Long Abandoned Muse

Fish stuck in a kiss who are now singing forever,
Like over used words at the lip
Of the mountain in
Deep snow, knowing nothing about the moon, who
Is just there-
Just over the rise, where the angelic stags are rutting
In anamorphous movements-
There, like gold near the saddle, rising high
And swayed back like gods over
My childhood,
Like the golden sweat won upon a long hike,
And nudes upon nudes kiss,
Like kindergarten and goldfish all over my
Missbehaved childhood, but now- oh now, my
Long abandoned muse- what- and oh what,
Can they possibly be doing.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Disney World

Found in a grotto of cash- bound to make money
While the dogs howl-
The moon is round but sharp, and she is stealing things from
The supermarket:
She is out of control, but going down the ancient highway.
While my love may be a firework:
She may last for awhile, and cost too much,
But she may not even be real-
And standing there beside the road, watching the trucks drive
Through the night,
The orange groves an entire heavens in pinpricks of silver flowers,
I go towards her, not wanting to find her in Disney World,
But expecting that is where she probably is.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like Jewels Being Put To Sleep

Standing out in the beautiful Pygmalion
Wearing our purple
Baseball caps- and the atmosphere as blue
As an egg shell over
Where she does: across the student parking
Lot, the kaleidoscope of a truant’s
Memory dances,
And the children skip on home, laughing
With tongues cerulean:
And I swear amongst them: that I have seen
An airplane, like an angel,
But I am left with only so many words to
Describe her- and very soon even those few
Things will evaporate
And the yard will quiet like jewels being put
To sleep- but I have no memory of
What she does after that.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Slowly Toward The Sky

My body aches from end to end-
Where is she going,
I suppose from elementary to high school
Is her end:
As she pledges allegiance to the flag
Every morning—
In her equalized standards—what will
She go home thinking:
What has she learned—is this the Harlem
Renaissance—
Is this her last amen?
And if this is just an echo of the final
School bus she takes to school,
Then she will think nothing of
That echo—
Even as if she were an alligator who learned
To cry,
The foxes creeping slowly toward the
Vineyards,
The airplanes creeping slowly toward the sky.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Outlaw To Me, Danny

Outlaw to me, Danny,
And I’ll become your thrall,
And we’ll both go romping,
Busting down the hall,

And we’ll go out shopping
Out in the sylvan glade,
And if we both get lucky,
Then we both get laid,

Underneath the vermilion angels
Hanging from the trees,
Where little girls spill from bicycles
Scraping both their knees,

Then we’ll both be wise men, graduating
At the end of the class,
While all the pretty freshmen go around
Kicking newer ass.

[...] Read more

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Frog Princes

Sun of an obnoxious quarry as we seem
To be laughing—
Open throated frog princes all of the way
Up to the chandeliers—
While my mother waits in some awful
Mockery of a Pieta—
And the lamps bloom in the gold dusts of
The mines—
Another song mimics the song bird's,
As the traffic becomes utterly confused—
Losing itself into the darkness—
The mailman apexes, but he is no excuse
To me—
Lamp posts lining the streets of my adolescents,
As wicked men travel home after
The fireworks' pageantry—
Licking their stolen wives' bodies of
An adulterous
Apiary.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Their Stolen Wives' blood

Sun of an obnoxious quarry as we seem
To be laughing—
Open throated frog princes all of the way
Up to the chandeliers—
While my mother waits in some awful
Mockery of a Pieta—
And the lamps bloom in the gold dusts of
The mines—
Another song mimics the song bird's,
As the traffic becomes utterly confused—
Losing itself into the darkness—
The mailman apexes, but he is no excuse
To me—
Lamp posts lining the streets of my adolescents,
As wicked men travel home after
The fireworks' pageantry—
Licking their stolen wives' bodies of
An adulterous
Apiary.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Streets of My Adolescents

Sun of an obnoxious quarry as we seem
To be laughing—
Open throated frog princes all of the way
Up to the chandeliers—
While my mother waits in some awful
Mockery of a Pieta—
And the lamps bloom in the gold dusts of
The mines—
Another song mimics the song bird's,
As the traffic becomes utterly confused—
Losing itself into the darkness—
The mailman apexes, but he is no excuse
To me—
Lamp posts lining the streets of my adolescents,
As wicked men travel home after
The fireworks' pageantry—
Licking their stolen wives' bodies of
An adulterous
Apiary.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Golden Dusts

Sun of an obnoxious quarry as we seem
To be laughing—
Open throated frog princes all of the way
Up to the chandeliers—
While my mother waits in some awful
Mockery of a Pieta—
And the lamps bloom in the gold dusts of
The mines—
Another song mimics the song bird's,
As the traffic becomes utterly confused—
Losing itself into the darkness—
The mailman apexes, but he is no excuse
To me—
Lamp posts lining the streets of my adolescents,
As wicked men travel home after
The fireworks' pageantry—
Licking their stolen wives' bodies of
An adulterous
Apiary.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Stranded On The Somnolent Sea

Stranded in this truck like
A boat on a teaming
Sea,
A concrete aquarium where
All are turbid;
I pee in a cup,
Watering the plants as I drive-
If I get out the apathetic zoetrope
Will see,
And I will have to say hello to
My uncle-
Rather it was a battleship to
Blast away until the
Ice-cream man came around
Like the Pied Piper this afternoon,
And pollinate all the pretty
Flowers on Pompeii-
Scatter my pretty ashes over fast food
Restaurants,
And blow out my candles with her

[...] Read more

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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