Saturday, September 29, 2012

Traces of Trio

For the Real Toads Sunday Mini Challenge....I can handle three, maybe not well, so be easy on me.

Playing Misty

She was a precious vapor trail
Too light to love completely
But I did, evenly and without remorse


Acting on insider information
I ate whatever was left of your tortured life
And created fields of violent red poppies


In aspen the women shop in furs
And curse the tourists face
While pocketing their blood, sweat and tears

Thursday, September 20, 2012


The tell tale thud of certain and excruciating circular death
The air was sucked from the universe one missing breath after another
The smell of ozone and radiation intoxicated, clearing her mind
Mixed sharply with the taste of candied fear, poured from beautiful desperation

Ashes to ashes my father
Drink in the possibilities of fate
Loosen your grip on dear children
And do not temper justice out of emotional convention

She sat on the stoop, eyes closed and dreaming in harsh pastel colors
She devoured the emotional electricity of the city on the brink
A million children asking why, shut up and let me in quickly
Focus dear ones on the beauty of the still wired moment, conscious death

Ashes to ashes my father
Drink in the possibilities of fate
Loosen your grip on dear children
And do not waste precious energy in regret

As the invisible wave rolled on, feeding on primordial pain, quenching
She gathered the fear and locked it in momentary suspension and smiled
War is not real, not the way this universal speck has packaged it
She ate from the depth of the soul and its relationship to mother

Ashes to ashes my father
Drink in the possibilities of fate
Loosen your grip on dear children
Litter our hearts with a more precious understanding

With a whisper that thundered, she released her grasp and bowed her head
Sweet cacophony and unbridled epiphany filled the vacuous void
Pain shattered mid air and clattered to the clay in splendid shards of grace
And the pathetic ghosts of death danced lightly among her people, relieved

Ashes to ashes my father
Drink in the possibilities of fate
Loosen your grip on dear children
Let one be the voice of the many through telling eyes

Mother let the unrepentant tide of dysfunction starve completely
And hold me to your perfect breast until the morning has suckled wisdom
Brushing the hair of the fates, one hundred strokes with razor blade brushes
Allowing new growth and a look into the eyes of lucid understanding

Ashes to ashes my father…..

© 2011 Crowley

The King of Butter

I awoke with a message for my love
Carried safely on an azure pillow made of crepe
On a crimson note, two words dashed in ink

Remember me

And you might if you dream of romance and water
Giving away your daily concerns for those that capture
A life worth living and then some, drink hastily and don’t spill
For the drop that misses your lips may be the one

That lubricates

And if by morning time the birds arrange for a meeting of the minds 

Do not let them speak gravely of my soul in South America
The summer heat is no match for the fire in my heart, melting
I am the king of butter, and I will drip fiercely
Between the cracks of your toasty thoughts, spreading nicely

With purpose

So sing with all that you have and dismiss if you must
This call to my side and settle into your curse
But I will tell you once more, that this side has weight
And over spilled wine and silky paella with scallops
You may be able to find in my eyes what you have missed so long
And enjoy the richness of a touch of butter churned for you

The queen

(©2011 Corey Rowley)

Friday, September 14, 2012


For Laurie's challenge on Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads....
Terse, hearse, worse, damnable
The words flowed like hardened paste on to million dollar stationery
The words she said to me and of me rushed…blue and rusty
I gagged on my expressions, dry heaves

“Your mother says you write better when you are miserable.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I make you miserable?”
“Apparently not, I can’t write a thing.”
“I’ll try harder.”
"I’m sure you will.”

Copyright 2012

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Justified Schizophrenia

For Izzy's Prompt at Real Toads. I don't know that she's a rebel cuz I don't really know her, but she seems to be a strong woman who knows what she wants and what she likes.  Her writing has inspired me many times and when I saw this prompt....she was the first one that popped into my head. Hope she doesn't get all shitty and resentful about this was done with only respect and awe of her work. Out very own Shay.....

I write and I’m right on most Sundays
One face, two faces, southern drawl, all the bases
If I kiss you with my wit, you will be stunned….stone
I woke up with stronger pursuits than the day before

Ain’t no time like the present, sugar
Giggin’ frogs makes workin’ hands hungry
If lunch time comes and goes, the sweeter the dinner
Front porch calls and my work goes coal black

Gypsy rhymes and ancient times, Friday can be a challenge
One finger, two fingers, written word, thoughts linger
If I see her hitchhiking, damn, I would comb her silver hair….croon
I’m not star struck dammit, just mopping up a leaking dream

If a man wanted to make some money
Shovelin’ shit and turnin’ sweat into eggs and peppered bacon
Then he done found his callin’, picked up the tele
Back stoop calls and my work goes fire red


Monday, September 10, 2012

Notes from Grant and Green

....from one of Kerry's challenges at the WC where we were challenged to write in the style of or about the beatnik generation.  I took a quote from Kerouac about being Catholic and ran with it in the style I thought he wrote On the Road in, he taped pages together in one long sheet and kept typing not minding punctuation or grammar much, thought that was kinda cool.

It’s hard to be taken seriously as a Catholic when the rhythm of the city and tempering of my thoughts into long steel words flows through people’s veins because they are searching for the point of disembarkation from that littered life to one that is perceived as peaceful and fulfilling. But that jumping off point is fraught with just as many demons each trying to store a little bit of your ass in a tin cup for the winter months when the sun refuses to sell you even a sliver of hope and your friends are clamoring to borrow a dollar after you already bought the last round. When the slick mahogany surface of the barstool on the second floor of Vesuvio feels like your mothers breast and soothes the beasts that grow like hair inside your chest pounding to get a crack at one of your Benzedrine dreams realized you may be doomed to ride the bus of life forever searching for that g-spot.  My friend if they will not publish your poem then we will copy it on the bathroom walls of our own bookstore a vessel for all of the so called shit and minutia that will one day be gospel and make other men famous beyond recognition with their utter and complete understanding of our mind because they tell people that they know where our hearts lay.  But how can that be when I don’t know where my own heart beats? This haze kills the public specter after nine and I relax and think not of the past but if I can live up to the avatar created in my likeness or if that is even necessary.  One more time for those who weren’t listening…..I am not a beatnik I am Catholic.

© 2011 Crowley

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Note to Self

For the Toads Wednesday Challenge about those voices in your head.....mine are my worst enemy bar none. If I could kill them I would....literally.

You've hated me for three weeks straight
Calling attention to my less than manly ways
Telling me the pedestals I've crafted are flawed
And that no one could love what I am

I changed the show
Cut the Ties
Promised change by next moonrise
Washed the mind
With soap and lye
Pulled the splinters from my tired eyes

You've scoffed my craft and beat me down, inattentive
Embarrassed I turn to others for support
But thats when you do your best work, wrecking
Building fences of doubt and despair from wrought iron rails

I ate the crow
Shit the bed
Planted ragweed in my head
Lost the key
Can't find the door
Shopped a codependent grocery store

You've made me into a gushing idiot when no one cares
Tracing my missteps with amazing accuracy, tedious
Playing movies of things that haven't happened, high definition
Torturing my sleep with depressed relationship rhetoric

I flipped the switch
Pulled a knife
Rolled your head and took your life
Yelled my name
Attached my balls
Bludgeoned down your fucking paper walls

I want my life back