| Dan Shilton |
| Original Poetry by |
| Published Author |
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| And My Lovely |
| Liquid Lady |
| I sat in an alleyway barroom with Faulkner, just last night in fact. It was in the Judas Noose Tavern after the sky in my eyes had gone black. Slinking up behind me crept a lady, the one that kept Faulkner drinking. She straddled me across my addiction and soused my sagacious thinking. My mood was soured in that saloon, my crowd small, maudlin and mislead. Faulkner careened away for another stout round, the sirens fingers buried in my head. Vicious, she caressed my mind to binge, my reserve weaping, craving and frayed. I loved and loathed her saccharine-sweet kisses, too broke to leave, too broken I stayed. And soon my alcoholic author arrived with Vodka, now that I'm far too dependent to escape. Victorious Lilith helped me choke down my share, baptized into a drunkard's fate. I brooded there, bottled and beaten, Faulkner pickled deep past sleep. We literary men see too much too fast, always tithing in vomit at this bitch's feet. Then last call sounded and I shook my friend, my teetering Virgil unable to show the way out. "Relax", she breathed, locking in for life, "You are addicted and guilty of cowardice, no doubt." The lights went down and I let Faulkner rest, I have too much Comfort in my Southern veins to care. From the shadows we still sit insidiously, sweetly singing, as I give up and weep into her hair. |
| Saturday Afternoon |
| In the slanted, venetian-skewed sunlight, -there are moments exhaled in blue fusion. I've no criminal intent. Only an education under my professional belt, and music on the brain. I paint. I write. I love and love with abandon. Not because of smoke, but with it. I am loosed in a haze clear to the uninhibited, -the peeled from programming, -those abundant in free genius. You others: Get over it. Move on. Preach some other hate instead of fearing me. Catch a rapist! Cage the murder! I'm simply listening to Mozart, drinking Kool-Aid. |
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| Vespers |
| Adopting a poet's addiction, I abandon the blind masses to their Grand Puppeteer and Common Will. Kept as a crown, I war my Poetic Sublime like love. These are my Marley songs of freedom. Relish the vagary in my nature. I am iambic and lost in the meter of my own shine. In a winter's grey light I whore my immortal, marvelous tune to the world. My undulating, rhyming and sexed spirit is lashed to the undercurrent of inspiration. Divinity. A child's innocent visage in front, laughter rusted and racous, tearful and triumphant. On tentative, borrowed wings my feathers are made of God. My mother is the wind- His merciful breath. |
| So here I pine and pen slathering lines in lucid wonder to Heaven. My spirit stretched pious quiet upwards, my fingers forged with a bit of brutal Hell. I am seering white tempest of sin and moved by Truth. My life shall scorch the earth. A terrific pyre, anthropomorphic, and an inheritor of tormented humors and ecstatic knowing. A poet I am, wax euphoric, an ancient calling a light in my eyes. |
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| Letter to God from the Soul Thief |