Warning to Literary Posers

Be careful when you try
to publish your poetry
and be on social media
at the same time. Eventually,
every indie writer in
the herd of literary oddballs
will send you a friend request.

For a while you’ll feel important
when they publish your work
on their Weebly sites.

Suddenly, one of them
will get pissed off
at the other, for being uncool,
or for having different politics,
or for being insensitive
or for a host of other
trumped-up reasons.

(Yes, I said “trumped-up.” Fight me).

They will tear into each other
like rabid weasels, and
it will have nothing to do with you.

One of them will decide
it’s your fault too, since you’re on
the other person’s friend list.
They’ll block you on Twitter,
and you can forget about ever
submitting to their shitty magazine again.

No one bothered to tell you
what the argument was about.

Mind you, these are sensitive folks
who write poetry,
people too blind to know
who the real enemy is.

It’s not me, motherfuckers,
I’m 60 years old and have been
out of high school for 40 years.
You sniveling little tattooed poser
with an MFA in your back pocket,
you don’t even know what pain is.

Perhaps you shouldn’t be so careful.

jed and ethel

jed and ethel
sleep on a bench
across the sidewalk from
the big supermarket
they sleep while people
complain about cantaloupes
and the cost of pineapple
jed and ethel
have been living on the streets
in the neighborhood
for about two or three years now
right around the time
we were told the economy
was back and full swing
jed and ethel obviously never got the memo
they sleep on the bench
while people walk by
holding wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps
jed wears a green hat
from a nintendo game character
and a free t-shirt from the new hipster coffee shop
who gave it to him
for their ironic idea of free advertising
ethel wears her winter coat
in all kinds of weather
she’s usually pretty quiet
but sometimes she sits on the bench
and screams at the people
complaining about cantaloupes
and the cost of pineapple
sometimes she says to the people
carrying wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps
hey, but do you have a dollar for me?
jed’s still able to sleep
when ethel goes on like this
he’s put up with way more than shouting
sometimes jed and ethel smoke pot
with another guy, maximillian
they sit at the bus stop a block away from the bench
and get stoned
as people walk by carrying lackluster cantaloupes
and over-priced pineapples
complaining about the smell of the marijuana
and saying to themselves
well, if they have money to do that
then why are they living on the street?
as if getting
the occasional life-numbing high from a third party
is the equivalent of them
somehow shunning the rest of us
here in boot strap america
but people like to say dumb shit like that
because they are afraid of homelessness
they see themselves in jed and ethel’s eyes
deep down
they know it isn’t all cantaloupes and pineapples
and wine bags and gourmet vegan wraps
or maybe they are just judgmental assholes
and jed and ethel
are just props
to boost up their own self-esteem
their own sense of value and self-worth as citizens
road signs to prove that we aren’t all random cogs
in an unforgiving capitalist mouse wheel
to be honest
jed and ethel aren’t even their real names
i have no clue who they are
where they came from
why they chose this neighborhood
if they’re married or just shackled together this way
jed and ethel are just names
that i came up with
about a year ago
when i was walking down the street
on some lazy summer sunday afternoon
swinging my bag from the wine store
passing them sleeping on that bench
on my way to the supermarket
for some fresh fruit
a cold six pack of beer
and one of their kick-ass
gourmet vegan wraps.

Jim Morrison Library Poem

Inspired by “People Are Strange”

No one knows my name here.
I come here several times a week
and the only recognition I get
is from a card scanner.

As always,
the guy at the circulation desk
scowls at his monitor
as if I haven’t just walked in.
He gets the same treatment from me
even though I like his
Naked Lunch T-shirt.

I pull my CD from the hold shelf.

I enter the empty meeting room.

The doors of perception
are so clean here
that the doorway has no door anymore
and the library’s bustling floor
appears to me as it truly is:
A house of solipsistic quests,
catalogued and controlled.

I suppose it’s my hold item
that’s got me thinking about doors:
Strange Days, by The Doors.

Here’s strange in three steps.
One: Look outside
and make sure no wide-eyed
children are in sight.
Two: Open backpack.
Three: Pull out Fleshlight.

Clear. Check. Check.

Good God… I can’t believe
I’m going to put my penis
in this thing.
It’s so grandiose and sci-fi-looking.

Woooooo doggie.
The toothy squeezings
of the Fleshlight Destroya
grind me down to nubs
of ecstasy.
The synthetic sex mouth
loves me two times
and I would go for three
but for the town council meeting
that’s supposed to start.

The Fleshlight Destroya
is aptly named.
I am destroyed.

Destroyed and…
still unobserved.

Apparently
I can’t even disturb anyone
getting off
with a gadget that looks
like a planet eater
in a Star Trek episode.
Maybe I should try
the Autoblow 2 tomorrow—
from what I saw in a video
it sounds like a giant robot
with asthma.

Let’s push this
Lizard King of the Library
act as far as it will go.

Afterglow.

My legs shake.
I pump them down
the central aisle.
They take me by
the book return window.
I’m drawn to something I’ve never
noticed on the other side of it:
Desks and carpeting.

And right in front of me
at crotch height,
the guy in the Naked Lunch T-shirt
is sorting media in a basket truck.
What the fuck!
He’s noticed me.
Or rather—my groin area.
And in my euphoria
I realize that despite my
failed attempt to provoke
I still wear the chain
of conformity.

I still subscribe
to the library’s
seclusive program.

But how many walls
do we really need
to police our patronage?
Must we be complete strangers?
Aren’t we strange enough already?
The clerk with his elbows in a pile
of CDs and DVDs and me
with my concealed
penis swallower, the two of us
posing as if responsible use
of lending materials is all
that matters?

The rules are so ingrained in him
he reaches for my hold item
which I haven’t even checked out
yet. His hand hovers in the window
like an American prayer
that doesn’t care if it’s answered.
And in my post-orgasmic high,
I think…

why deny him.

Here you go, Naked Lunch Man.
Here is my Doors CD.
But before I hand it over
you will do something for me.
You will break the chain.
You will touch my fingertips
on the cracked jewel case
and I will trace your toils
down your oily thumb.
No one will think
we’re being impractical.
No one will notice.

There. It’s yours. Thank you,
Naked Lunch Man.
It was a pleasure to mind meld
with your fingers.
To scan your phalangeal
barcode.
For a moment we transformed
this slotted node into a bridge
between flesh and purpose,
intimate yet still contained,
the library equivalent
of a glory hole.

I’ll be back tomorrow
(with the Autoblow 2).
But in the hours between
I’ll think about you
as I make my way through
the rain and uneven streets
of this town that wants
to devour us both.

Come to think of it,
you should get a
Fleshlight,
Naked Lunch Man.
The Destroya’s teeth
may open your mind’s
doors
to a world you’ve
never seen
before.

The Son’s Shadow
Ben John Smith

Six Twisted Hours

From
the ravaged
caned seat
of this ole
tiger oak
rockin’ chair
I pour
three more
fat fingers
of single barrel
and listen
to Leon
tickle those
ivories
on Queen
of the
Roller Derby

I guess
this is
the best
I’m willin’
to get
since the
Tuesday blues
have already
saturated my
frontal lobe
and there’s
at least
six twisted
hours
of day
drinkin’ left
before the
next fuckin’
thunderstorm
finds me

Holy&intoxicated Publications is proud to present its latest chapbook,
‘Fire On The Mountain’, by the late great legendary Doug Draime.

Print run of only 50 copies:
30 copies available from dougdraime.com
($5:00 plus p&p)
20 copies available from johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk
(£5:00 plus p&p)

 Available May 1st, 2019

Many thanks to John D. Robinson for publishing this chap. It is a testament to Doug’s timeless spirit that lives on in his poetry to have this published three plus years after his death. Going through the collection was a journey for Aaron and I, some of which brought tears to our eyes and a heaviness of heart. A Flower For You On Savage Creek Road was the first poem I read by Doug. It appeared in a local paper and I thought at the time, how sweet to be loved like that! I remember hoping someday a man will write poetry for me. Lori was Aaron and Shawn’s mother. She passed away in 2003 and Aaron and Shawn did not see this poem until I gave it to them after Doug’s death. Doug shared a lot about his writing with me and I  edited much of his work over the years. That being said, some of the selections are new and some have been published. I hope you enjoy reading and rereading these selections.

— Carol Draime

Desolation Angel

Just got out of prison
Los Lunas, New Mexico.
She was smoking crack back in Chicago.
I was headed there to get my life on track.
She was living each day
at two C-Notes a whack.
Oh mercy, Sometimes it gets so crazy.

I’m dirty used and wasted
wearing turn around shoes.
Her kitchen’s full of garbage.
Her curtains all peeked through.
The dogs of years nipping at my heels.
I’m cheating sisters of the dice.
She all dolled up like Chinese food.
And I’m fool fried twice.
Lord it can all get so damn crazy.

The best part of truth seems to be the lies
God gives his left handed smile.
I can’t live life in the middle of the road.
Traffic comes at me from both sides.
There’s nowhere to hide.
Desolation Angel
I’m a Desolation Angel

Last time that I killed myself.
There were no vacancies in hell.
And she was doing Jesus
in some stained sheet motel.
Life’s a bitch, and she’s in heat.
Looking for someone to screw.
Time’s cracking his knuckles.
She’s out working the avenue.
Tell me how’d it get so crazy

I’ll play the hand that’s dealt me
Choke down what’s on my plate
I drew a crooked Tarot card
to my inside straight.
She whispers to me like shuffling dollar bills.
Her banjo eyes are waning.
Come on take a hit it could be worse,
It could be raining.

Did I just feel a raindrop?
Thought I heard the thunder roll.
Another junkie that can’t stop.
Another addict outta control
Oh I sold my soul
Desolation angel

Now the storm has ceased.
I’m back in prison
Here in Chicago.
How it ever turned so crazy
I’m sure I’ll never know.
Desolation angel

a clean but filthy, poorly-lighted place

I like the chaos of the place
the music is louder than need be
tortured women slurring words
swinging breasts, hip, and ass
under glowing red lights
the place is dark
remarkably clean but filthy too
I find it all right
the women dance
the beer is served
I write the poems.

Untitled

Shave it,
And crucify it, drive it home, as fast as you can,
Filled up with spunk and rancor,
As his arteries scream for him,
Made of strawberry jelly and sprinkles,
Pour it out, into colourful bowls at the nursery school,
Too many betrayals now, too many nicks in the surface,
Kill everyone you know and barbeque their remains,
Make a bonfire out of your grandmother,
Fillet the postman and sell little slices from an ice cream van,
Split it open, with everything you have got,
Fill it to the brim with hatred,
Tear it open, and see what fits inside,
Discharge a loathsome fire extinguisher into the wombhole of a wombat,
Set fire to your pubic hair, steal anything not nailed down,
Incendiary chemicals and pencil sharpeners, ram it all in,
It is all dead
and worthless,
anyway