Lonely God Behind My Eyes
There is a lonely God behind my eyes
Who still cries for you who are so far
Away, like a lost child forgotten who she is,
Her identity soothed away by time
So she becomes someone else’s child,
Though my God remembers how she played
Before him once or twice in the early days
Before the world was fully formed—
There is a lonely God behind my eyes
Who screams at things because you can not
Hear him, who hates everything he sees
And wanders far up into the glacial lakes
Of my cranium where he sits on a nameless
Stone and cries your name, the word
That would set him free if he saw you dressed
In the fine syllables your parents christened
You with. There is a lonely God behind
My eyes who has tried to commit suicide
Just because he no longer believed he existed,
Because he knows not a thing to be true
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Slothful Metamorphosis of Aphoristic Midnight
Sand-lion, mountain lion,
Hermaphrodite- Some f%cker has stolen
My kite,
And the waves come up phosphorous all
Damp, enraptured honeybees-
Golf courses of crinkling foil
The never-ending beauties of uneven verisimilitude,
Jujubees and lightning bugs caught in the can
Of a young mongoloid and pitied up,
Made to sing dying fire:
Rope tricks slender knots around the woman going
Up into the sky
Who really isn’t there, suicide of smoke signals,
Her bangs, weathervanes and occult fingerpointing
Over the old bathrooms of high school and
College,
Worlds of young homes fitting in a peg board
In a game of restaurateurs- proving there really is
No easy solution for mutton headed ingeniousness,
The airplanes like flares leaping from point
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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What You Are Making Them
Swamp of metropolis and limos:
I am just trying to meet my quota as some Cinderella’s
Coach turns back into a pumpkin,
And the mice eat the cheese:
And I sit and watch with my dirty baseball cap well
Pulled down,
So that I’ll continue fitting in, and won’t be exposed:
It’s always good to wear a baseball cap when you are out,
And male,
And don’t want to be found out- That one of your ears
Should be missing for the busy waitress who just
Doesn’t give a d$mned:
And I am in the Montemarte district of West Palm Beach-
And I have something like three thousand pumpkins,
And I haven’t yet given one away to a pretty girl
With piss brown eyes-
You know, but if that mother comes back, I really want to
Buy her a bicycle:
And when I’m finished, I want to masturbate alone
And then die into a truck or somewhere,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Well Suited By The Encroaching Distance
Heavenly clichés,
Masturbate to your hump
Until the night is a cured nirvana,
And I don’t care where you are:
I’m just doing this out of reflex,
Recognizing the chief convictions of mountain
Ranges in their great loneliness;
And high up in the cold there lives
A celibate god,
Recording the world, watching out
For wildfires,
Burrs at his hips, he grows and seems to
Call me from upstairs,
Handing out the cads to the middle-class
Until I remember the golf-date out in the rain,
And lose my virginity near beside the
Alligators and their primordial circumstance;
When it is all over,
I forget to apologize, and handed over her
Stuff so she could ride away on her bicycle
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Realms Of The Unreal
In the heathenish country of enslaved white children,
Nine little girls become the martyrs who lead the Christian charge
(Sometimes stark naked,
And other times in blue dresses,
Coroneted by snow white swans)
Following the example of the god he knew,
He wrote the battle hymns to fill the bullet holes,
While his angelic daughters
Held half naked in his room,
Practice standing still against the trees,
So the professors of the hurly-burly come by
None the wiser with their muskets discharged
Into the earth in retaliation for the thirsting bayonets.
The godheads for the never-ending war,
These golden-bobbed generals
Share phone conversations with Shirley Temple,
As they tuck in all the dead and lonesome girls in Chicago,
Alone in his room, Henry Darger
Traces his Christmas sorrows:
All his fine children ravaged in his personal crucifixion,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Too Afraid to Visit The Graves of The Girls I Love
Cold and almost down deep enough to see,
The sky is a blind woman clothed in shimmering
Rags;
And I am failing her- I can barely breathe,
And the girls who once sat against me in class
Like windblown trees, roller skate over my bones,
The innocuous cenotaphs lying on the blistered
Planes of Colorado- They are shooting forth to
Find the cavaliers, to take shelter and wash themselves
Under the silver shields and platters:
She has made so many more important friends, well
Dressed, who graduate from Harvard and go
On cruises; and the truth is, I can’t even fix cars,
And am even too afraid to visit the graves of the
Girls I love, but I just keep doing this, tooting my
Fading horn after all my cousins have already charged
Into marriage, sunken into the trailer parks of a
Penniless saccharine malaise, they love the things they
Love, and don’t have to work for it, or try and appear
Proud and handsome- She is married now,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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South Beach
Zombies and ex-presidents,
Kissing cousins, try to make friends
With little girls in bright blue bonnets
Waiting for their mothers by the bus stop
Under the banyan trees in South Miami-
They all go together unaccompanied
By the sun, to shopping malls where
They used to sell their blindfolded brothers as slaves
Who could not see the desperate Cubans
In their rafts being circled by sharks
Being circled by the Coast Guard so close to South Beach-
Here pink fellows play Russian Roulette
With the venereal diseases of their loneliness:
Its cliché, but they all have bichon frises as pets,
And sing in dresses in the cabaret on Tuesdays
And live in lonely little apartments
Overlooking parking lots, overlooking the sea
Where spotty mermaids, the part time whores,
Wash their scabby knees in the salt and sing
Melodies of lost memories, to the little girls’ parade,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Suicidal Munchkin
Watching the Wizard of Oz,
I dream of Tyco Brahe’s nose, and serious
Fights between scientists and their
Dwarfs;
And map paintings of stars and their hills;
And sadly, ever so sadly,
Erin- of dryads who have no love for mortal men:
Her busts are a ballad of a perfectly nippled
Power plant;
Her perfume the rich streams of auburn kelp
The gold fish show off through until they
Are scooped out and made for prizes
Of redneck lovers at the fair;
But she does not need to worry, because I am
Too uneasy for Occam’s Razor, Erin:
For easy love:
I am not beautiful Erin, and whoever you are loving
Right now,
It is a better love than I could return to you, if
My face was a mirror for your vanity-
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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From High School
Don’t you feel that we really belong because
There are windmills in your eyes
Darker than for your mother’s sadness when she goes
Away into the loneliness in her kitchen:
And there doesn’t have to be any more reason for these
Tattoos except that I went away to Spain so many odd years
Ago:
I barely graduated high school: a truant with a purple
And silver jaw who is no longer beautiful-
Lost so long ago: kidnapped by the long extinctions of fireworks:
Each peeling whistle strangely reminiscent of our lives together,
Until collected under another school bus, I have nothing
Else to do but to listen to the long day as it rains
In fake knives- and my Muse named Alma turns in,
Frowning over my misuse of the queens language and all of
My scars, scarred like a spearing pylon
Presumptuous in the bay that the terrapins circle, with jokes
And farts, as she bites her fingernails,
And the green cannons bask in the seashells of the afternoon sky:
It might as well be Easter with the beauty resurrected there:
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Peter Redgrove
While I am here another poem,
A crapshoot at eternity, a roll of dice,
I carve my name into the auburn sky:
This is my tourism, my saccharine hobby,
Like an infant masturbating, the pseudepigripha
In full bloom, she wished to take me by
The hand to the football game where the
Fantasy of her lovers waited toothily,
But I hid away in the rain and recorded the sounds
Of under aged ghosts pattering on the infinite
Linoleums of suburbia. Should I go back to
School to stem the tide of fading away?
Or should I just walk to the east until I
Begin swimming, this is the dilemma, and the reason why
I cannot meet her gaze. I remember the first
Time she showed me her c&nt unshaven in the
High school of her incensed bedroom, and the
Waves of another feeling, the fieldtrips of
Presupposed sex: we share the same birthday,
But now she is married to the tribe of her own flesh,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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