UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 11/2012

FRANKIE METRO

Giving Meaning to the Murder

I will crumble you
in the last pages
describing failed suicide attempts
& disillusions
with the condition of your mother,
then burn the edges,
toss you into the gravel,
smother you
in a stifled, crisp wad
of no regrets
& listen for the song
your body makes
as it sizzles
against all
unheeded warnings
&
unattainable love.


On Pedigree Breeding

You were 4,
before
you could probably
read a newspaper,
and 6
before
you knew that a
King Edward's cigar box
held a milieu
of ivory- handled pocket
knives,
but nothing you could smoke.

You were 9
when you couldn't
kill the squirrel,
and 14 when the youngest
of 3 siblings
brought home
his first mounted
set of
deer antlers.

You were 15
when they first
scolded you
about sexual desire,
taking you all the
way back
to when you were
7,
and they barked
because you kept
your right hand
down your pants
constantly.

You were 16
when they found
condoms
in the glove box
of a Ford Tempo,
which you found
fucking hilarious
because you didn't
even use them
when you lost your
virginity to a girl
you hardly knew
in a HUD approved
apartment,
with the lights out
in the living room,
and the borrowed
5th of gin
teetering on the
arm of a couch
where you both
hid,
out of respect for
her mother.

You were 22,
when you heard she
o'ded
on Roxy's,
and you thanked someone
that it didn't happen
in the same
HUD approved
apartment
out of respect
for her mother.

(but what about her kids?)

You were 29,
when you first prayed
your parents
would be buried
faces down,
asses up
in a coffin
way too far away
for you to concern
yourself with,
and if it happened to you
first,
then it goes without
saying...


Was it starch or stark?

W/ his mouth wired shut
& a trach hole
bordered by
fences of weathered medical
tape,
all Tyhese could really say
when I asked how
he's feeling
was a grunt or 2
& a heavy dribble on
his chin
that no one would wipe
away-
indicating he was
not one for sympathy
& that I should lighten
the fuck up,
relax,
because this shit was
"hilarious!"
for real,
look at him,
3 bullet holes
(1 in the jaw,
1 in the shoulder,
&1 in the neck)
all over a q/p
of press,
that he was going
to sell as fluff
anyway.
Some of us are marks
like that,
one's that buy
into bullshit
hype & we get
distracted by empathy
& bandages,
while others
just laugh
through
the wires in their teeth
& dress up like mummies
whether it's Halloween
or not.


Frankie Metro just choked a narcissist on the front porch. It was no guillotine or rear naked. He reviews books and music for Unlikely Stories Episode IV and his latest chapbook: The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry is now available from Crisis Chronicles Press.







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