Six poems by Steven Storrie

WAKE UP, THOMAS JEFFERSON, IT’S YOUR TURN TO DRIVE

A cheetah runs alongside me
Trying to catch its breath in the dead of night
Keep up
I say
Keep up

I am fire
Hear me roar
Or something like that

It could just be the drink talking
To be honest

It usually is

 



PUNCTURED LUNGS

I sit by his bedside
Watching him vomit and wretch and moan
The nurse ducks out for a second
She’s got his bloods and has had her fill
Of his curse words and vile gestures
Threats and gropes

A brief silence passes between us
After I’ve wiped spit and crimson from his mouth

Then he sighs
Sits upright
His eyes widen and
He begins to smile

Whoever says they’ll face death boldly
Is a lying, phoney bastard
He says

Face it
He tells me
We’re all going out
The same way we came in

Crying our eyes out
And covered in shit

He coughed again
There wasn’t much more to say
After that

 



I CAN’T LEAVE HER BEHIND

I chew on the ends of my white Ray Bans
Feel the cool breeze ease through my jeans
We steal a moment sponsored by bruises and
cheap whiskey
her skirt billowing by the Bay
God damn, I think
God damn

All we need now is a radio to enshrine this love
A car or the perfect song
but all I have is holes
in my 4 dollar shoes and a woman
Whose nipples are on show to the world

Tourists snap the summer sun
And I watch her twirling in red heels
Her tongue poking through her teeth
In that miraculous way it always does

God must have a sense of humour
I decide

If he didn’t
he would never send me women
like these.

 




SOMETHING ABOUT JOHNNY KNOXVILLE

Something about Johnny Knoxville
Looking old makes me feel
Immeasurably sad
The years pass by like buses
And none of them ever stop
When did I become this person
In these trousers, boots and shirts
How did I get so far from the mountain?

Wasn’t it just yesterday we were morons?
Young and full of love
Where is Texas, Toronto and L.A
Now we really need them?

The good days are like a vault that
Traps my heart when I open it
Nostalgia flies like curses whenever
I look in there
My heart colliding with graveyards
Stuffed with faces softer than they are
Right now

People go up and down elevators
Time spilling out their eyes
Life falling out of the hole in their pockets
Lush green fields of vibrant youth
Roaring forward like majestic bulls

You go over the edge without seeing it

That’s life
They say
That’s life

 




WAYNE GRETZKY, WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

I’m knee deep in mud, mother
Blood pouring from my chest
I don’t recognise these fields or faces
The last things I’ll ever see
I wanna come back home, ma
I wanna come back home

I didn’t see the bullet
That ripped right through my skin
But I can smell the burning, ma
I can smell it

My hands fall into the puddle
People charge and scream and shoot
I forget what it was that brought us here, ma
Does it matter?

How is the old hockey team getting on, pa?
Some wins this year
I hope
Tell coach I was asking after him
If you see him

How is the farm coming, brother?
There’s no need for my medals now
Will you keep them?
If you’re missing my face
Don’t worry
I’ll be on your T.V soon enough

There were sweet things at the blue line
My friend
Great things at the red
Hit somebody, will you
Hit somebody.

Feeling weak now, sister
Feeling weak
Don’t let that job get you down
Keep my records
If you want them
You were always the best of them
You know

It’s getting dark, my darling
It’s getting dark
Don’t let them leave me here
Cold and wet and scarred
Don’t weep for me, my love
Please don’t weep so hard
Know that I went with my friends
Around me
The birds above me
And you
In the same place you always were

Firmly in my heart

 



MANHATTAN BITE

I was living on the corner of
34th and 8th
When you told me your news and
I lost that job and the waitress quit and
My book was rejected and my favourite singer
Died
And it started to rain

I took it as incontrovertible proof
That there are no more miracles
Left in this town



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Bio: Steven Storrie has worked as a cable T.V repair man, dishwasher, choreographer, ice cream vendor and junk yard attendant. Tired of this shit he is currently locked in his basement working on his first collection of poetry, bickering with his neighbours over nothing and storing the baseballs he keeps when they are hit into his yard. You can find him at the site he runs, Black Coffee For Breakfast, here http://renegadepriest11.wix.com/blackcoffeebreakfast

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