
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