Poems, prose, short fiction, and other rubbish.
Posted by Prester John Tuesday, June 2, 2009 at 2:00 PM
Something about the
way the wind
blows the silt into
my lover's hair
on the lush afternoon
meadow of memory
transforms the way
I look at her,
very Mexican,
kind of a half-Spanish
sort of thing
without the lisp
Posted by Prester John at 12:42 AM
Love died on a Sunday in the small concrete pad outside her new place, some cheapskate house across from the university gridlocked in the college scene of the town. Something about the off-yellow siding and her violet drapes told me, in their own gypsy fortune-teller way, that the end was near, left wafting like black smoke out the side of a boxcar, but I, like all the great failures in history, treated the omens as child’s play and considered myself the hungry superior of the divine. Hubris was my sin. Retribution was soon to follow.
As I placed my two bottles upon her floor, one red, one rosé, I noticed that her eyes, those river-eyes that gleamed and washed so brilliantly along the rocky shores, those crags that she surrounded herself with, twin novas bursting in the black of space into the depths of my soul, where only eyes and hearts could decrypt her longing message, yes, those eyes were signaling a civilization long dead and hoping that my ancient, musty spirit could be conjured with the artifacts she had restored. Nothing about her perverse ritual dance should have excited me, and even the taste of dreariness upon her lips was intoxicating to my hollow soul seeking substance. Breathing, the smell of summer sauntering from her crazed floorboards, I found my own way out as I told her, without words, that I would never leave unless asked.
Two prayerful palms found their way onto the message she sent, leading me to believe that all our encounters were simply mistakes, that her perfect smile and too-crazy laugh were just the antidotes to anecdotes and nothing we were feeling was real. A simple gesture of the hand was enough to convince her, more powerful than a stroke of lightning tangling itself upon the rods of fortune, fairness, and fertility. I stood with my bouquet in the warm summer rain and promised to her, or maybe just to myself, that nothing in all the damn wide galaxy of ghosts and souls would ever compare to a breezy walk through the oaks with her, staring at the men in vests and their besotted others, nor the noisy breaks into civilization and cramped cafes that demanded caffeine to bear, nor a quiet bottle of Merlot shared under the dim orange glow of a beat-up midnight lamp.
Even heat must die. So life goes.
Posted by Prester John Saturday, May 30, 2009 at 7:45 PM
Shadows maul my waiting face, exposing me to sin
Destroying all my innocence and distancing my kin
Cotton sorrow stretched tomorrow, today will only shrink
Wallow, hollow, follow, harrowed, what will let me think?
A brink to sink, a link, a tinkered twinkling tank of truths
Will bate the breaking base of bastards born in drinking booths
Hit the switch that with a situation saves the sands
That teaches Romeo to know what love at last withstands
Posted by Prester John at 7:31 PM
Your dog-eared sentimental hopes of singing for a crowd
Are noxious, nauseous, nimble, numb, phony, false, and loud
You wear a jacket made of lies and breathe with winds impure
Dreams made of alimony, window sills to which you lured
Masks of acrimony, punished, praising punctuality
A pistol pointed sideways with intent to puncture me
You are the robber baron of my heart’s enduring love
The tamer, maudlin sparrow, vaudeville hair and blackened dove
My pair of trusted diplomats through which you entered spite
Betray your false aristocrats who plumbed the injured plight
Those sundered wonder-wavelength deaths you wished upon my soul
Your telephones of sympathy and hopeless demon role
Your hair of scarlet dyed from blonde, you hide within yourself
My wine sits there upon your desk, my books upon your shelf
You never meant to leave the scholar, sent to foreign lands
You hate my gaping face and maw, deny my waiting hands
Storms begin to swallow you as thieves surround your home
Angels die at your command and sages burn their tomes
The dirt from ancient graves of men you seek to pry and steal
Just so you can claim their fame and blame the pain you feel
Upon the constable who moves to make you for your crime
So you can waste your taste upon the prison walls of lime
Yes, sweet woman, speak to me and let me know your wish
Shall I pay for more disdain or just another dish
Of your contempt and lint-filled stints at Lake Superior
Named because your ego swells, so tell me where you were
Did you think I was naïve, that I’d play it by your rules?
After asking for my heart, declaring me your fool?
Posted by Prester John Wednesday, May 27, 2009 at 10:20 PM
to confirm your identity you must possess identification.
identification allows others to identify you.
your identity is therefore keyed to certain physical attributes,
as determined and certified by the state:
your height, weight, eye color,
and a picture of yourself are acceptable substitutes
for lengthy certificates and what not.
to acquire some form of identity
it is necessary to possess a certificate of birth.
these certificates are based on observance
from a doctor or some other certified medical professional.
likewise their certificates are conditional to the accreditation
provided to them by a university. or several. which are likewise
confirmed by the government and other institutions.
you must also present proof of address, meaning
some piece of mail that has your name on it and
also your address, or at least your legal address
because you can live somewhere and be legally
living elsewhere, as a matter of courtesy
or for fishing legal benefits from a guardian.
in addition it is important to have your
social security card presented which is
provided by the government after being
mailed, and once you have all of these it is
useful to have another form of identification
in order to identify you for your identification.
all of this is to prove to people that you are you
assuming you don't change your mind on who you are.
Posted by Prester John at 2:32 AM
From the thickets of the night
She reeks of sex and mystery
Floodlights burst from her eyes
Devils dance along her tongue
Her lover, anguished Yesterday
Has left her for a younger girl
The twinkling taste of tyranny
Slips and slides along her teeth
Slipshod, satin, bow and quiver
She is so tangled up
From the cogs and gears of day
He stinks of labor and disdain
Crimson smolders in his eyes
Clockwork ticks and whirrs resound
His lover left him yesterday
He painted promises in gold
A grimace fades onto his face
Sinking, bubbling, bolted, wrenched
Mechanical and bound to time
He is so melted down
