The Rebel

Lauren I wander wounded-like, this labyrinth that has cut me with broken bottles,
and I have seen the moon blush which whimpers purple shades around our weathered alter.

Remember that alter I feigned for you?
Though Ive breathed through and swallowed bundles of smoke for you, the signals I feathered and fashioned towards you?

Remember?

Laying in our gourmet grotto at the brink of a pernicious pool, Indian summer? Me reading to you, readings echoing through the cypress like whipserings an effigy to Eliots' hollow men his straw men

Remember?

when our audience broke twigs I started up and you wrapped me in your pinions, said dear boy read some more. I read you Neruda how you liked Neruda coming out of my mouth. We were piano keys played by the surrounding nature and which often echoed upon themselves scintilating
rebelion. like the firecrackers that fell in ten stories, raining down on Soho streets.
And Ive been walking these streets for days, looking for you, anything of yours.

When I return I hope you are gone, I know you will be gone due to the horns that have begun to grow out of my head and the howling I hear far off in distant trails.
Why lie I don't really think about that anymore all these words are broken
Lauren what can I possibly rhyme with you Florin? Foreign? Boring…

poem by Jerome Moore
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Just Be Sure Not To Rock The Boat

Martyrs are for the check out line
And saints are for the tail gaiters.
Faith has always been fed to the poor,
And corporate interests
Has always been a feeding frenzy, off shore.
Jesus has become like Santa, forgotten with age.
And humanity is in a new age,
Where revolutions only move in cycles,
Always coming back on itself.
Feminists are for the today show,
And the police protect private property.
The media writes the history books.
And the capitalists store their monies like blood.
We need progression; we can spare the rod, and eat the meek.
Or eat a banker?
Our texts are destroyed, without war, bombs and blood.
we kill each other with government approved narcotics guns and poor living situations; with road rage and mistaken identities, in false flags and fast food, the Nazis didn't realize what they were doing to their fellow man.
Reality is mirrored on late night programs, and Pluto is better hidden away.
The workers are sacrificed to the Moloch, the bogyman, the Politian's.
The american dream is for those who are sleeping,

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poem by Jerome Moore
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Full Blotto again

dinning in the wine glass, its cheap

Jimmy says to me
'Relax kid,
dames come and go,
let em!
nothing keeps you warm at night
like a bottle of scotch,
and it dont talk back neither'
And the pamphleteers click their heels to the rev rev revolution, counter clicks chanting a tragicomical cha cha in the spriit of sacco and venzetti.
The spider women patch up our social unions, with Goldman waves in their hair. Helen Keller reading from their well embroidered quilt.
The workers discuss economics and property, Marx-like oiling the machinery.
They march, but not to destroy!
They dance, but not the dance to death!
They sing out but not out of tune!
They chant and drum, locked spirits in solidarity.
Under earthly clouds that look like Gandhi and Che, Huey Newton and Malcolm X
Denizens flout the banksters, thumbs to the air from ruby noses,
passing shoulder to shoulder the maudlin ladies of unbridaled appetite, whos faces are in the blender.
The kids who sleep on the crusts of the street venders peddling Bakunin to the holes left in the wall.

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poem by Jerome Moore
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Colleen Says

Never, have I seen a boy with as many scars as you.
It's almost like they are an inherent nevus with roots linking your mind to your body, your history with this present moment, your hardships and armor.
I first noticed the one on your upper lip when we made love in the hall.
And, When I saw it, in my eyes, with secular clarity I felt a deep passion for you, and began searching the cosmos of your body for more blemishing marks.

They all spoke to me loudly some of childhood with your adventurous spirit getting into trouble, others of punishments inflicted by your father, some even spooked me tremendously, I imagined the struggles you have had, and all those constellations linked by a thread each scar with the histories, of great legends, each with its place as if without them your skin will loosen and you would unravel in my arms.

What I am trying to say is this, You wouldn't be complete without your scars.
The ones on your knuckles and over your eyes
The tiny bites down your neck, on your wrist, your ribs and your surgery scars.All of them!

Even the one you have on the paw of your left foot, you thought couldn't find that one, my bear? how could I forget my favorite, I imagine you do sometimes, I see the memory of that one is particularly painful, and cannot blame you, I imagine you off your feet for weeks. or unaturally wandering with a slight limp. I want you to love me tenderly and completely. if only you could taste the dopamine in my saliva, youd know that those scars can be mended, taste my divertimento.

I want to trace the bulging veins on your arms which are like the rails connecting your memories to your scars like highways, freeways and expressways, I want to see your throbbing scars your throbbing sex I don't want to be afraid, and I want them to be mine. I guess all this means is that without you I would unravel.

poem by Jerome Moore
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Ey These Neon Nights Tumble Around On My Black And White Film Please Excuse Me For Being An Animal Tonight.

I miss your hair and deeply crave it all over the place,
even if you cut it like a boy I will find a new way to miss it.
I need your feet they are always there when I reach,
Its no fetish.
Just wait, Its terrible i can't focus I crave you.
I was invited to this indian joint spicy spicy spicy oh I'm Blushing!

For some strange obscure but not all that pliable reason I want to summersault
all over your place and make out with you on the fire escape and fucc you all over the elevator, pardon me for sounding like an animal.

charming? I also feel like breaking glass.
Darling if i had the pleasure of being with you at this precise moment I would take you
softly and eat up the satine that cloaks your thighs then softly explore the reaches all walks of your body, everything and all and roll and roll around and around beneath the temple of your bedsheets completely naked before you touching and fighting to breath sweating and gasping whispering and clawing and friction and becoming lost deep completely.

Feel my palms on your knees, I am barely touching your thighs, my chest melted and molded to your breasts and we are like a carousel lit up at sun set spinning around around like wild tenor nights under the canopy of southern stars and ether, we are sweating like crazy, can you feel my sex its big purple and throbbing erect feeling satiated eating up your soft prickly skin with its perfume and my tongue lolling and dancing in your mouth like a hummingbird you feel it like a blue bird in your ribs, there is fire in your belly.and each time out fleshy tongues touch my sex rests at yours barely spreading your lotus honey...
Please excuse me for being an animal tonight.

This is terrible gone if i was with you Id explain and applaud, laugh at that if you will I am silly and want you.

I will slowly revel in you like thousands of tiny feathers finding a place to rest.

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poem by Jerome Moore
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My Little Cyclone

My little cyclone,
my little storm.
It Is autumn, again.
Its you, again,
and you have layed an unencumbered burden on me
by not forgetting.
I cant hide it,
how you've been playing around my senses lately, no,
not like allergies.

I look up to the amputated clock, see its gloomy eyes and sing to myself, rememeber that melody?
I thought I could forget.
Like clockwork you come running your dress floating above your strong legs, like flowers. returning to our fallowed out fields.

But,

You are still out there in the cold,
in the darkness which waits at my door.
The pure fire that I had made, that morning when
I left you there sleeping, has covered up for warmth.

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poem by Jerome Moore
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The Sea Deceives Me

The pages of the calendar fall to the ground,
crunch crunch crunch under our feet,
grinding themselves to dust.
Hours and numbers, days and months cover the earth with mosaic colors
as if a tempest had broken open a damn and they flood out into our fields, we rake them up, unspoken we burn them, we stuff them in threadbare and patchy clothing, we make scarecrows up to look like our former selves,
others we stuff in gutters and drains.
There are pages from a hundred years back in some darkening silence in the deepest of woodlands, these leaves mixed with the dirtiest of branches; histories at the foot of precipices slouching on the meanders of rivers flowing into the sunset, they dwell in the pits of caves, and in the nests of baby birds.
We lay our backs down and swim through the pages, we fall asleep and neglect our lazy day, the sounds and the smells, the tastes and the textures of the times we've inherited (we have (and the time ahead.)
New years take shape and more time buds, the seasons pass and we decorate the decaying earth.
new days are piled up: in piles of bills, piles of events, piles of junk mail, invitations torn and abandoned, occasions attended and written about, solidarities and intimacies cherished and worshiped

They are still there in the air- you act as if they're not passing by,
new pages swiftly sway in the winds hand and rest on the earth. In numbers and records.
The pointless statistics of time, taken time and time again.
We waste our time on something like memories and plans
until time our runs out for us
like counting the fallen leaves as a derelict train creeps through the country - how absurdly endless a task
time is not statistics nor even measurable
time is not a standard of options weighable,
time is not a parquet floor where a curtain stretches, that you shoot marbles across, or even throw a rug over then slowly rock yourself to sleep on

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poem by Jerome Moore
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