Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Tear it all down.

Tear the flesh from the bone
This poem must begin now
No fifty – fifty, no phone a friend
Everyone wants to be a millionaire, Asshole

She was attracted to my lacerations and I was drawn to how she always took a contrary view to whatever I was laying down
I learned what southern hospitality was as she pulled apart her thick pussy lips and showed me exactly where to land my Cessna
During the quarantine I’ve started watching the Discovery channel again. It’s funny how some ports feel so familiar when everything has turned to shit and you realize you’re starting to like the taste of shit

Tired of all these knock'em out, drag'em out' methods that do no one, but the anesthesiologist any good
If someone’s getting paid it’s gonna be me after years of being called a weasel for stepping up and paying tribute to a dead comrade
I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with other people’s failed attempts at grieving. The last friend I counseled quickly turned on me when the walls started closing in

Tear it all down
Rip it to shreds
Posers and wannabes need not apply
We’ve had our fill of assholes that analyze everything and leave nothing to chance.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Sullied Poetry (For Joshua Gage)

It’s like they have poetry in the back of a van with its mouth duct taped shut and its legs, arms, consonants and vowels bound.
They drive all over Ohio, the US and the world spreading their disingenuous venom and there is no antidote to the stupidity these hacks are bringing to this Jonestown party.
Art should never be about a cult of personality and if you don’t leave your ego at the door then I’m not interested in the dish you’ve brought to our poetry potluck extravaganza.

You keep using the word powerhouse like if you say it enough a mangy stuffed duck will drop from the ceiling and Groucho will let you stroke his greasepaint mustache before his brothers come to carry him home.
It’s not like that Josh, the publishing and the winning as you put it because without quality work all that’s left are smokestacks blowing their tops as we take yet another bite out of this poisoned apple.
I’m not immune to wishing I was a part of this card carrying club of zombies and poet laureates though truth be told I’ve always been more fascinated in infamy as A Confederacy of Dunces channels our inner-assassins and the art we create not only saves us, but as well immortalizes us in anonymity.

Poetry must be set free otherwise it becomes just another award placed on the mantle like a holiday card from a family of serial killers you’ve been dodging your entire life of hits and near misses.
To be validated by a den of vipers only makes one a part of the problem as a death by a thousand cuts lands you smackdab in a deforested forest where no one makes the grade and everyone just wishes for this exercise in futility to finally be over.
Art’s the only thing that has ever had me feeling comfortable in my own skin and I will fight for the right to create no matter the cost as we’re taken down a peg or two by a foghorn blowing out its own brains on this our day of both death and rebirth.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

I Love You, Part Two (For Kat)

My President is a sociopath and there’s really not anything more to say about that.
Listening to Prine and thinking about you and priming your pump.
I honestly don’t know what that means, but please know I desire to be Natalie Wood to your James Dean.

Start your engines.
Start whatever passes as an automobile in these steamed and pressed times of fever pitched ferocity and tuneless caterwauling.
It’s way past midnight and I wish to drag race with you through your awoke mind and purring Scottish bodie.

Something there is about the way you part your lips as you walk to and fro from work is beguiling, bewitching and bedazzling.
The ink covering your bodie covers my nightscapes as I brandish a candlestick like in the board game Clue.
Murder is never something I’d sign up for and the same goes for public displays of affection in these saturated times of duress and social distancing.

The Peter principle has been weaponized as people take to the streets for haircuts and our civil liberties get sliced to ribbons by a public of wimps and wannabes.
Turning over this basket of deplorables is long overdue as we reap a harvest of rotten vegetables and freezer burned ideals.
It’s time to call it quits as this social experiment craps out and my love for you burns in the window like a candle or Viking funeral.

Charles Cicirella

Monday, April 20, 2020

I Love You (For Kat)

I use words because nothing else will do.
No word has ever turned its back on me.
Words display the other side of the galaxy once you’re ready to suit up and leave Earth’s gravity.

I am not proposing you join a cult or even go on holiday. I stopped offering advice around the time I checked out.
I believe a dictionary is far more useful than a bible or bidet.
Spellcheck like foreplay is essential in these dark ages where people tend to just shove it in and pretend they don’t miss trans fats.

Listening to John Prine, thinking how it’s all water off a duck’s back once you disavow waterboarding is torture.
Our actions have consequences even if presently the world has been turned upside down and the Hatter is looking more and more like whatever a stable genius is.
I heard your voice and it rocked me to whatever core I have left.

Charles Cicirella

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

Hypersensitive (For Kat)

Lost in the waves of your wonder and super hero mirth
The Three Wise Men called and wanted their gifts back, they said something about a nation’s genocide of their indigenous people and that no matter how many rights are performed they will never undue the wrongs covered in so much innocent blood
I’m a lost little kitten, who lost his mittens and will only feel safe after we’ve embarked on a journey to the center of the Sun

Take my hand, this may be a fool’s errand, but I promise you the geese we ride will lay golden eggs while the guiltless stand trial and those who can no longer stomach one injustice after the next will take their final labored breath
This poem is a downer and I wish I could call up Julie Andrews, but I hear even she had a dark side when Blake refused to listen and she finally had to draw a line in the quicksand
Lost in the wonderment of your wavy geometry I wish I had actually paid attention in summer school and didn’t just cheat on the tests. Stunned by your stoned me grace and mercury mouth evocations it’s time to stand back and watch as you cast your spell.

Charles Cicirella