Clash
in the success of an incantation
eruption from innermost
from orifices no longer veiled
from wounds aroused with salt
the beast withheld hitherto.
and war instantly declared
from the full blooming of our suspicions
from second chances, aloof
from our herpes kiss
from the gnashing of our ulcers
to partake in the immolation.
i crouch and gather the peeled skin
from burnings symbiotic
to be more than a shadow of
albeit less than composure prior.
in the success of the beast sealed
we settle on polishing an urn
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Johnny Be Good
johnny be good
don't be easy prey,
steer clear from the deep waters,
sharks can smell the blood in your wounds.
johnny be good
don't go back to the ball and chain,
it has said enough
now it is time for you to speak up.
johnny be good
don't bring the world down,
spread the good news
the lost will be found.
johnny be good
don't make the heavens weep,
it has a party waiting
if you just make it through.
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Evening News
tragedies of the day on display
opinions after opinions, some person's say
whatever gets to you, whatever you get to allow
corruption a household name by now.
talking heads are just the messengers
of the message we wish to share
ritually updated to the ways of the world:
one-sided, cross-eyed, myopic
a reality not grasped in its entirety.
do you care, dear viewer?
it is that time of the day to start unwinding anyway.
do you care, dear viewer?
all of the shocking and none of the feeling.
we are after boiling blood
of blue-fire morbid.
[[[AND NOW WITH THE WEATHERMAN]]]
poem by Chris Jelens
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Pause-Still
as you hold yourself back—
nor will i have you as intended,
for in remembrance
are you preserved best
(usually better than the real thing) .
there is something
(overbearing)
about small talk.
because the taxidermy
of you,
with a certain gesture
of you,
in a certain position
of you,
mouthing the right words
has proven to be a safeguard
vs.
your draining immediacy
(in your deconstruction
have i
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Goosebump Enlightenment
she would hang them by the shelves,
lined-up like trophies
symbolizing surgical disasters
the freak show that is her masterpiece;
a jar collection of abortions
for the love of art.
she adored the attention
jaw-droppings, twisting faces, blank stares, flopping bodies
moans, scuffs, sighs, grunts, pants
she felt like a goddess
going against nature by mere will.
cursed through the ranting of the unborn
nibbled on by the information age
bored and anxious generation
withdrawn, alienating culture
ever shrinking, apathetic.
we have lost our sensibilities
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Of Stabbings Deepest
in a yearning profound, creeping deep within
an ache, intangible, flushes my skin
swept through its current of associations vague
my heart beset with the looming of a plague
as glimpses of my surroundings corrode
drowned by the flashes of a deathly untold
introducing themselves as mere daydreams
these most strenuous, utterly silent screams.
and I was gone for a while there, I was.
over ancient gilded arousals am I to cherish,
when what pertains now has yet to perish?
and if the ironic has dawned not
lest I awaken to the fact being taught:
nostalgia hovers below, like a cloud-shaped ghost
it lurks, solemnly, in the abyss of a remembering
for any frail soul, ruminant, desperately longing to host
through sapping subside; the prolongation of its haunting.
poem by Chris Jelens
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In The Labelling
labeling is an art form
a breathing for every breath taken away
a laxative for every comprehension constipated
demanding bite-sized of big-picture menacing
stamping caricature on white canvas uncertain.
pointing the whore out of a lover,
the hedonist out of a masochist,
the lunatic out of a genius,
the slave out of a businessman,
the monster out of a patriot.
apparently.
when persona riddles appropriated
for an unburdening from cloak obscure
through blindness claiming sight restored
playing pretend out of blows low
labeling is an art form.
pointing to the fatherless in a whore,
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poem by Chris Jelens
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The Connection
as our birthmarks submersed
into a welter of appliances,
human innateness, interspersed
amid the plastic grievances.
has fleshly caress become obsolete
when it forsook itself in a texting?
mankind intertwined with a greet,
through bonds perplexing.
when presences afar
are civilizations to arise,
built upon an abstract tar
oozing from great compromise
through light-emitting diodes
where globalized sight abodes,
in the virtualization of actual
henceforth, the actualization of virtual.
for when sky became the limit
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Cool
shortcomings lauded desirable in the absence of attempt
an air of pretense, ever denying so
working on the abandon of the abandonment that defines you proper.
containment of passions contained unamused
a claim to substance, ever with style
anxious to bypass the anxiousness that defines you proper.
humble, humbled not
the cool refuses to cool down.
reflections reflecting heeded criticism
a lack of opinion, ever so opinionated
concealing the castrated bravado that defines you proper.
the spirit of a punk dwells in an apathy
unconcerned to concerning itself,
not unlike the sloppiness of aging
past rotten accounting—
not unlike the naivete of a child
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poem by Chris Jelens
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Enough
what are you but a pebble in a shoe?
what are you but hair on a plate?
what are you but coughs during a piano concert?
what are you but spilled wine on a wedding dress?
what are you but that same hair stuck in throat?
the subsequent gagging…
you have been the bane of my existence for the past decade or so.
but now is the time, boy
to detach lips from nipples
to swear off milk
muting the unruly roar of passions askew
coming to understand the meaning of the word
no.
no more blushes in your bowings
no more kicking the cans
doing because, doing because.
but now is the time, brat
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poem by Chris Jelens
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