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Poems by El Presidente del Muerte


just caught a train for someplace
to wipe the spit off of my chin
think I've seen too many faces
and atoned for all my grins
I need a few hour's sleep till dawn
something to rest my feet on
something that'll pull my head out of this spin
oh, home, where have you been?

all the consolation
washed me up on the lonely mile
it pulled out all my heartstrings
but at least I never feigned a smile
'cause whenever I tried to sing two notes
they tore and rent their way back down my throat
they stopped just short of genuine, turned up as sin
oh, home, where have you been?

friend, take a look out the window
for once forget about the road
throw your practiced punches
and shake the broken glass out of your bones
before you sigh "ain't it the truth"
and toss your dime in the toll booth
well you never used to have any trouble fitting into your skin
oh, home, where have you been?

these days I spend my time lifting weights
because I never was very brave
but the men who keep the time for me,
they all have one foot in the grave
so you blow your bubbles and I'll wreck my trains
and we'll meet together in the same old chains
we'll see how much longer we can take it on the chin
oh, home, where have you been?

you say you missed your last chance
laughing at the minutes slipping away
but somehow I think even if you were born young
you'd still know which tunes to play
anyway, if you forgot to sing,
I can still whistle most anything
and we'll see if we can hear ourselves over the din
oh, home, where have you been?




you bent and cradled your lady sweet
and we gathered to hear her honeyed tears
she pulled our eyes down 'round our feet
as she poured into our ears

you stilled your mouth and let your mind
slip quietly into the silent throng
faithful hands yearning to find
their place inside her song

so bye and bye, our troubles slept
'neath the dance spun from her fingertips
and we listened while your lady wept
softly from gentle lips



when I get back, I'll crown you queen
and you'll fit me like before
I'll smile and you will lift me up
and put me down dirt poor
then, lacking bread and blasphemy
I'll know which words to use
and I'll prune each blooming rose in awe
without leaving a bruise
and I'll take their blushing petals soft
and sow them in the fields
where the bankers will let them be while I
teach them to click their heels
and they'll crow and shout and dance about
and stamp their feet with glee
yes, they'll drive those flow'rs into the ground
doing all the work for me
bye and bye, their riotous reels will cease
and drift into the skies
and they'll leave off work that day
to write their children lullabies
and by the morning after
when all their sweet babes have grown
the roses will have risen
waiting once more to be sown
then I'll spread out all my fingertips
and throw them to the sea
and we'll lay and watch the waters roar
my pearly queen and me



I've got a dream in my pocket
an old man's dream
next to the pistol I always wanted
just for show
it's hazy and persistent
and it hides between my ears
and it laughs just a little
once in a while
and in this lazy, painted dream
I am rocking in a chair
with a kiss hovering slightly
over my brow
to those who come to me
I am the one who takes the cup
from hands that have been washed
in the city's trough
then I thank them and I spill the cup
all the tears I ever cried
and I wash my face with each drop
and I breathe a sigh
then I am King of dissonance
and I laugh a hearty laugh
and I know that hell is just a blink
of my eye
so I take out all my treasure
and I lay it out to dry
and I sprawl there humming lightly
in my rocking chair
an old man's dream



Lord help me, I've too much patience for this
staring into the dark
always waiting too long for delivery
content with a chair
tapping foot keeping the same straight time
in training to age well
well I want something that can't be said
and I want something that can't be sung
give me something to scream

I want no explanations
I have no explanations
-no explanations

I don't have the patience for this
can't concentrate
been wading through all this wet cement
I don't want that torch
won't you let me add variety to your day
I'll stop in the exit lane
just give me your hand and I'll eat your diamond ring
and I'll run amok
I want something that can't be said
and I want something that can't be sung
give me something to scream
don't want no explanations
I own no explanations
no explanations
-no explanations



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Biographical sketch: After graduating from Legos, the RadioFlyer wagon, and the rubber-band pistol at the tender age of 14, I went on to write the poetry currently being submitted.

El Presidente del Muerte recommends:

E.E. Cummings: Collected Poems by E.E. Cummings
Reason: Well, it's kind of written by E.E. Cummings, which is good. Very sensual and personal. Prime stuff.

Recommendations for writers:

As little as possible; a sort of progression, maybe.


 


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