Tuesday, May 29, 2012

My Baby

You look into my eyes, giggle brightly
Squirming to run your own game
Pulling the reluctant kitten by the fuzzy tail
Finding that dusty cracker underneath the couch

It’s my baby
You baby
One baby
Cry baby

You don’t know that my heart ticks ragged
Beats of hopeful, fantasy futures
Strokes of genius, sparks of brilliance
I have my dreams and you are swept up

It’s my baby
You baby
Two baby
Sigh baby

Muted bravery when you can’t understand
Tired and weak, older by necessity
Eyes telling me, of all people, it will be okay
Cries for sadness so deep, I can’t overcome

It’s my baby
You baby
Three baby
High baby

Let’s hold hands for just a moment
Let’s eat the rhythm of the land
Let’s crinkle our noses in miracle and disbelief
Let’s make this beautiful time, the kind that counts


You’re my baby
You baby
Four baby
More baby

© 2010 Crowley

Sunset Overdone

Everything has been said about the sunset, right?
Babes crying in unison for their mothers nipple
She is in an alley in Coyacan chasing dragons
Making friends of husbands and loners, this is her hour
As the suns angry orange orb melts an entire island on the far side of the bay

Everything has been said about the sunset, right?
The boy learned a new futbol' move today, and waited to show it off
In the distance his fathers fishing boat sinks in rough seas
The wind is no help in keeping the ocean out of his ears
A viloent red sunset screams his fathers death proudly, setting the water on fire

Everything has been said about the sunset, right?
Hiding in the bushes, the old woman clutches a knife to her breast
Dimentia making visions into epic nightmares, where is everyone she knows?
The sillouette of the killer in the setting sun stalking her eyes, blade at ready
It is merely her husband, searching for her in a sunset that is boiling his tears

Everything has been said about the sunset right?
The sound of murder and betrayal carries far into the dark corners
As sunset burns images into the nights milky blind eyes
And the sun waits patiently to rise again and try and make things right
But what of the wrongs of the night before, do we forgive so easily?

Open your eyes child and let in the light quickly....for sunset is coming soon

© 2010 Crowley

Fever in A Third World Fashion

In the throes of dangerous lucid dreams
The infection for freedom burned deep between twitching muscles
Travel by day on this road to your grave
Not knowing that the last minutes are those firework images
Surrounded by the movie show that begs reality to go home

The war, waged on two fronts, both showing mass casualties
Hearts burst by hobnail boots and they are filled with white hot pus
You did this to my people, you have the medicine
And still you stand on balsawood principles, deciphering worth and measure
Quoting "Slice of Life" vignettes from your stupid book with bloody pages

Look up you rotten bastards and see your fate
Drive that barge straight to the gates of hell and knock confidently
And when you are consumed by the boiling water
Lift your hands high so that I can pretend to grab them....weak fingers
And join the eternal regret, saved only for those who never really had a heart

And when the spirit wakes me from this fevered dream....?

© 2010 Crowley


It’s what makes a woman smell like a patisserie
Watching as hips tink from side to side enchanting my libido
That top, accentuating curves I long to trace with my eager fingers
A voice that cuts the din, the sound fairies wings make in flight, magical


It’s the wiggle and the jiggle while you brush your teeth, naked, watching mesmerized
Stirring thoughts of you walking away, dropping your clothes for the first time, nothing’s changed
The way I can pick you out in a crowd quickly, and it’s not just visual, I can smell you
The way a dog smells a mate in the next county, you live in my gut and my heart, instinctual


Looking down into my face, the sweat on your lip beading
A hidden level in Dante’s Inferno, one where the torture is lust, unpatrolled
And the rapture created by no means a punishment for uncontrolled desires, aching
I grasp at your flesh and squeeze, handfuls of compliant extremities, fingertips slipping


I look through your wall of flame and wonder how many times, before the heat consumes me
I look through your wall of flame and wonder if some day I will extinguish this feeling
I look through your wall of flame and it starts all over again
I can’t help myself, you are so fucking hot

© 2010 Crowley

Lessons in Brevity: Lesson 4 - The Wolf

I take my steaming supper on a granite shelf
The same one your grandma kept her clown collection on
I invited you to join me but you insisted that you were a vegetarian
Last week I saw you eat a chicken feathers and all, still warm
Lying only prolongs the inevitable, two kids and an old woman
Tomorrow I dine by candlelight, on your still twitching carcass
Not the way I wanted to dine together sweetheart
But your coldness makes you.... the fourth pig

© 2010 Crowley

Lessons in Brevity: Lesson 2 - The Flood

In the face of the flood
Only two male poets could be found
And ushered to the ark

They pretended to write beauty
But did they know of such things
Never having given birth

The world did the best they could
In light of the circumstances
After all, stars are beautiful too

Then she was born.....

© 2010 Crowley

Lessons in Brevity: Lesson 1 - Rabbit Punch

I punch you in the face
Everyone knows I kicked your ass
But superficial wounds heal....quickly

I punch you in the kidney
And the effect lasts much longer
Blood in the urine, hitch in your....giddyup

I punch you with my words
And you run screaming my name
The world listens and you make me....famous

© 2010 Crowley

The Alley


      She could barely make out the end of the alleyway, the cool night air causing steam to rise from a manhole located halfway down the alley drive. The lights from the street behind her created haloed images on the wet pavement giving the alleyway a Red Light District quality, a place where she normally wouldn’t be caught in the daytime let alone the night. But tonight, she felt strange. She pulled the paper from her pocket and double-checked the name scratched in black ink. It said The Rack. She squinted into the darkness and tried to read the letters on the doorway located in the dirty concrete wall at the end of the alley. She saw letters but couldn’t quite make them out. As she stepped deeper into the alleyway she became aware of a trembling in her thighs, her legs were like gelatin, as she stepped, she wondered if she would be able to keep her balance. A nervous energy coursed through her body. 

     She kept thinking back to this afternoon on the subway and the man who had handed her the paper. It was standing room only and he had settled in behind her. The first thing she noticed was the smell, it was like cologne only different, cleaner. It might have been soap or aftershave, whatever it was, the smell made her flush. As the subway rattled trough the dark tunnel, the lights in the passenger cabin flashed on and off she could feel the man moving with the rhythm of the train and the track, every time he moved forward she felt herself leaning back slightly not physically touching him, but mentally she could feel his form on hers. As she slowly rocked, she closed her eyes, god damn that smell she thought to herself breathing deeply, the intensity of his aroma making her a little dizzy.
      The man was tall, she could feel his presence towering over her slight frame, but not in a frightening way, in a consuming, enveloping way. She imagined his hands on her shoulder, her neck. She imagined herself wrapping her hair in her hand and moving it to the side as his caressed the back of her neck and shoulders. She tried to snap herself out of her fantasy world but in her mind, those hands drew her back into a warm, dark place, a safe place, a place where everything felt right and wrong and a little dangerous.
      She knew her stop was coming. She leaned slightly forward and slowly turned her head up to try and get a look at the man over her shoulder. As she did, the man lowered his gaze and leveled it squarely into hers. He didn’t really smile, although one corner of his mouth was slightly turned up in an expression that softened his otherwise masculine features. She nearly melted. He reached down and grabbed her hand placing a small slip of paper in it. She had trouble gripping it, her body limp, her skin damp with perspiration. She could feel heat rolling off the mans being, a kind of aura that wasn’t only almost visible, but that ebbed and flowed not with a rise and fall in his emotional intensity, but that rose and fell with the intensity of her feelings. He was like a current filling and at the same time robbing her body of every ounce of energy that she had.
      He leaned in towards her neck, if he was an axe murderer she would have been done because she couldn’t move. He brushed her hair back with fingers that were gentle and firm at the same time, moving the hair from away from her ear. He leaned in as if he were going to kiss her, instead he whispered in her ear “I’ve been watching you,” his warm breath in her ear causing a hard shiver to run through her body.
      The train came to a stop and the doors opened. The man gently returned her hair to its original position on her shoulder and walked off the train on to the loading platform, walking away without turning back. She finally took a breath; her body soaked, her energy gone, already unsure if what she thought happened, really just happened. It took all of her strength to raise her arm up from her side. She unfolded the piece of paper that he had handed to her, on it was an address and the words The Rack. She raised the piece of paper to her nose trying to get one last sense of his overwhelming aroma. She exited the train not sure if it was even her stop.
      As she approached the door she could clearly see the writing on it, kind of a cursive scrawl indicating that she was in the right place. As she reached for the door handle she could see how badly she was shaking, she drew her hand back and wiped it on the front of her brown, suede miniskirt. She reached for the handle again, and before she could grab it, the door began to swing open. The air that rushed at her through the open door was warm and wet, fogging her glasses so that everything was quite blurry at first. Before the lenses cleared, someone grabbed her hand and pulled her through the doorway, through a curtain and down a dark hallway. As the fog on her glasses cleared she could see another door in front of her.
      “Enter and have a seat with your back to the door, he’ll be right with you.” The voice was surreal, a mix between a small child’s voice and woman who has smoked too many cigarettes. But as she looked around she could see no one there. She pushed the door open and entered a small room, approximately ten foot square. There was a small black wooden stool in the center of the room. The room glowed a violent red from the red light bulb located in a stripped down light fixture in the center of the ceiling. There was nothing else. She sat down, the stool was too short for her to cross her legs in a ladylike fashion, instead she sat with her legs bent deeply, her knees resting on one another in a knock kneed sort of a way. Her miniskirt rode up and there was no real way for her cover the pink lycra panties that she was wearing beneath. She was having a hard time breathing, the air was almost hot, and the room was humid, a sheen of sweat already visible on the surface of her skin. She thought about getting back up and aborting the whole mission, adventure or not, this was a little creepy, but her memory of the man on the subway was too much, the promise of one more encounter was overwhelming, she had thought of almost nothing else all week.
      The hinges to the door squeaked behind her, she stiffened and straightened slightly. She started to turn to look when the aroma found her. She stopped, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, her senses started to vibrate at a much higher rate, and her heart began to beat wildly beneath her breasts. She no longer needed to see him. As he crossed the room she could feel the heat that he generated intensify as he got closer. The smell, his smell, was like a narcotic, making her mind go to places that she was sure that it had ever been before. He stopped just short of her back, she felt his hands slip around her waist, she took in a sharp breath, and her body shuddered. If he had stopped right there and left without a sound, she would have been more than satisfied, but he didn’t. With deftness and skill the man slipped his hands beneath her shirt sliding them around from her sides to her front stopping just short of her breasts. She stopped breathing all together, her body tensed in anticipation, but he didn’t touch them. Instead, he slid her shirt up and over her head in one swift motion catching not one hair or earring in the process. She began to breathe again, her bare chest and shoulders heaving with her erratic breaths. The man scooted closer and pressed himself into her bare back. It was then that she realized that he was completely nude, his semi erect penis laying next to her spine, starting at the midpoint of her back and extending to the top of her miniskirt. Her being was on fire, her senses overfull. She couldn’t think.
      She pushed back into him the sweat from both of their bodies a wonderful lubricant allowing her to slip and slide with ease and to feel every ridge, every protrusion, every pulse of blood. He bent over her, her head slid to the side and came to rest near his hip. She reached back with her hands and grabbed on to his firm ass and squeezed as hard as she could. He took his hands and put them on the inside of her thighs just above her knees and began to slowly and firmly run them along the inside or her thighs. When he got to the pink lycra panties, he lingered briefly, too briefly, his fingers tracing an outline of what lay beneath, she was on fire. His hands continued up and over the suede mini skirt and on to her stomach, her body began to hitch and she squeezed harder unaware of the sounds that she was making and unaware of the fact the he was totally silent. His hands continued and finally came to rest cupping the underside of her breasts. Her body contracted with an intensity that she had never thought possible, the pulsing of her orgasm causing her to lose control over her muscles, her hands slipped from him and she slid from the stool on to the floor.
      She couldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t catch her breath. She wanted to turn and see him but didn’t have the strength. She heard his footsteps as he headed toward the door.
      “Next time wear the denim shorts you bought at Macy’s,” he said in a dark, smooth voice, and he was gone. As she lay on the floor, the red glow made her feel vulnerable, She should have felt scared, but she didn’t. The only thing that she had the energy to think about was whether or not she had left the shorts, those shorts, at the gym or at her friend Stacy’s house. Either way, she knew she had to get them back, the sooner the better.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Rock Bottom

Cast into the pit, no more than a rusty metal bowl
To deep to claw and scratch my way to the top
My mind still sings her strangled lyrics
The siren song of a thousand bleeding orgasms

Bending fingernails until the yellowing gelatin snaps
Using them to cut deep, dripping black thoughts and paranoia
The result as desired, the odor of stinking synapse wafts up
The smell of a need to reason for release, he smells it

His smallish head appears at the top of the pit…beaming
Roundish glasses, smart ass intellect….prying
Clown like hair and caved in chest….lonely
Smile at the corners of his thick and drying lips….smacking

You have hit rock bottom my friend I can no longer help you
He drops a mass of quivering flesh and a bottle of Valium
Cry yourself to sleep, bathe in the feces of a lack of self control
I am your Montresor and you show up in jesters motley

I wipe the stew from my own brow….stinking
My squarish not attractive jaw line…clenching
The foulness of my hatred and bitter thoughts….reeking
The salvation of a final thought…triumphant

I stare at the sullied drainage grate in the middle of the pit
And spit
I smile at my Montresor and squint
Eyes brimming

It seems that you are mistaken
But it happens to the best
I close my eyes and slip into smoke, wisping down the grate
I had not hit rock bottom after all

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Raining Hope

She spewed a litany of grace and character
Ironing out the wrinkled souls of the masses
They bowed and prayed to her, yes, for love
But mostly for mere creature comforts, money and sex
One, two - look at yourself in the mirror girl
Three, four - I can't, I can't.....I won't
Five, six - you created this mess dear
Seven, eight - go away, I'm sick
Fuck nine and ten, I'm not getting through
Her mind was coming apart at the seams
Once righteous, now raging, turgid synapses
Blood behind her eyes, she had to tell the truth
Two seconds and ten grains later, on national television
She did.....

Monday, May 7, 2012

Cold Snap

Stephen Morath - Placita Nevada Outdoor

I am a fan of Stephen Morath's work and wrote small series of poems using his paintings and the lyrics from songs as inspiration.  This one uses his work Placita Nevada Outdoor and Simon and Garfunkel .

A Winters day 
In a deep and dark December

If the snow covered last seasons blisters
Cooling and calming autumns blazing cacophony
With a hint of death and dormant vagrancy
Then the cold is the blackest tango partner, stepping brusquely

I've built walls
A fortress deep and Mighty

The luminaries make palaces of our adobe hovels
Burning crowns topping castle walls made for storing love and light
Stepping lightly on soft and insulating Indian weave
A tempting lilt for sensitive toes tapping

Don't talk of love
Well, I've heard the word before

She could be seen through the thin veil of warbled glass window, backlit
Busying herself in the kitchen, warm, yellow
Looking from my window I could feel the shelter
Of her heavy bosom and gentle hand easing fears

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me

The biscuits ready and crisped to a golden hue
Custom built for the addition of sweet cream butter and raspberry jam
She motions to me to come over and share, soulful brown eyes glitter
Boots already on, I trip on the laces and forget to grab my jacket

I am a rock
I am an Island

A cold, morning trip home is a small price to pay

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


Creation minds the fort like a seasoned bitch
Watching your impish moves like a fat security guard
Who hates your guts and waits patiently in the shadows
For you to step lively out of line, he screams the rules

Back to your place, wannabe
Show me your face, wannabe
It shines it's light cruelly
On your festering weakness

Creation sits on your head like a fifteen year old brother
Suffocating your lines, the ones you scratched in blood
Your ode to a long lost love, the one that will bring down the house
Sits awkwardly in the public eye, withering from lack of interest

This is the case, wannabe
You lost the race, wannabe
It snickers behind the back
Your confidence hopelessly grounded

Creation has to be manhandled like grandmas hope chest
Lugged up three flights of stairs and perfectly placed
Holding the secrets that you will let fly on your time
Spanked thoroughly with an open hand, sexy, rose colored hand prints

This is your space, wannabe
Pick up the pace, wannabe
You win the staring contest
When creation can't keep up with you

© 2011 Crowley

Black Water

She was from the black water
Wrong side of the tracks
South side of a nowhere town
Why is the bad side always the south side?

She wore pants, tough pants, Dickies
Pounded new territory in old army brogans
Only one piercing, but shit, it counted
Why is more than one piercing so tough?

She struck fear into the hearts of skinny bitches
Never even had to open her two toned lipstick mouth
Making gelatinous pools of average house wives and prom queens
Why can't they stay out of the black water?

She met me in a coffee shop in North Beach
I picked up the lighter she dropped
We sat and had diet lattes'
Why me? she could have snapped me like a twig

We went swimming in the black water, perfectly matched

© 2010 Crowley

If Jesus Wrote a Poem

For the lack of a better comparison
It would be like the executioners chair
Rabid for truth, beauty and justice
But sad in it's ugly simplicity
You are looking at Nirvana's face
But you can't seem to pull the trigger

Roll on three........

© 2011 Crowley