Sunday, July 27, 2014

i live in a box of paints




i live in a box of paints

i live in a box of paints
nowhere near the mauves, magentas, or pinks
and certainly not cosied up to
the yellows — not even the ones
that pretend to flame into orange
i'm more inclined to linger
over here
by the blues
swimming between the tropical
cerulean smudges and the heavier
glops of navy
and most always stopping
just short of
black ...

at times
i furrow into the profundity
of red
something of an excess
i suspect
but only
when i feel a little wild
and reckless
or full of a passionate desire
to brush
bold and careless strokes
across a human canvas
leaving behind a small trail
of seminal inspiration
but little in the way
of art ...

when winter comes
and the world adopts
a cosmological white glacé
over twisted
half-hidden shapes
of brown and gray
i sometimes dream
of a pastiche of greens
from jaundiced lime to the darkest emerald
a spectrum
defining the sleeping bud
of springtime
that strange season
of beguiling tinctures
soothing the chill
of empty spaces
with a smear of hopefulness
never quite completely forgotten ...

i live in a box of paints
hidden from view
by the tortured stack
of half-finished
portraits of you
awaiting
a second inspiration
or some returning regard
for what was there
for a moment
before my eyes faltered
and the perfect
combination of colours
bled to mud
and the beauty
of bringing the inside of love
outside from the closed closet
of mere imagining
disappeared
completely ...



© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.


 







 

Sunday, July 20, 2014

dem bones




dem bones

dem bones
dem bones
dem dry bones
an' lawd have mercy
was a time
i been so glad that
all dem bones got connected
to all dem other bones
da knee bone to da thigh bone
da thigh bone to da hip bone
and da hip bone always a-jump-jivin'
like youse was pumpin'
for oil under the
Sacramoose Sands
pumpin' so hard
i could hear
the clickety-clack
of yer bones a-rattlin'
under my bones
in the manner of
shall we say
me gettin' right t-boned
in da ooh-la-la
of yer doo-da-da
oh yes baby
yes, i stills 'member
all those days & nites we spent 'gether
shuckin' along
an' shuckin' along
all the way
to paradise
with you screamin' for Jesus
and me just ever so quietly
hearing the word of the Lord

dem bones
dem bones
dem dry bones
was like sweet sugah
spooned over liquid honey
da way
you danced dem bones
'round the room
throwin' flesh to disregard
and sure as mornin' rain
i did loves the way
you strutted and staggered
right up to da day
you swung me over
in a sudden pas de deux
'n' disconnected my swollen luv bone
from alla yer slip 'n' slide bones
for what ya said was now
and for forever
leavin' me high 'n' dry
to drown
in the flood my blue despair
like youse didn't even care
just so smoothly pinning
my desire out dere
with the wash on the
backyard clothesline
my alone-bones waving in the wind
over all dem other bones
dem dry bones
in the fallowed graveyard
of all yer former lovers
who surely
like me
didn't 'pect to be
quite so suddenly
hearing the word of the Lord

dem bones
dem bones
dem dry bones
now i ain't one to harbour
no ill-will nor no sour-mash grudge
i ain't one to muster
up a batch of black tar
and feathers
to makes you a smouldering
winter coat of revenge
but, honey,
done wrong is done wrong
and so i guess
it only stands to reason
that a man played
is a man betrayed
and as pappy used to say
every circumstance has a
consequence
still it's no small matter
when my teeth still chatter
drivin' over the ruts of the Shushwap Levy
and i hears the cold hard clatter
of yer bones
dem bones
dem dried out bones
in the trunk o' my rusty ol' Chevy
i can't help but wonder if
while you was high-steppin'
thru death's door of disconnection
that oh-so-simple one-two-three
jitter-bug chugga-lug into eternity
y'all ever got the chance to
knows it was me
who gave you the nudge
and was sendin' ya on yer way to
hearing the word of the Lord


© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.

 







 

Sunday, July 13, 2014

i don't want an angel . . .




i don't want an angel

i don't want an angel
an ethereal Material Girl
with something of an angle
wispy if not lispy
and wearing eyeshadow a little too blue
full of feathery words
that drop in clumps
across the mattress
in the afterglow . . .
and i don't want a Holy Mary
Mother of God
with her tightly-crossed legs
and a faraway look
in her eyes . . .
and i don't want a silver-screen goddess
with platinum hair
and a taste for diamonds
who always seems ready
for a John, Bobby, or Teddy
but who inevitably
and regrettably drowns
in a bubble bath of unkindness
that she unwittingly drew for herself . . .
and i don't want a princess promiscuous
who races from her boring life
in the fast lanes of Paris or Pakistan
and barters her once royal pussy
for a little leftover notoriety
until her hopelessness explodes
her lifelessness falters
and like a Slinky in a fashionable black dress
she ends crashing down the stairs
just before the winds of gossip unwind
and blow away maybe 50 birthdays or more
and though some might eulogize her
with the twisted metal frame
of a silly Candle In The Wind metaphor
the sad truth is
you can't blow out a candle
that was never really lit . . .
and i don't want an I Got You Babe
neither Bono or Ono
with her fingers of glue
that stick to my prick
while she closes the shutters
around my life . . .
and i don't want a Fat Bottomed Girl
with her diva disregard
and her sense of self-importance
that drags me along
like a Basset hound on a leash
in the fart lane of her
cross-stepping runway walk . . .
and i don't want a Joan Jett Blackheart
some self-indulgent maid
dressed in robes of the darkest night
whose self-loathing
taints the world with
a poison that infects
everything around her . . .
and i don't want a 10
or even an 8 or a 5
if attraction is calculation
then just think what that says
about masturbation . . .
and i don't want a sad-eyed Sister of Mercy
who remembers the war
and the wounds she nursed
with snowy-white sulfanilamide
or the erections she betrayed
with doses of saltpetre
repeatedly whispering
The Lord is my Shepherd
as she led desperate men like thirsty horses
to an empty trough
and expected them to drink . . .
and i don't want a femme-fatale
a Clytemnestra, Cleopatra or Messalina
a Delilah, Jezebel or Salome
a Mata Hari dancing for me
in the other room
calling to me in a too-manly voice
that begs me to surrender
the secrets of my passion
so that all that is me
might become only hers . . .
and i don't want a pubescent Lolita
with bright red lips
pursed over an even brighter red lollipop
as if to show me
how adept she is at the art of fellated sucking
posturing her every exaggerated pop and smack
into a four-way foreplay
relentlessly appealing to an inevitable unpeeling
of so fresh a forbidden fruit
that once tasted
sours in an instant . . .
and i don't want a fairytale casualty
a Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White
with her oh-so-immaculate complexion
her trilling voice
and a perfect lift to her B-cup breasts
all doomed it seems
to a suspiciously daunting magic charm
that sends her into some kind of paroxysm
ending in a deep and unyielding coma
that only a prince's kiss can undo
for i'm certainly no such enchanted prince
and kiss her if i might
i'm certain she would never awaken
even if i slipped her the tongue . . .
but most of all
most of all
yes, after all is said and done
i don't want to be alone
and so i am waiting
as patiently and honestly as i can
for you ...


© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.

 







 

Sunday, July 06, 2014

the guitar player



the guitar player

in a café almost forgotten
behind a queue of red brick buildings
he plays notes of romance
over the frets of
his worn guitar
nothing too maudlin
and certainly nothing soaring
into the flight paths of wingspun fantasy
but something more solid
something almost reassuring
and in that music i find solace
in the comfort of knowing
the next note
and the next break
before his fingers find it
so that the actual ring
of each string
becomes a harmonic echo
of what i have already heard
until a sudden change
tips the scales of my expectations
confuses the trail of
my bread-crumb life
and awakens in me
a discordant swirl of blind confusion
and in that moment
i know what love is


© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.

 





 








 
 


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