Capsoletes and Alpha Romeo!
she shot me her death ray eyes,
'YOU TICKLE ME COLLEEN'
How about we stay here for tonight and walk into the sunset? '
(She left something under her breath) as she said to me through cracked walls
'Why don't you take a walk Montague! I have a some capsolets to kill'
I obstinately protested her paroxysm and deduced they were of a playfully passionate nature and she was indeed hard to get.
'Build us a tire swing? '
' Ah jesus Right now? '
'Yes! right now if you have back for it '
Finding a length of rope under a hedge I toss it over a swollen branch of her young mulberry tree, then go into the garage and find a jack,
I spend twenty minutes taking the tires from her old mans Alpha Romeo and throw three of them loon-like into the cloudy lake.
With the fourth tire I make her damn swing, and tangle it up into the top branches
because right then it hit me what she left under her breath, '... I'm splitting'
poem by Jerome Moore
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The Curtains Hung Out The Window Like An Old Flame
Couldnt tell how many years went by since the war.
We may still be fighting somewhere, hell who knows,
heros have the worste of times.
Well, How have you found me again?
I was almost gone.
I was on the lamb from your laws
I was a free man.
And how you crept in!
with the mint,
with the lemongrass,
with the wild beets.
The morning will never come the same way again.
I dont know why everytime I hear bells I think of you swimming.
I couldnt say why I still want to smash every glass bottle I hold.
or how I still hear you whistling from time to time at crowded bus stops.
How you were able to find me, so young, and now and again still, in the Autumn of youth.
I told said this before your dentures fell into the toilet bowl.
now my car wont start.
I walk past the chapel at noon.
and throw my fifth crashing to my feet,
[...] Read more
poem by Jerome Moore
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Forty Miles From The City
Forty miles from the city.
Their radiator messed up,
the buzzards drooling,
ready to pull the plug.
They have his trumpet,
dry bread, hot water...
The Temp outside is hell
The Earth is hell...
The car looks like hell
An exiled pugilist:
The one hundred reasons just to die,
The chorus is the car radio, It speaks Poetry!
The couple must keep one another awake, not fall asleep.
Somewhere threaded through the canyons is a siren, a coffin spitting exhaust.
The madmen are on fire, the clergymen are visiting the meat-house, the women are in the dusty bars, The children eat ice cream in the morgue, walking the road to el dorado, paved in rhine stone, smog and jazz and crooked mammoths they dream and throw blue silks to the desert sky.
Tomorrow is gonna be one hundred plus and she applies lipstick.
In late evening, two fans circling overhead, they sleep tangled in their mess.
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poem by Jerome Moore
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Jealousy Is Born
to the pundits of the flesh and pulsing things.
Your institutional love (religion, state, Ethics)
To the men who believe woman want to be dominated, and held under a monogomous monopoly. owned as concubines.
For woman who, with age, brings war, who need securities like: money, home and fancy things.
fraud formula of body and spirit unto death.
therefore the legal religious and moral sex charade supplies the whips and chains for an unatural love, tortured by this stupidity, ignorance and prejudice, they both remain docile.
Eurydice never had to worry about dogmatic bondage,
Orpheus held an ethereal love without guard, just poetry.
Take any couple tied together, dependent upon each other
in feeling and thought, sheltered from outside interest or desire, and could it not become hateful and unbearable in time.
they bring out the shabbiest of human traits in their longing to be individuals once more. courage and liberation could save these poor souls, from the green eyed monster who lures them into its murky mire.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Naked in the Color Splash
As a Crimson glider sinks to the belly
of subterranean stairwell,
pierced through by tin can rooftops.
It scrapes the walls in a pitiful foray.
By the window,
by the Basement level studio,
by the wooden ships, cardboard airplanes, paper eyes
standing against origami corners,
standing, she holds her nose,
seamless wallpaper languishes her tiny hands,
her moist palms, her tender wrists, her boyish arms.
An eye traces her tiny golden hairs, and she knows.
smiling while her firing squad, christ-like, blink their flirty shutters,
in a ruse native to the naked city.
in a way a lost crucefix rests at her breasts.
Tiny exposures, flashbulbs and meters that run. etc.
Model who lay composed naked in the color splash,
faints from heat,
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poem by Jerome Moore
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Our lost weekend melting crayons!
Reflecting on the lost weekend from beyond the sand valley carousel of cape cod,
I dig the lost hours the thoughts, the gallivants, which melt in the purest crayon wax of our souls.
I dig the diamond lattice in crystallographic earth facets like a house of mirror
or some bleak bleeding laboratory blowing girls dresses up from their gooseflesh legs by compression air jets and floor tricks that reflect from my inner loupe grinding the light through roadside glass and mica rotating in minds eye on fun house dizzy and whimsically revolving exit funhouse wheels that spills us to our seat, and casts confetti colors around my eyesight like the inside of a rain drop.
I reconstruct these moments connected in the lotus of thought the flowering palm of wisdom
Each moment!
Each feeling!
Each idea!
Each painted cage...
Watching them shuffle by on lotus like; the peeling elephant painted, the open black panther cage, the straw stuffed lion cage, the monkey mini top all starving dirty like and I dig it all like ZaZa zen of a circus train splitting down the rail lines like moving pictures before my eyes speared to the reels in a fervent heat which redden my skin protecting me from the naked blue sun.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Beat The Devil
Like a bull out of its cage,
charging upon the red narrow streets,
I pounded the pavement through riverside corridors.
My cadence was erratic,
dictated by the music in my ear and I couldn't stop.
When I rode the time moved backwards,
all to my first bicycle a huffy BMX,
where I learned how to pick myself up off the ground,
dust my pants and soar.
Since them days I've lived life behind bars.
The Buzcocks were in my ears telling me something goes wrong again.
I headed East on Charles street,
swallowing something,
a fly that didn't quite satiate me,
and spent a few blocks trying to hack it.
The world was decaying around me,
Sic transit gloria mundi! glory fades...the glory fades.
I took commercial avenue to Longfellow.
I zigzagged in and out of joggers, students, and tourist types.
Trucks, vans, cars, and busses were all in my way.
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poem by Jerome Moore
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This Cosmoccocic Treadmill
This cosmoccocic treadmill, if I may borrow from Miller. This Cosmoccocic treadmill we find ourselves contending on. This monomaniacal rat race full of its solecistic gods and managers, its presidential parties with their tautological bull shit. Shit that oozes down to the perspicacious jetsam of society the bum's -who are washed into alleyways, washed from clean and copacetic streets, of marble banks with Parisian balustrades. The radical thinkers, the students, the protesters, washed from the streets by financed police states. These banished souls wise to the puppeteers behind the political curtain, voiceless alone but with style; while the old rich birds fast with novena and the chthonian saints with the miasma of stale alcohol fast with hunger and fuliginous grease found in alleys and roadside gutters. These ragged saints have no ounce of hope for provender or carom let alone enlightenment and peace. They do have something. Inferring that which the rich lack, an insight to the struggles of domain. Hardware stores, grocers and community centers evicted by bank of America when corporate-Mart moves into town. The pulse of transgression and flux metamorphosis kept out of the claws of capitalistic vultures.
poem by Jerome Moore
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Memento Mori
Like a bull out of its tragic cage,
charging upon the red narrow streets,
I pounded the pavement through riverside corridors.
My cadence was erratic,
dictated by the music in my ear and I couldn't stop.
When I rode the time moved backwards,
all to my first bicycle a huffy BMX,
where I learned how to pick myself up off the ground,
dust my pants and soar.
Since them days I've lived life behind bars.
The Buzcocks were in my ears telling me something goes wrong again.
I headed East on Charles street,
swallowing something,
a fly that didn't quite satiate me,
and spent a few blocks trying to hack it.
The world was decaying around me,
Sic transit gloria mundi! glory fades...the glory fades.
I took commercial avenue to Longfellow.
I zigzagged in and out of joggers, students, and tourist types.
Trucks, vans, cars, and busses were all in my way.
[...] Read more
poem by Jerome Moore
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Lust For Life
I look out across this restless sleeper car blind, then to my side.
The face I saw bone-like under that gloomy window light, terrified me.
I know this train is breaking into the future, past the thread of my youth, beyond my
Childhood, my defeats and my worth wile victories.
I look under the lamp, there was an empty seat, and see my brother, happily married!
I look to the emergency box in the front of the car and
I think of my mother, beside me bringing me out of my unconsciousness,
her face like the glint of breaking sunlight through winter ice.
And I sleep for a minute, maybe several then wake to my bed.
What else could I need besides her hair, her shoulders, her craziness, her little nose.
She dropped her head on my shoulder and we saw the sunlight break through dense fog,
wafting through windows like ghostly curtain, a newfangled frontier.
When we got off the train it was morning. The storm glazed over my hometown, under the umbrella of night.
And I looked out to the cemetery and saw all its restless residents dancing? It was beauty
Just then she hit me with powdery snow, it exploder like new year celebration and with it came a drunkenness, a lust for life and we rolled around in peace like everything made sense, and nothing was finished.
poem by Jerome Moore
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