Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Poetry Compilation 2

Monument

Our wish to travel the buildings,
Old of pavement,
New of blood,
Comes to boil, only after salting,

We orbit brick bastions,
Pylons of wood and glass,
Who rise to soak in the heat of
Summer.
And resist the blister of
Winter.

Tires, footsteps, leave a city,
To take their time in trip,
They ask us, “When can we talk…
…with a face?”
To make a clearer connection.

Walls of ever stretching spired glass dissolve,
To wander outside the blind clutch,
The relentless resolve of those,
Those uptown clowns,

Our wish fades now, my unborn daughter’s
Sun-bleached blanket waves in the breeze
The thick, accented purr of
Motors, will surely lull her to sleep,
After a trawl beyond the city we knew.


On a Lovely Day, The Zoo Suffers

Dropping angry red tears
The sun peeks, from clouded sky,
Shy, testing the patience of
The world, we knew and loved

Strike not a woman but a mailbox, quite fast,
A torn hand not for striking steel,
But from gripping the wheel of the past

Just to eat can do so wrong

The neighbors will see, but we do not,
Instead, we just struggle here
Wrestling, for lack of fear

Did I win? I cannot tell,
She leaves with the pace of the wind
Cool faced, trembling hands,
Please, all of this I can’t stand,

Yes, I know that I am rage
Sun is so very warm
But she
Does not go home.

Her choice is a mystery
My acceptance, too easy
She stole me from me, a lot of things
And the warlord within
Remembers them.

Her eyes are soft with sorrow
The sunset soft with pride
I ramble a broken chorus
She laughs inside her mind

And tells me, this, she’s heard before,
But the breeze tells her anew,
And that she knows what she must do
And so she remains true,

But why do you talk this way?
Of things we don’t understand?
Around us day grows older
And we heed its gentle warning

But something in us has changed
Something, dark and cold
But who am I to say, if we have gotten old

I worry for who I became that day
A man I do not know
A strange and angry child,
Lost inside a store

I hope he finds peace some day
And that she, does too,
Perhaps I once loved her,
Perhaps she even knew

And that is how I know for sure
That we are dead and gone
A silence hangs
Before us

And we sing a sad old song

Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

I remember things I shouldn’t,
Dates of Byzantine decay,
All the Lies I’ve told.
The stink of Kerosene,
On a thieves’ breath.
I remember days I was never present for,
Countless weeks spent thoughtless,
Binges,
Masked with the morality of mundanity,
I remember the glitter of the chandelier
And tilting my head side-to-side
To see the entire Rainbow.

Who knew I would find myself here?
You did
But I could not even foresee
Your tomorrow
A scam, we played, with nicotine patches,
To trick the eyes of our masters
(or perhaps just yours)
Our reward, only time and,
A little pocket money

Never come back here, blood,
This place is twisted and dull
An airport of dust
Corny magazines, dead friends,
Never would I threaten you
Only beseech you, leave
And never return

Fly safe to elsewhere
Anywhere
Warmer or colder
Go, brother,
Go, winter bird,
Go.



Who Goes To Breed

Well swap my blood for something better,
Formalin, Formaldehyde, sulfates of morphine or even butter

Over-prescribed to feel like we aren't dying,
But can I ask the expert panel,
How long can I expect to survive?
Symptoms included a sour taste in my throat
And a smell worth scrutiny,
Stuck to my coat

Which one is barely alive, a hundred facts
And one’s a lie
A whistling on the horizon,
Signals the darkening skies.

A rhyme to die by
A pill to live by
Tiny mouth-missile, but
The panel promises us
“Feel like you can fly”

Passive eyes with tiny holes
Fall asleep on their way to the drugstore

Strike me with a sack of pennies
Who hasn’t prayed for a little copper before
Coinstar, Kroger, next to the Denny’s
A desperate grab at the store
To hold close that ultimate, bloodsucking
Whore

Barely alive, we hide our blisters,
Welts, holes picked opened,

So what happens when man and substance
Collide
And by your friend’s accounts you really should have
Died

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Poetry Compilation 1



A Riddle to Solve

Behold this great beast!
Born of Earth and Man
To shudder, shake, slide, and screech.
Encased in armor, strong yet hollow,
His organs lie above and below, snapping and crackling with bolts of life and fire,
Demanding sacrifice.

Under the soil he reigns, faster than most wheels
Eyes bright and unseeing, mouth large, hinged, menacing
Inviting the practical to enter
But he is stunted, imprisoned in the tunnels dug for him, unable to ever leave
His tunnels, a regal display, royal halls stretch for days
Mysterious clicking mechanisms bring him to a warm boil
But comfort roosts far from here.
He eats wastefully, energy burnt to serve others, others who use him.
Pray that he never meets another of his kind

Hark! The beast calls
His siren proud as the fire of his eyes
A wail comes from him as he stops before us,
Mouth open, opportune, and hopeful
To drag us to places we rarely wish to be



Cigarettes, Porn, Guns


I am the black mirror
Buzzing, din, bathe in my brick soaked melody
Hollow carpet, plastic moon
Who else knows what I do?
I am the seller of velvet milk
Builder of a great and long brevity chain
I am the melter of truth-paint
I slam the anger door open
I am television


 

Lament of the Alternator in Adolf’s Volkswagen

Look upon me, and say you feel no pity
For the task I was made,
My father bid me, do!
And so I do
Yet the man I carry
Cares not for my electric finesse,
But only for wipers that work on command

And command he does
For I move for him his legions
And keep their lighters hot
For I have not a choice in this
If I could resist, and if he could
Have me shot, I’m sure he would

Do not envy me, dynamo of old
Perhaps I replaced you, but despite combustion
The top is cold
I give and give, charged copper speaks in glorious light
But my master’s interest
Seems to be steeped in fights

My oblong piston, doomed to spin
For my maker bade me, as though on a whim,
Could he not consider my dreams?
A future, I envision, in steel and silicon
An engine of fission,
Or a perhaps a cosmic mission
But all this will vanish
To be no more
And leave me like the dynamo
Should I be remembered,
Not for my splendor,
My dense, iron mystery
My long, earthen history,

But for this pale rider
Whose men demand a hot lighter
 

Peter is a Monster

I find myself lost, where is this?
A far and strange place, found through fog
There is youth here,
Youth remembers
I’ll ask them where this is and home, I’ll go
My cane catches, crinkles, cracks, against
Branches billows, brambles, and roots of willows
The boys scorn me
They sneer, laugh
A fine cane, you have, old man!
They say,
An old man, how odd!
They exclaim,
Hook’s husband, no doubt
They crow,
And leave, flying bravados
No help were these youth, I find
Youth who can fly?

In this land greener than my lawn
In the distance a forest
Thicker than the fog
Through which I walked this morning

Through these dense woods I stumble, cane first, legs uncertain
Never had a walk in the woods been so surreal
Not since I was a boy
Thirteen, maybe less, maybe more
Beyond a ridge to the west
Between the trees and the hours spent
A kiss first received

But then I walked home, and I walked smiling
Now I walk away, and it is harsh
My bones cannot do this as they once did
My body cannot stand as it once did
What do I crave, more than what those boys owned
Flight? No.
Youth
Yes youth
To walk these woods, in comfort
In joy
And to fit into this,
This never-ever-ever land.



Good Luck Nicholas

Cast view into the harbor
You will see
The victim of the militant machine
Named by Italians
Built by man alone,
In any place where he is

Malignant sight,
His body found stripped,
Bled out in water, before he could drown
His kinsmen, an ancient tradition, say

Bavarian nightmare!
Beer bombing badge
Swollen, water-logged reality.

The march of his children
Cold mean, special gold club
Sharp suits, brown costumes,

Hundreds rise to take his face,
His beard, his clothes.

Mommys go shopping, snow speckled
Daddys go chopping, snow dappled
Elysian shellac,
Slicking back black hair
Of rosy cheeked salesmen,
Or a crooked faced cop on the watch,
Murderer, collector of slaves,
For the afterlife only.

Burn down our false heaven,
Maritime borders collapse into plastic trinkets,

A dead figurehead, a live one,
To march to the mall,
And demand our rights

Laughed at, spurned, burned
And turned around
Tear gas and mistletoe gets me down,
Let’s collapse into cheap rhyme and say,
Fuck this, let’s go home
And just watch Charlie Brown.

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All works by Daniel Kushnir is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.