7/20/2016 0 Comments Six poems by Steven StorrieWAKE 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 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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