Archive for January, 2012

the fugitive


some guy firebombed the courthouse in my hometown and was running around which prompted me to write this piece of nonsense.

The Fugitive

On their first meeting,
the Fugitive comes to the
Adversary’s front door
But the Fugitive isn’t there.

On their second meeting,
the Adversary comes to the
Fugitive’s front porch
And leaves the Adversary his Staff.

The Fugitive and the Adversary never meet.

Again

the purple pill of madness


a poem from the first section of “Space Christals”

the purple pill of madness

in a thousand years
in some ecstatic frenzy
i may go mad beyond recovery
and wander off across the milky way
to sit upon a speck of dust
and ponder a coke booger
i once drew
from my left nostril

you may not be so fortunate
when you see the light of error
retrieval is for dog stars

see me madly laughing
at everything you hold dear
you will have plenty
to laugh about plenty

to think you could have
once looked a melting gaze
upon your adversary

now your latitude is platitudes
and your beattitudes are flatulence

you took the purple pill of madness
it’s too beautiful
i know
it’s true
i took it too

you will have everything you desire
and more than you desire
and nothing you desire
will come as a surprise

but it needn’t be this way
you can dream your cares away
to your heart’s desire

come and sit by the fire
madness is a fine state of loving
the creative will is yours

(Standing In Line) At The Pay Confessional


(Standing In Line) At The Pay Confessional

 

(Standing in line) at the pay confessional
in my photo opportunity suit,
a cabaret of poetry in one hand,
just currency for some canceled Czech,
I get to the magic number dispenser lotto machine
but it’s empty!

A mime in drag with a roll of ticker tapes
sidles up to the promontory of the receiving unit
with the Host.

Will I get to taste Sal(i)vation or have to settle
for Sal(i)sbury Steak instead. Damned mystery meat
plagues my dentifricial overtures!

I take a numberless number, it’s best not to look.
I will be called to the hot seat when my time is /UP/!
Scenic variations drift through my view-strator as I… i.. i.

(stand) in line waiting at the pay confessional.

Cork!


I had a dream that I went to McDonald’s and they tried to serve me a live 3-headed dog and then chased me around trying to force me to eat it.  I wrote this poem about the experience:

Cork!

Cork built him some arches
for all the boeuf junkies
who even now

Line up at his golden gates
for what sure tastes like

SALIVATION!

I can see the double rainbow
at the foot of Orion’s Belt.

SALISBURY STEAK!

should have it

SO GOOD!

Whatever you do don’t

Order the SURPRISE MEAL!
Cerberus with his transplanted heads
and I’m sure he tastes nothing
at all like baby carrots!

Though I didn’t take a nibble.
He was so cute all I wanted
to do list:

1) take him home with me!
2) feed him baby carrots!
3) pet him like a lover!

SALVATION!

ten cent poem


Space Christals

ten cent poem

reflection in a looking glass
for our softer parts
listen to the mute wisdom
of us entangled

feeling each other’s heat
like the dying embers
of a fire on the beach

twisting together, entwined,
searching our softer parts
with all that we have in us

and collapsing in our own sweat.

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens
01.20.20..12

his name is b.


"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a poem about a schizophrenic i would meet at the psychiatric center

his name is b.

i meet him by the ashcan, his name is b.
he’s a poet like i someday dream to be
i’ve known him at the center where i get
my anti-insanity inoculations every two weeks

he shows me his latest poem, it’s called:

“I am not a Schizophrenic any more”

i love his fantastic psychedelic handwriting
he says he might write some poetry about horses
all i know about horses
is not to bet on them like my dad did

b. is a great guy
he has so many friends
he sometimes forgets my name
if he doesn’t see me for a couple months
but he remembers my name this time

he never forgets my face
he always smiles at me when he sees me
he likes to smoke out by the ashcan
and suffers the happy idiot a glimpse

a couple short poems


Space Christals by P.A.Donohue

"Space Christals" by P.A.Donohue

a couple of short poems from the volume “Space Christals”

underneath an orange sky

the pocket krakatoas are working overtime
filling the air with sulfuric hilarity
on board the mother planet i call home
tanning carrots underneath an orange sky

shed a tear

shed a tear for Jed McGrady
he thought he found himself a lady
he bought himself a brand new suit
they buried him in it with his boots

 

 

Behind the Monolith


Behind The Monolith

Behind the Monolith is
a hand-scribbled note

On the back of a drugstore receipt.
“I could still see you”

when your face shattered
at the news of the departure…

Lying in a heap of other notes,
some just as incongruous with the

Continuous hum of the MonOLith.

Here’s one:
“Bacon
Chloroform
Map of Berlin 2006″

written on a cocktail napkin
in lipstick.

Means nothing to me.

So I search through the scraps
that lie at my feet for what seems like-

And then I find it.

Written in my hand on
a used bus ticket from the future

“It isn’t so”

The Bread is Risen


Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens

the second poem from my volume of poetry “Space Christals”

The Bread Is Risen

The Bread is risen
on the observation deck
of our little station of the Crossroad

Just in time for
the transmigration of the fowl
to their summer palaces.

I’m catching a few H. Ray’s
out on the solar panels
in the heat of the blinding Moon.

Don’t sweat the delivery,
just open wide and receive
your hosts with Earthly delight!

The cran-grape juice is excellent
with the risen Bread and
makes a Steamed Hamster

As happy as a Baby Carrot
to wallow with the swine-flu
in the comfort of an epidemic.

Can’t you taste the Bread is Risen?

 

commentary :  my nickname in college was “hamster” and i imagine myself as a sacrifice, how would i be served?  steamed hamster and i surmised it tastes like baby carrots.

Space Christals


Patricia Anne Donohue, artist

bagpipes, gunfire & candy bar machines in space

This is the title poem from my new volume Space Christals : how i learned to ignore the ticking and love the bomb by Agnew T. (Goldwater) Pickens, now available on Amazon.

5Pac3 ChrisTa15

On CrY-5t.MaSS mOrn1nG
DaV1D cOm3s WaGginG 4Cro5s
to eAt tEh SpAc3 PumPk1n Ba1t

A5 1 Mine 5yNtHeTiC B4cT3riA Chr15tals
iN mY PsyCh3deLiC 5Pac3 Su1t

F0r a s1M(u)l4T3d 5aNtA C14Us
bl0wIng bAgP1p3s aT 5 AM

On Teh DarK s1De of sUnSpoT
24/7/11/365.

PaR4D153 l2 is aWfU11y C0ld
wiThout t3H BurNinG f05-S0(u)L5

La t3a Da

0H Shit!

T3h c4NdY bAr mAch1ne
in t3h 5paCe f1ll1Ng staTi0n
1s oN Teh FriTz AG41N!

CoNteXt(u)a1itY qU3U3es aBounD
tEh LiMiTs 0f T3H 1MagInAt1i0N.

gAwd i5 0n Su1CiDe W4tcH
f0r teH 1aSt RuN oF tEh DaY

M0tH3r dE4Th is F3cuNd W1tH Po5siBb1liTieS BTW

Spr1nkLe m0r3 All4H ChR15tals
0n teh C0rNf1ak3s on teh Fr0nT14wN.

t3h VaCuUM ha5 a CraCk 1n iT AgAin

1t f3elS jU5t 1ikE a Tr4CtoR tRa1l0r
ruNninG tHro(u)gH y0uR h3aD.

1eT uS M4k3 tIme t0 aPp14Ud teh S0uNd
oF d1St4nT g(un)Fir3 1n TeH CaTh3(t3r)dR4l

d1nG D0Ng
L3t tH3rE bE Pe4S 0n 3aRtH!
DiNg donG!
leT TheR3 B3 p3as oN e4rTh
dInG DonG!
13t tHER3 b3 P34S 0N 34RTH!

FI-NI-TE!

Transcription and commentary

Space Christals

on christmas morning
David comes wagging across
to eat the space Pumpkin bait

(David is a Golden retriever that lives across the street & Pumpkin is a cat)

as i mine synthetic bacteria christals
in my psychedelic space suit

for a simulated Santa Claus
blowing bagpipes at 5 AM

(flashback memory of a bagpiper on the streets of New York City who i dropped $5 to 17 years ago)

on the darkside of sunspot
24/7/11/365

(i imagine that their are beings who regularly harvest synthetic bacteria christals behind sunspots)

Paradise 12 is awfully cold
without the burning fossils(souls)

la ti da

oh shit!

the candy bar machine
in the space filling station
is on the fritz again!

(returning from the sunspot with synthetic bacteria for the home planet, i make my usual stop to refuel and snack)

contextuality queues abound
the limits of the imagination

(c.f. contextuality cues in linguistics)

God is on suicide watch
for the last run of the day

Mother Death is fecund with possibilities by the way

sprinkle more Allah christals
on the cornflakes on the front lawn

(i see ice cubes poured in the grass of a fast food restaurant and imagine them to be Allah crystals)

the vacuum has a crack in it again

it feels just like a tractor trailer
running through your head

let us make time to applaud
the sound of distant gunfire in the cathe(ter)dral

ding dong!
let there be peas(peace) on Earth
ding dong!
let there be peas on Earth
ding dong!
let there be peas on Earth

fi-ni-te

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