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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

I am very proud to announce the latest alternative-rock album by Salon de la Guerre: It’s called Standing Close To Power and Catching Its Cold, and it’s now available on all the major streaming services, including Amazon, YouTube, Spotify, Pandora, Apple Music and Bandcamp, as well as other places where music is (still) sold.

Like all my albums, this one is available only digitally.

I’m also proud to announce that with this release, I now have 500 copyrighted songs in circulation. I’m chuffed about this for a number of reasons, the most important of which is that even though I’m an aging guy, I feel like I’m in my creative prime. When I was in my 20s and confused and sad and unproductive most of the time, the conventional wisdom says my art should have been much better. And yet most of the art I made in my 20s was horrible shit.

Things got better in my 30s, really good in my 40s, and now here I am in my 50s, a husband and dad, churning out stuff that I think rocks pretty hard and certainly sounds like the best stuff I’ve ever made. I feel more lyrically focused too. And dare I say it, as someone who never thought of myself as a singer, I now don’t hate my voice anymore.

The new album was designed to be punk rock with two guitars trading off leads. That probably puts me closer to the Replacements than the Ramones this time out. There are a couple of notable exceptions in the stylistic approach: The first song, called “This Town Needs Secrets,” is my first ’70s style power pop song. I did not make it that way on purpose. Sometimes, as you’re producing a song (or any piece of art, really), putting together the random pieces, you realize what it’s becoming, and at that point it’s your job to just get out of the way and let it live.

The last song on the album, “The World’s Pain Leaked Through Her Shirt,” is an electronic piece composed on Apple’s Logic Pro X. It wasn’t guitar rock. In fact, it was more like an outtake from a previous bunch of songs I made two years ago when my mindset was more about the Talking Heads. But the song seemed flippant enough to qualify as punk.

The lyrics seem to be (since I don’t plan those either) about the desires and angers that seethe in domesticity, as well as sexual politics and gossipy little towns (not unlike one I used to live in). I’ve thrown in some allusions to my favorite poets for those interested in hunting for that kind of thing.

As always, the album was written, performed, arranged and produced by yours truly at my home studio in New York. I’m responsible for all the guitar parts; the rest of the sounds were made with my terrific Logic Pro software. (I also designed the cover.)

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Just Facts

Facts are poor and pissing things
Lost in a green lawn
Where the pool was shocked
For eyes to be stung
Facts have no meaning unless shrieked
Screamed so loud they stress the picture
window and its scoop of suburb
to point of fracture
A scream smoked and peaty and single malt
“You kept sleeping you bitch
when you heard our daughter had snuck out.
Get out of that bed now.”
And then a gun made its appearance
Oddly shy and quiet the .357
Serving as punctuation, an exclamation point
On a husband’s scattered thoughts
Words too fussily labored over
This fact gone went missing amid the ph-balanced water
Gushing the next day from the side of the pool
Like innocence aborted
Forgotten, all this that happened,
In a Sunday scrum over a steaming fowl.

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The Waste Ferry

Sights of minnow, despair
Fish dream to nonaction
The rudderless course of a ship
Its hull beating against a manless dock

Upended cups on bollards
Cranky pier beams
And glinty eyed gulls
Are harbinger of somebody’s breakfast

Mere muff grazers
Spill onto the dock
Warning of a fatuous Sunday
Afternoon
When the boat will be full
But not full of anybody
Willing to say what needs to be said

One thought is embarrassed to death
In a throat
Because the men want what they want
And you will have what you have

Late in the day
Jackson lost on the beam
One thought parts
Into milk and cream

Your eyes too full of pain and fear
You couldn’t tell me the truth right then
Not about anything
Not right here

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Siesta

The farmers move inland,
Brushing their scythes
away forever from the cool crests of wheat

Before siesta

When old men and little boys
alike
Come to sleep in a chain
of hands

Here they rest in rough dirt
made soft
By the bodies of young girls

Here they float over cankers in the Earth
Old salt furrows that can no longer
be farmed

Holes with no sympathy

Slumber is not measured here
in pounds
But in inches:

Rain hurts the mud wall
Unleashes dirt from the grooves
While a yeast goes to work on its millet

Otherwise, the whole world
is asleep
or dying

Across the handle of a rake

–1994

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Life On Mars

Curses spilled from her mouth
And milk leaked into the shirt
The baby biting hard
at new blood
And macrophages
Baby still colostrum-laughing
Licking poems off her pages

A poem of milk
Is to be consumed by whomever needs it
And blood is fed
Brain, stomach and heart
The whole water bed

And even light can cut
And conjugate
Talk soft to
The Earth that was its mate

And even life on Mars
In tiny yurts and huts
Can’t lose the link to Earth
Still stirring in our guts

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Breaking News

Breaking news,
Anne Sexton died almost 50 years ago
Jar lids were pulled off
With rubber grips in
Mourning
The wings beat at the dozens per second
And the peroxide told its secrets to hair

Dogs have powerful bone jaws
And scrape metaphors off ribs
And they eat us out from the inside
With ravenous disloyalty
On Moloch lakes
Where former angels watched
Their wings become ash and turds

Another day a mind contends with
Living in flesh
Flued and sooted
But loses
And forgets itself
Dissolves
Into heroic glands

Talk to them
Not to me

I’ll be new tomorrow
We all are
Until ossified
And broken as news

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Watered with limitless
Liquor
Amber ton’c
Profane as a red sky
Tonight you laughed so hard
You made a faint
vasovagal syncope
on the Seraglio toilet
The head Selim
Ghazals rushing from bibulous skull
When a sultan thirsts
Apollyon cracks
Visions of Greeks escaping
Wooden smack
Skin flayed
Eyes on Famagusta
Eyes on the Pale Spaniards
And Venetian’s
Every lipstick, a traitor
Every betrayal, a bath
A mouth minty
With curses.
A seaman by nature
Is impulsive;
In dream canals,
He smashed his navies.
Under arched eyebrows,
A grand vizier
birthed Serb Bosnian
Who laddered the bones of
The fratricides
Mapped around the lake,
“Sappers sell to Volga and Don
Janissaries mail for the water
Communication,” said
A shaved beard grows faster
Than a severed arm.
Lent his lettered brain for a
Sot writing about orgies during his orgies
While their Mustafa
Was lent Cyprus ears and noses
To harvest rape grape
And vintage vine
And the sot
Wrote poems of heedless love
As hateful history somehow
left the bastard happy innocent
Dying in her behind.

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My plumbing is all
Messed up after two years
Riding a bike during this Covid
Business

The straws and tubes
With which god made a crotch
Are all bent and skewed
Nothing comes out right
I spatter and dribble piss like
A broken radiator

But I can hiss and sob
A man made old before his time
Graceful in my imperfection

Plato said there are no objects just ideals
So you can think about that as you sadly
Consider my ruined junk

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Mandates

This corn must know it’s growing
Near a chocolate factory
Must smell the smokestacks
And know its own good murder

And we walk a chocolate town
Known by its chocolate river
And its invasive bugs, red on its
Underwings, stretched across
The calligrapher’s book to write its
Invasive thoughts upon,
Looking up with its orange eyes
In hopes of devouring the corn
And leaving its prolific eggs

The kids and the corn and now bugs know again
They are growing near a chocolate factory
And who slaved for what is sweet

D.H. Lawrence wrote of a sensual need for justice

And likewise
The beautiful red-brown lanternfly is smashed under thought
Blue Converse and mandate of state law
Just as the bug serves his own mandate
To devour the Pennsylvania picture at night

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Lie To Me Like a Junkie

Lie to me like a junkie
Make it soft and intimate
Say it in my ear that we can make it work
It’s all going to be better

Put my ear in something soft
Bathe it in falsehoods
Make it feel like this time
We’re really going to fall asleep
In the water and drown

Tell it to me like I know you’re desperate
That you have no choice but to sweetly
Ever so sweetly smile and cheat me
The moon knows your kiss is cold
And that lie that the moon shone on
Was old
But it felt good to lie on the grass
And pass this lie south
From mouth to red and stupid mouth

Lie to me like a junkie
And it’ll feel so fine

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