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  • Author: Gene Wheeler

Ugly Baby:

We made something together
Something putrid
An Ugly Baby that we left on the side of the road
Out of our hate, our confusion
We gave birth to monsters
Arguments, deceit, dishonesty, abuse
We pushed out our Ugly Baby with all the pain in the world
Fights, condescension, madness
We pushed out our little bundle of shame
Shocked when it came screaming back with yellow wretched eyes and tongue
We had to run
Far, far away from our Ugly Baby
Far, far away from the heavy load that we left on the side of the road
Late at night
Though you are now so far away
I hear our Ugly Baby crying to the stars
Love starved
Wondering where we are

The Cynics:

Fuck all you cynics who think happiness is cheesy
That joy is far too breezy to sustain your misery
Fuck you dumbmouthed cynics who kill yourselves slowly
In love with feeling lowly and too good to feel good
I’ve seen your self-served agony, your fashionable hate
The venom in your righteousness, the too-much-on-your-plate
The way you crap your loneliness everywhere you go
And stink up dreams that could have been before you blocked their flow
Your faithlessness, your victimhood, the pessimistic lie
That you’re too thick to feel the prick of beauty in your eye
I know a child has made you smile, a song has made you cry
I know a touch turned you to mush, a kiss has made you sigh
I too was once too scared to fail to ever even try
But now each time love passes by, I always say hello

The Art of Make Believe:

When I was a little girl, I liked to pretend
I lived in an imaginary castle with my make believe friend
And though they thought it strange, I swore I’d never change
I vowed to be a dreamer ‘til the end

Those days of innocence have left and time has relished in his theft
And my imaginary friend has moved away
Since the day she fled, I wrote her letters in my head
Hoping she would make it back someday

But there are debtors to be paid and big decisions to be made
People to impress, things to achieve
Though I’ve practiced it so much, I guess I must have lost my touch
I’m rusty in the world of make believe

The only thing I know is when I start to feel alone,
I go out to a very grown-up place
And drink that bitter drink that helps me not to think
Even though I might not like the taste

And sometimes when I drink too much, I feel this spinning in my head
And sometimes I don’t make it home and wake up in a stranger’s bed
He wraps him arms around my waist and then I get that bitter taste
It’s the fragile moment that I dread

But I think back to those early days, each time becoming more amazed
How rapidly the memory is retrieved
I stroke his unfamiliar face and smile to join his vile embrace
Remembering the art of make believe

Something Ordinary:

Your innocence bores me.

Your childish chesire-cat-grin-fingertongues
Stumbling on my skin
Are too eager to please.

I’m lying stiff and unbending
Pretending not to notice the
GRABBY PAWS
You cannot keep from my nectarineflesh

And your hunger?
Gives me indigestion.

Not that is isn’t wonderful to be a woman
But what use I am selling sexwine to a boy
When he suckles it like candy and leaves me dry?

For once I would like to be something ordinary,
Not some kind of new technology
An unexplained phenomenon.

Something old and useful
Your raggedy blanket
Your favorite book.

Music:

God,
Bright, unleashed in to the sun
God,
Fiery in my soulpit

Reaches through me
Into bowls of music

Cries tears so hot with happiness
And feels my pain so sweet with hope

That all the children in my cells
In my blood
Weep in son

Muse:

My muse is hot
She comes down to fuck me with ideas
Hornyangelbitchpunkpoet that she is
She gives me wetbrain
I’d fuck her every night if she’d only open
Her legs lips hips
Creative cunt
She makes me hunt her rhythms and rhymes
Grinds her ass-shaking music through my mind
Teases me with
tits of sweet slang
Rubs linguistic lotions, poetic potions
Makes me pant and dance with semantics
My hot, sweating hand getting frantic as I write
I chase her every night ‘til 3 a.m.
She makes me cum
Again and again

In a Parked Car:

How many times have I sat
Crying in a parked car?
Weeping, bawling, banging my fist against the steering wheel
Feeling everything and going no where
How many times?
How many times did we fight in that parked car?
Trying to reach some understanding but failing
Feeling the heavy words bounce
From door to door
ear to ear
Hoping they’d disappear into the backseat somewhere
How many times?
How many times have I sat outside your house
frozen
As if in a photograph
Waiting in a parked car
Trying to get to where you are
Never knowing how to release the brake
Never knowing how to accelerate?

Day Job:

Jarring, jabbing, groping, grabbing
Slowly slipping
Half alive
Suffering the sameness of mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursdayfriday
9 to 5
Oppressed by the mindtricking, ticktocking Lockness Monster of time
Oppressed by the two…three…four ‘o clockness
Almost five, almost five ‘o clockness
Trudging the mudslide of minutes
The mockery of time
The memory of freedom
The rancid meat of incompleteness
Harboring in my mindless mind
Why?
When my veins pump music
A factory of God
A symphony of bone and blood and breath
And everyday this death of dreams asleep
Should I tell the melodies and muses to leave their numbers at the beep?