Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category

a valentine massacre


a valentine poem written for the love of my life

a valentine massacre

meet me if you dare
in the cartage company
where i can line you up
against a bare cement wall
and spray you with
toasted strawberry kiss gunfire

and spray your blood
against my wishes
against my ecstasies
against my desires

you won’t suspect a thing
when i show up
in my uniform existence
that i carted out of a violin case
holding a sub-machine gun heart

against your will?
against all hope?
against all odds!

ah, go quietly dove
it won’t hurt a bit
and the papers will say
i did it all for love

sal(i)vation bell


i’ve been wanting to ring the bell at christmas for the Salvation Army for years.  this is a poem about rejection by them.

sal(i)vation bell

going to the walmart to cash my inability check
on a winter’s day
i stop like one of pavlov’s dogs by the sal(i)vation bell

yeah i saw their ads on television
where i could extract the lucre
it’s for a good cause and ringing the bell
for an hour in the cold
would do me good or so i thought

so i ask the man:
“can i ring the bell?”

he says his manager will be back in twenty minutes
i can ask him
so i go inside to extract the lucre
from my inability check
and maybe feed a little bit to the sal(i)vation bell people.

my head is humming
at the thought of all the cold hard cash
pouring in the pot
as i stand in line at the service bay
thinking about ringing the bell

it’s for a good cause and
ringing the bell for an hour in the cold
would do me good

so i collect my lucre and go outside
to ask the man
and when i get to the sal(i)vation bell
the manager is emptying the pot

so i ask the man:
“can i ring the bell?”

and he says:
“you’ll have to go downtown and fill out an application”

hmmm
what do i look like? look at me
one of pavlov’s hungry dogs
who wants just once to ring the bell
and they want me to fill out an application
to stand out in the cold
ringing the sal(i)vation bell
and i look like the guy who ate the receipts
but i’m not
and i thank the man and drop a jackson into the bucket
and wonder what has become of me

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.

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

 

 

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.

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