UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/DOUG DRAIME


	UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY

DOUG DRAIME

5 In The Morning & Dying

I kill the ants
in the basin,
running their death
off my fingers
with pure castile soap.

The sun has caught
me in this
murderous state
far too many
mornings..

In this stoned murderous
condition:
10 cups of instant
coffee, 4 joints, a quart of beer, & several
bennies-
I know I’m
no where near the Light. The ants
know it too, as they resurrect &
crawl up my wall & then ascend
into Ceiling Heaven, shaking
their ugly monster heads

Rural American Saga

His mommy
told him
to take
daddy’s
shot gun
and shoot
daddy in
the stomach
with one
barrel and
shoot him
in the head
with the
other
barrel.

He did as
his mommy
told him
and he
watched the
blood sputter
with the first
shot to
daddy’s
stomach
and he
watched his daddy
clutch his
stomach, falling
onto the kitchen table
then the floor

He aimed
and shot his
daddy’s head
and watched
his daddy’s
brains splash out
on the black & white
checkered
linoleum.

His mommy
helped him
drag his
daddy’s
conscious
but barely
alive body out
to the
barnyard
where mommy
stabbed his
daddy with a
hunting knife
20 times,
one for every
year of their
marriage

What She Said On The Phone When
She Was Too Drunk To Stop Crying

Her face haunts me still,
with its near
perfection,
a cross between
Greta Garbo and
Grace Kelly.
But her heart
was ravaged
by bitterness,
by dysfunction.
Her betrayals calculated
attacks just for
the hell of it.
Her constant deceptions
and games
destroyed any feelings
I had had for her
and I sent her packing
only a couple months
after she’d moved in.
Hollywood wanted to
make her
a star, but she chose
being a whore
instead: a dominatrix
with leather, chains
and elaborate whips.
She got most of her trade
through the personal ads
in the Los Angeles Free Press
She was doing 2 or 3 freaks a day
And In the face of
each one, she saw the eyes
of her
drunk and abusive father
And with each lash
of the whip, she thought,
death to you, you fucking bastard,
her bitter, salty tears
flooding the wounds,
like embalming fluid
Death to you, you letch,
you drunk.