Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #10) by DeYtH Banger (books to get back into reading txt) 📖

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

Sometimes in our sleep we touch
The body of another woman
And we wake up
And we know the first nights
With summer visitors
In the three storied house of our childhood.
Whatever we remember,
The darkest hair being brushed
In front of the darkest mirror
In the darkest room.   

The Wolves

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

 

at night while the dogs
were barking
Baby Gauge and I crawled under the fence
with knives
we made out like the rattlesnake melons
were men we didn’t like
the new moon ones were wolves
I would cut a belly this way
he would cut a belly that way
the flies
came around the sweet juice
it was blood to us
we tasted it we licked it off the blades
we decided not to kill the wolves
we wanted to be wolves
we stuck the knives in the ground
the moon shined on them
we turned the pilot caps inside out
so the fur would show
that way when we crawled
under the bob wire
a little piece would get caught
we wouldn’t though
we wanted to leave trails
but no scents
we tore the melons open we licked the blood off our paws
we wanted to be wolves
and in the morning all those dead men
with their hearts eat out

What About This

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

 

A guy comes walking out of the garden
Playing Dark Eyes on the accordian.
We’re sitting on the porch,
Drinking and spitting, lying.
We shut our eyes, snap our fingers.
Dewhurst goes out to his truck
Like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing
And brings back three-half-pints.
A little whirlwind occurs in the road,
Carrying dust away like a pail of water.
We’re drinking serious now, and O.Z.
Wants to break in the store for some head cheese,
But the others won’t let him.
Everybody laughs, dances.
The crossroads are all quiet
Except for the little man on the accordian.
Things are dying down, the moon spills its water.
Dewhurst says he smells rain.
O.Z. says if it rains he’ll still make a crop.
We wait there all night, looking for rain.
We haven’t been to sleep, so the blue lizards
On the side of the white porch
Lose their tails when we try to dream.
The man playing the music looks at us,
Noticing what we’re up to. He backs off,
Holding up his hands in front, smiling,
Shaking his head, but before he gets half way
Down the road that O.Z. shoots him in the belly.
All summer his accordian rotted in the ditch,
Like an armadillo turning into a house payment.

Part 3

 Watch: How Zoology Disproves Noahs Flood by Aronra (Youtube)

Weariness of Men

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

 

My grandmother said when she was young
The grass was so wild and high
You couldn’t see a man on horseback.

In the fields she made out
Three barns,
Dark and blown down from the weather
Like her husbands.

She remembers them in the dark,
Cursing the beasts,
And how they would leave the bed
In the morning,
The dead grass of their eyes
Stacked against her.

The Truth

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

Nicanor Parra

 

I’m not going to lie
Through my teeth to you
Like the poets from Minnesota,
The South, and the West,
And New York City.

Most of all in life
I would like to fuck a thirteen-year-old again,
And I don’t have any hesitations
About saying I’d rather be Marlon Brando
Than I would T. S. Eliot, etc.

I have more respect for Muhammad Ali
Than any other living man.
Of course I’ve tried Esquire,
But my shoes aren’t platforms
And I don’t know shit about canoes.

Although I can’t prove it,
Most poets work for the highway dept.
There are more of them than there are
Flies and engineers.
And I stink like a dead mule under an overpass.

The Arkansas Prison System

 BY FRANK STANFORD

 

 

Is like a lyric poem
with seven basic themes
first the cottonpicker
dragging behind it a wagon of testicles
a pair of pliers which can fill in
for a cross in a pinch
then there is the warm pond
between the maiden’s thighs
next we have some friends
of yours and mine
who shall be with us always
Pablo the artist
the pubis of the moon
Pablo the cellist
panther of silence
Pablo the poet
the point of no return
and in case of emergency
the seventh and final theme
of this systematic poem
is the systematic way
death undresses in front of you

Cold Dark Corner

 by Blake Duffy

 

 

 

There's a cold dark corner
in the back of my room,
it speaks to me
and says I'm coming for you.

As I lie on my bed
in the fetal position,
my eyes are closed
hoping and wishing.

Maybe that one day
my dreams will come true,
that I don't have to be here
so down and blue.

The corner keeps talking
about how I'm going to die,
all I can do
is lie there and cry.

As the corner gets closer
and takes me in,
my soul starts to burn
as so does my skin.

My bones shall lie there
turning to dust,
my bed surrounding
nothing but rust.

I Will Wear Masks

 by Joe Dirt

 

 

In times of trouble and insanity
I carry masks to disguise
the pain I carry
secure behind my eyes

I can never let out again
the misery I hide
to hell with my dignity
to hell with my pride

from this day forward
and for ever more
I will mount this mask
that will be my lore

No reaching out when I am weak
no solace will I seek

when you look for answers
when you say your prayers
all you will see is masks
and no pain that I bare.

Burn The Beauty

 by Elizabeth McCrorie

 

 

One does not own beauty,
One creates it.
In their dreams
They feel they can obtain it.

All alone, in a dark nights 
rest.
All their thoughts.....
Lifeless.

Cursed by change
Hidden by lies,
Running from the truth
Beauty now dies.

They don't understand
They don't really care.
Beauty now burns
Smoke in the air.

Years go by
And age seeps in.
Beauty's worn out
Life is giving in.

Death creeps up,
Beauty now cries.
You're all alone
In your beautiful lies!