Ahem.
Canto I
call it a mullet and
you're blind to all glory.
long feathered locks
flowing down and away
the wings of some beautiful bird
icarus rising
nearly too near the sun
dancing with wax and flight
brock sampson they call him
his strength in that hair
in the cold blue eyes
that glint clear in blood mist
his vision undimmed
in any tide
suburban boy
walked backwards into manhood
wood-paneled basement room
bruce lee fantasies
nunchuks
swords and bongs
his first car
mustang
wild horse like him
jeans tight
shades on
zeppelin pounding
he met her
red hair delilah
cocktease
back seat fumblings
her hand blocking his
smoking a cigarette
unworthy of the prize
training body and mind
good school, full scholarship
athletics, football
killed a man
broken neck
stilling his heart
so unlike lee marvin
an end to all
no next reel
nothing left but the army
jungle service
gun work
swords and bongs
military intelligence
special forces
osi
heart of ice
fire-red hair
camaro heat
all that keeps life
in his veins
she works for the other side
soviet, post-soviet
intelligence then crime
and he for science
private work
guarding life
and ending costumed freaks
smoking cigarettes
driving sweet cars
cranking zeppelin
and keeping
swords and bongs
family life
almost sons
a settled home
wood paneled room
back to the womb almost
life is cool
if sort of stupid
and when his hair goes
so does he
he sees it in dreams
his own car
tries to kill him
sharks
laser beams
butterfly battlesuits
clone soldiers
jellied parodies of sons
he might have had
nightmares
she'd never tease
so far
nor steal his hair
his sons
his car
a cocktease yes
but always his
one
the only woman
for him that was
more than just doing it
you know?
Posts
8 comments:
I was all set to trash this poem but... now I'm busy growing a mullet and digging out my Bruce Lee posters.
-Gordon
I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified. Or impressivly horrified.
As a poster once said on Kevin Church's blog, that is "an extremely hilarious sign that something is seriously wrong with you."
G-
I love The Venture Brothers. What can I say? Amidst the silly and the weird lie deep chords of real truth and strong emotion.
I just felt the need to pay tribute to The Man Himself.
You know?
I do not. I do not know. No one but you knows, because something is hilariously wrong with you.
G-
This is less of a critique and more of an honest question... why does poetry seem to not beleive in capitalization.
I dunno, all right? Jeez, you ask too many questions.
Mullet-haters. The worst form of discrimination... its not like the poem was about someone in a wheelchair.
-Gordon
I think it's because most poets aren't capable of using capital letters properly.
G-
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