Bitter Poems

the manual said so simple now even a housewife can do it. Fantastic, I thought. Let her.  *** BY NEIL BROSNAN: liberation

for Era Kever I stepped out stray on those cracked streets South Harlem in the summer night Black looks in shadow Death gliding on the air I didn’t see you there  They were fighting on one...

see how softly he whimpers now as the needle that fills him with kisses, weeps a concoction of sincerity cut with compromise tarnished silver teaspoon of grief erasing every meaning   whispering in...

after a final sip the master crushed his favorite cup bid each honored guest farewell retreated to the garden to rend from flesh undying essence   sever the shadow of the moon...

that evening you left me on the corner moths drank every street light a swarm of locust devoured the moon. *** NEIL BROSNAN: darkness

As if I could say it Aloud I swim inwardly (eternally) *** de parca ai putea sa spui cuiva ca inoti doar iin tine (fara speranta)  

the heels of his poor man shoes were each worn down on the outside edge and the laces were white string knotted to where the black had broken… he...

mă îmbătam și ziceam că iarna e o iluzie că verdele e doar un mucegai de jur împrejur niște îngeri râdeau (orbitorb) I would get drunk So I could say Winter is an illusion and...

That drinking glass that dreadfully clean glass where water is feeling dirty every time I don't sleep I think of you and when the sleeplessness starts that glass awaits me thirsty sitting pretty on the edge of life (expectations) __________ mai e...

bum feet street-beat wise sunk in banged up shoes previously dumpster swiped lean hobo soled holed haloed covered in foot funk sock stink grime   no blue suede shoes snappy tassel loafers…   gamy high-top sneakers here retro Corso’s weary worn down creased re-knotted raced in hiked trod...

  Two waitress’s at IHOP talk vaccinations between Swedish pancakes and Denver omletts. Talk about their kids... what ails them now, while walking platters, scraping change and worn dollar bills into no...

sweltering August afternoon Rene Lazare bare foot, bare chested in a leather smock tied over ragged jeans feverishly manipulates pigments bent over an old barn’s floor mixing tube squeezed oils pressing and...

we could have conquered cities but we stayed behind in the dark alleys among passionate kisses among Earl Grey teas we could have invented pasts but we died as...