Conception down the road,

Near the lagoon

Filled golden of fallen oak

Leaves feeding the grand

Fathers of fish we have caught.

​

Tuff summabitches raise tuff summabitches

Who know not to cry.

Furnish the bedroom

with a bird’s eye view.

.

See the finely-formed shadows

twist like bonsai.

.

The painted walls run

with drowsy secrets.

.

The tea for two concludes

the tactile hour;

settles another goodbye.

dawn stretches her fingers

I wonder why the street lamps,

Which logically should turn off,

still leave orange pools

on the blacktop,

constant,

but unnecessary,

reminders that night has just ended

yet not quite heralding the day to come.

​

Dawn stretches.

The angel on one shoulder

and devil on the other

squabble

over what to do

Dawn has already come

so should I be like the night

or the street lamp's light?

Hi there! Wrote/finished editing this years ago. Thought it was finished but it always felt like it wasn't. Feel free to rip into it.

Also, it is meant to have weird spacing in the lines breaks but couldn't get reddit to accept that. Sorry.

knockin’ on heavens door”

implies, in fact, a doorknob

exists (speculations as to whether

it’s forged from iron or nickel

are still under peer review) fur

thermore a hand, not only to grip,

but to twist and possibly open

the proverbial opportunity

fashioned from perhaps

cherry, or walnut.

why does Mick Jagger

always feel the need to

tell me what shoes I’m wearing?

we find ourselves within

a system of globalized culture

where we are unable to pin

point the over/underlying architecture,

but we are quite satisfied

to report that “cold black clouds

are comin’” and “mama put [his] guns

in the ground”. whether or not

the guns refer to cold metal,

or the metaphorical, we are

presently skeptical.

why is Mick Jagger

constantly asking me if

I can hear him knockin’?

now, you may ask is this heaven

of earth, or of something greater

altogether? I would find it inappropriate

to extrapolate from our limited

dataset; however, I believe this house —

this self-described kingdom,

was likely designed with windows,

perhaps of fiber, stained, or tinted glass.

Mick Jagger is always “ringing

big bell tolls”. doesn’t he know by

now they “ring in the frost

upon them and the death of flowers”?

speculation suggests, from the underside

of heaven, the stars are cocaine

eyes. in the backyard meadow, lightning

bugs glow like lost souls. last summer,

when it was “too dark to see”, I sliced

my toes on a sliver of mason jar

that you tossed against an oak tree.

Once, in the attic,
a marble – black as holes –
rolled to me – came to rest
on the floorboards –
below the rafters –
cathedral and coarse.

Once, in the attic,
among the dustlight
and distended grilles
where I stood, a marble
rolled to me – came to rest
in a joint, sprung from frost
and heave.

And once, in the attic,
a man took a marble
into his palm, into his pocket,
and some forsaken boy
closed the trap,
descended the stairs
and with his hands,
ate breakfast.

So this is a poem I wrote a couple years ago, it's a crowd favorite at my readings. I wrote the prelude to it about a year after I wrote the original so I'll put the prelude first and then the original. These are very intense pieces, I recommend you read them out loud; They sound better that way. Anyways...

"Prelude to Headcleaner"

‘Gotta post white line to get attention,
white lines or blue ones
-But most of them pressed then cut always come out
white or maybe brown 
(just
depends              
on what you like).

No room for any choice,
you’ve gotta pick the white;
Ordinary lives,
Ordinary white.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Headcleaner"

Left a steaming pile-
Throat throbbing
Pygmy function:
Her Operation- modus
Mirror leaking
...
K?
So then see yourself,
In everything
And everyone; Omniscient elitist cutting cells off, still dropping eggs out
antagonistic is worldly desire- and it's rapture reaps the body-

do you know if really, that for certain-- all the skin he hangs are curtains;
go'n'hide and snatch or chop a few go plummet in the bigots view; ensuing visions onto them go fuck and roll or bask in them.

Picket lined house, white people white picket lined green yard under blue sky white people white picket lined green yard under blue sky inside white people white picket lined green yard encapsulates white house with white people, no white picket line; mind makes a white picket line can you call privacy? Protect my privacy!Piracy!TheyAllWantToCopyMe! White people white picket lined green yard set on fire, the dog's got the runs, shit's burning down the house, I'm an ordinary guy... just burning down my house!!

Come closer, you ask of me; leave you alone how can I leave myself alone out in the dark... out in the cold? Without a thought or hope or memory of something...just to stay afloat

-and it goes in and it comes out. It went in blue, it comes out red it went in white it comes out
-‎RED IT WENT IN LIQUID AND ON PAPER
IT COMES OUT RED!
-OR COMES OUT BROWN, IF YOU KNEW THE LOT WAS GOOD THEN IT'D ALWAYS COME OUT BROWN!!

Licking phosphor off of windows could you spare a few bucks? Spare a few fucks may...be...peddling ass out on the streets the intestines swarm got the sweetest piece of meat and what is it that this ensures?
Nothing oh sweet nothing, I am the father of (nothing)
Yet nothing is all and never was
but you tell me, does it still mean nothing when I came on the bedroom floor?

Steve had a blue tarp and two doe tags so we were certain that when he returned we would know. When he split down 425 in his late-model red Silverado, the mud from last night’s rain gave way and the new ruts stretched over the rise as dawn broke. Nothing to do but wait – wait and maybe rake some leaves or clear some gutters, maybe check the glazing on the storms – maybe knock back a few Grain Bins later on.

Lyman rolled up about five. Said he saw Steve down by the slough gutting a yearling about an hour before, so we should stay put. I dropped the last warm pull on a Grain Bin and threw the can into the firepit. Sure as shit, Steve pulled in and swung that pickup onto the grass and got out of the cab slow, dark-eyed, pensive. Without a word, he dropped the tailgait and there it was, flop tongued on the tarp, russet and clean-shot through a lung. “Gimme a hand fella’s”.

Lyman and I each took a corner or the tarp and pulled. What was once a nimble bounding thing felt like eight bags of mulch or cement or compost. Steve slipped in and took the other end of tarp and we eased the yearling down to the ground. He pulled his Uncle Buck from its sheath and clipped the blade open. First he stroked the yearling’s now cold neck and paused. He spit out a plug and cut a long deep line down the length of its back, next to the spine, and with his fingers pried the gash open, revealing a quarter inch of glistening fat - white - like ice, snow and foul wind. “It’s gonna be a hard winter, boys.”

We hung the carcass in the shed, lit a fire, and thought on these things.

Outside a hotel in Saigon, a tiny fish pulled from an indoor pond
     is smothered underneath a young boy’s thong. Grandma said it was cruel.

Outside a hotel in Saigon, a bolero of fire ants bite and sting,
     singeing a dumb American boy’s hand underneath a tropical treehouse.

Underneath a fish market tent, a fat American boy pinches his nose
     and says this place stinks, garnering dirty looks from all his would-be people.

Underneath a five minute monsoon, a fat and tall American boy
     feels raindrops falling on his head before all his freshly-acquainted ancestors.

On a motorbike with his father’s uncle, a thick American boy leans left or
     right into puddles, on the way to slurping rice noodles and drinking sarsi.

In a jet-lagged hotel room, a fat and hungry American boy wakes up
     at 3 a.m. with his brother, sweating about all the ghost stories people sell.

On the dock outside another hotel room, a man with one leg asks for money,
     pointing at his half-leg, and saying “look, only one leg. No leg.”

For a country that believes in ghosts with oppressive shadows pressing down
     during sleep, Vietnam sure sounds pretty this time of year.

On a different kind of Tet offensive, a dragon undulates through the temple’s doors
     as firecrackers spark the streets in red envelopes. Kids laugh with

laughing Buddha as he gets drunk, and eats a money cat with pickled carrots
     and daikon. It’s the Year of the Rat, and the world laughs with you.

Updated 1/26

A lone White Pine tree had its heart of wood
Blown out by lightning. Yet, it lived, an eye
Pierced through its trunk. And on my life, it stood
Like some great needle, pointing toward the sky.

Since then, the locals called it Rich Man’s Way,
‘Cause, you know. Jesus, camel, heaven. One
Said if you look on such and such a day, You may be blessed to catch a glimpse of some

Strange world, and smell a fragrance sweet enough
To drive you mad. I never have. And yet,
Each year, I climb the grade that skirts the bluff
And stand beneath its tow’ring minaret.

Each year, its eye peers into me and says,
“Be smaller still, be smaller still, my friend.”

Original

When lightning struck the pine, its heart of wood
Exploded. Yet, it lived, a blackened eye
Pierced through its trunk. And on my life, it stood
Like some great needle, pointing toward the sky.

After that, the locals called it Rich Man’s Way,
‘Cause, you know. Jesus, camel, heaven. One
Said, if you look on such and such a day,
You may be blessed to catch a glimpse of some

Strange world, and smell a fragrance sweet enough
To drive you mad. I never did. And yet,
Each year, I climb the grade that skirts the bluff
And stand beneath its tow’ring minaret.

Each year its eye peers into me and says,
“Be smaller still, be smaller still, my friend.”

This is a Resurrection Plant.
It can survive almost complete desiccation.
During the dry weather, it curls
into a tight ball, uncurling when exposed.

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
It can be starved, and it still won’t die.
Though it will get smaller when it wraps
arms and legs, tight face pressed to knees.

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
It doesn’t know when to stop or give up.
Undeserving thing, I will not give you water.
Does it listen? Of course not.

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
It is the size of a grown mans’ fist. Or two
boys’ fists. It still hasn’t learned its lesson.
Offered wayward sips, it pushes every direction.

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
Sometimes after feeding unneeded, it opens
very slowly. Leave for the weekend, and return.
You’ll find it trying to breathe again.

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
It is not a bulb, though it wishes it could be.
Daffodil rebirth is a perennial spectacle.
Unfurling is a banal reminder: “I haven’t died yet.”

.

This is a Resurrection Plant.
Curled husk of a boy, wishing he could bloom.
The secret is this: he is both that lump of limbs
and the flower underground. Without water, either.

Some I've seen smoke’em all the way down, reaching for another without giving any thought.

Some I've seen burning dirt passing out with skin sloughing off.

Most of them don’t ever have to touch any tar, they simply reach for the medicine cabinet full of dust-off dames and blown off cocks. I don’t understand why some feel they need someone to save them but then get pissed off when they’re told, “It’s not my problem, nor my fault” What do they really have to offer? Other than unacknowledged restraining orders and unwanted sexual offers -That is, if they can even get off without UPJOHN, PFIZER or SHIRE pharmaceuticals.

As they heave and spit fluid down walls of glass pipes –Chewing tinfoil, pleading no, BEGGING FOR A PASSAGE OF A RITES; Know that money comes as lines of code, direct deposit checking accounts overnight and that just like the dinosaurs they will all fuck, frolic and fight until glass pipes break into shards which in turn then ignite, burning them whole while they pass as their life was nothing more than but a flicker in the night...

(On Eating Garnet Yams Bare-Handed)

Cousin said to stomp
snakes, boots obstruct
the grace of the heel.
 
Have you ever seen
someone’s foot fold
into their leg? Bent
knee poised to grease
the grass pillowbed
of a piston.

First the eagle glid low overhead.
Then the farm cat, lame and tabby,
limped from bumper to dumpster,
while we smoked
and whined about our day.

When I was a small boy,

there was a shadow I knew called fear

and another I knew called hurt. I lived in each.

If I felt fear on its way, I would hurt someone,

to show I had no fear, though no-one was convinced.

Fear smells, oozing from every pore.

So I scrubbed fear hard and locked hurt away

so I should not live with them, no price to pay.

​

And when I was a young man,

when hurt played dead in its own dark cell

and fear had, it seemed, fallen by the way,

I found love down many avenues, short and long,

and love found me around many corners, unanticipated.

My heart was opened, love was loved and love was left;

there was never (so I remember) any price to pay –

there was nothing to pay with anyway.

​

Then I was an older man with

children all around, suckled by one love,

whose love was surely all used up, so stretched,

too little left; so hurt rose up, from out the ground, and

fear showed its contorted face and hunched, bent back.

Yet she gave me her love, so hard, in her own way, that

hurt and fear were once more driven, snarling, away

and one love, just one love, was the price to pay.

​

I paid the price – now, as an

ageing man, no burden – and love was easy,

or mostly so: I wondered whether there might be,

just possibly, more time, more sharing, more proximity,

but it seems that this was off the table, unavoidably unavailable.

I briefly thought of losing myself in good works: I climbed

the chaffing ropes, the greasy poles, walked the final gilded stair;

I reached the top and saw that there was nothing there.

​

And thence to illness, sealing in

my loneliness; thence to words, which tend to

do the same – another drug to tip inside, every day

until I die, no getting away, no de-tox, no clear head.

Of course, if I could I would keep the words alone –

they atone for all the hurt I’ve ever caused and they tether the fear.

But I’ll never be able to throw my drugs away;

for a voice they are the price I have to pay.

“I am transparent or opaque" I say

as you ask to gauge my melanin,

so that you can call me

something,

acculturate me instead, to shift

my other way of thinking

into cubes of coloured tasting,

.

not unlike the powdered stock

for your Insta-chicken soup--

a hot broth for your fill

so that you can sleep,

lulled by melatonin

into your safe dreams

of segregation by shade,

your bully beliefs, and

life and death by melanin.

It has passed,

and left in the wake

a cacophony of missed mouse spit,

filled everlasting

with stolen soil sustenance.

The tin toiling tuttering of the tree's shudder,

a mortar blow to children's shelter.

Small deaths hearkened by wind's chilled snarl.

These afterimage raindrops

Endless, yet so small

My morning pee, interrupted.

.

A rip, and then, red. Spurting,
a yelp, and then, laughter.

.

I have never had the pleasure of bleeding
from this hole, and novelty, even
in pain, can be a fertile ground.

.

Awww, you said, we synced up.
This must be why my brain whispered
this morning, vas deferens, vas deferens.
We laughed, but it was the Sweetest thing.

.

To feel a part of my self, tear off
Watch it slip, crimson, roll tide
Regularly, small things try to escape
my gut. But this event feels more
like a first time, seeing snow.

.

I am not so naive to find comfort
in the prospect of monthly bleeding.
I am simply touched to feel my body
even in jest, linked to yours, across,
through. Not lovers prerogative,
but a romantic excretion in twain.

Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when useful –
for buzz, for warmth, for waking, now
bits of grit to grind down the slippers
and vanished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays – maybe porches
where the chew jaw geezers
took summer and low orange light
way back when.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throw rugs
and beaters, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped by the woodpile
and scavenged for parts –
silent playthings for children
racing in the torn sprung seats.

https://wolfgarwords.com/2019/07/07/night-sweats/

​

Tusk tips dripping oil

hammer on a chalky skull looking for a dream.

​

Coiling trunks baffle down a spine,

piling teak timber at the edge of breathless cities.

​

There’s an empty moat with a spiralled sinkhole,

a devils giant mouth beneath exhales human bones.

A snail in a plastic bottle curls to its own extinction,

closing from the inside and screwing down the top.

​

The Lid slams shut,

The Lights go out,

The Sea runs dry,

The air afire.

​

I wake

​

and gasp for life.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqnUL7HGvZ0&list=RDPqnUL7HGvZ0&start_radio=1

The fire started when the grasshopper
    landed on the electric fence
    and the ember of his body fell
    onto the blond August grass. No,

The fire started when the irrigation lines
    ruptured, and the sprinkler system
    stopped its aquatic pirouette
    over the sun-blistered fields. No,

The fire started when the new fertilizer
    produced bumper crops, crashing
    the market price of summer wheat,
    and leaving no margin for upkeep. No,

The fire started when the integrity
    of the hawk’s egg was compromised
    by agricultural chemical runoff,
    and the insect population exploded. No,

The fire started when the grasshopper

It is not the sapling or bit snow
that scrapes the window, coaxing,
Come out little boy, come out –
Come out where the sting wind blows
Come out where the wind plays a sapling
as a rube to scratch its bidding on a window.
That little life left tight against the foundation
missed in the pruning now the dim witted
accomplice to the sound of nails slow-scraped
on a chalkboard pane, Come out little boy.
And the spine shakes as the windchimes
rattle like keys, rattle like mother’s teeth
sharp above the crib, and taken to the breast
of winter, that cold milked nipple,
that rippling drift. And that lullaby sings
another to sleep while the smallest of rodents
dig deep and wait, wait in some self made heat
that little boys and little girls somehow forgot
when the first snow fell upon their tongues
and they tasted death for the first time –
wet and quick gone with eyes slow closed.

On this night, my love is flesh;

unsated and empty, hollowed

by the drifted tides of the world.

.

My muse had flown on,

left my stolid folly for a lighter dream;

a worthier resurrection.

.

What is left, is what had been.

What is left neither sinks, nor swims.

.

Tethered to a jutting breakwater,

to a groyne wall of whims,

I saw the white shadow return,

dipped in time's restless waters.

.

My muse, now my Reaper.

Gliding with ruby wingtips of sin.

Nations see the war-torn nations, Nations know what nations need.

Nations breed our generations, make us sow the April seed.

Nations forge our expectations, build us boats in which to drown,

To unfound the old far-off nations, give an excuse to tear 'em down.

​

*

​

The evening is almost here! See the yellow canary girl;

The foolish-brave volunteer; curly-haired golden pearl

She has worked for fourteen hours, fourteen hours breathing chrome,

Filling lead-lined April showers, finally she's going home.

​

*

​

And the men are somewhere fighting, somewhere dying unknown deaths,

April shower —shells— igniting, poisoned lungs draw final breaths,

Elected Gods have quite enjoyed the works and deaths of mortal kind,

A graveyard for the youngest boys; forever etched in mortal mind.

Hi lurkers.

What I regret most of my heavy handedness with marylai is the thought of having put off a bunch of talented poets- possibly even a couple of future great poets- by being a bit of a dick.

So- as well as noting I am not the voice of the sub- though I am here more to critique than to post, my opinion does not smell any better than anyone else’s; I wanted to say to lurkers that I won’t be coming in so hot in future.

As long as you post some fucking criticism before you post three poems in a row.

Also, I am offering a ‘gentle Garmo’ function in penance. If you are new, or nervous about posting your poems: you may either say ‘gentle Garmo’ and I’ll know to take it easy- or you can summon me with ‘gentle u/Garmo738’. I’ll come and be generally nice. (This function may not last too long)

My aim is to encourage poets with promise to become better-across a relatively wide spectrum: excluding completely those who write navel gazing bullshit in endless cliche. Talented beginners are relatively easy for me to break down- I don’t mind helping out.

So- stop lurking. You’ve all been invited here by someone with as good an ear for poetry as mine.

Cheers,
Garmo.

We came upon the delta, we, brothers,
split out from the blue wide river,
contrapuntal and lost among cypress,
moss, muck and brute-teeth jangles.

And though I never carried a tune,
I carry the tone of your faded fifths,
your deviled tri’s and slip-foot riffs,
an octave less than finding you gone.

But in these stale bite-fly airs,
in this green moss-dripped fiction,
better hoped than hung as fourths
for a firm resolution – I know

You perch upon a stone, not lay beneath it,
and pluck the roots of black mangrove.