Poetry
Kevin Jeremy Carfax
With what eyes would a brother-in-law
Look upon the man who once wed his lonely sister
And whispered her name in the dark?
As Irish as his wolfhound
Even more stubborn than she.
The soul of poet
Was never an easy thing to marry.
Did he forsake her?
Was she a sprite or a nymph?
Or was she merely the green fairy?
Afterward he said he was afraid of brunettes.
His wife had been blessed with darkened curls.
Now he dates a blonde,
He says they are afraid of words.
The brother was left with a silent sister
And owls, owls in the east wing.
“Every poet is a thief,”*
Quoth the brother when they meet.
*quote from U2's "The Fly"
Of Cow Bones and Black Paint
An ode to H.R. Giger
eyeless insects and spider queens
cow bones and human skulls
a few shafts of sunlight
in a dark mechanical world
adorned with spider webs of secreted resin
detailed and rounded lines
of blanched disembodied faces
Atomic Children,
creatures with Dali faces,
demented, depraved
monstrosities of impish humor
coming out of a biological gun.
graphic violence and sexuality
sinister beauty
black and ashen white
exposed spines and ribbed wires
zombified corpses
and bat-winged angels.
Brat Prince or sexless deity
As I dazzle you with my ethereal beauty
I’ll shock you all to fit in
(Is vanity really a sin?)
Watch as I ascend like Peter Pan
I ain’t no cat from Japan
I am more unusual
Androgynous, metrosexual,
Or a vampire making love with my ego
Flat-chested, lackbeard Apollo
Well hung and a snow white tan,
Like Duran Duran.
Fangs and eyeliner,
A non-human headliner
Do I remind you of Kali with the fangs I bare?
Or a woman with a man’s hair?
They both took it too far
Ziggy suceeds without being counted as one of our prophets
But the man who fell to earth could play guitar.
And Lestat gave away all the secrets.
For Lestat’s brothers and Ziggy’s fans
Death and flames ended the night.
(And they tried to crush his sweet hands)
They were forced out of the light
(And they tried to crush all his sweet plans)
They each wanted to be a leper messiah
Wanted to save both the mortal and immortal clans
Like a alien or vampire Hosannah
*Ziggy Stardust is property of David Bowie. Lestat property of Anne Rice.
Stagnating Fever
I have no inspiration tonight
My pen stands erect and still
Hovering over the blank page
I have no inspiration tonight
I cannot see the moon
The stars are overpowered by the city lights
I can hear the bat fly
In search of prey
But I have no inspiration tonight
I want to lay my head back down
On my fevered pillow
To sleep
“To die, to sleep; to sleep”
And “in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”
Yes, in those fevered dreams, what dreams will come
To be the inspiration for the poems of tomorrow
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.”
Unable to sleep or write
Lines of other poems flow through my mind,
But still I can find no inspiration.
The ink beads on the end of the pen
And falls to soil the page
I drop it in a fevered daze.
At night fall
From the shadows behind the stage
Where it’s none too cool
They will wait for the cries to rise
Go and meet the crowds
Go silently across the stage
Then sing with voices
Pitched high above that of the throng
Stand in the glow of the lights
And sing as the night goes on
Then the crowd will hush
And they will leave
To silence again
And the lonely nights
Beyond the marquee lights
Where the streets are empty
With friends like Jack Daniels and Jameson
Haggard by bright lights
Starved by writers’ block
Withering away under the gaze
Of blinded eyes
Sleeping alone with the needle still
Hanging from the arm
Returning home to wealth
Golden statuettes and a cold bed
Exiting the stage of ecstasy
To reality of desolation
Living only for an art
With all the misery beyond the inspiring thrills
Of the waves of faces
Of the thunder of screaming patrons
Back to the world of bleak existence
Mediocrity is worth all of that
Even as they flee
To the despair of stage right
A War Poem
A shaking hand started the battle
First blood drawn
First body down
There is no greater curse than the battle cry
The music of the wind through the fetching
And the tinkle of swords and armor further off
The music behind moral cries
A strange song composed to the loss of glory
Sung to those who’ve gone before
Paved the way to everlasting glory
In thick black blood
In that grave that Clearance saw
More than ten thousand men
Have the fishes gnawed upon
Gold, pearl, stones, jewels, great anchors
The eyes of dead men shine
With jewels of blue and red
And pearls of white
Like sleep or death blinded eyes
And the facets of jewels
Reflect the new dead
May
I despise these summer-spring days.
When the sun’s unobscured
Hailing screeching voices from frivolous throats.
Oppressing heat breeds mists of sweat
As stagnant water breeds mosquitoes.
Where is the cold silent darkness?
Must I construct a vampire lair?
Black drapes of misanthropy.
Through forests
Through streets
Through rain
The wind blows the stars
Comets and meteor showers
Right before my eyes
In the forests
In the streets
The stars are
Red, white, and green
Blue and purple in the flames
Of taverns and tattoo parlors
Rain on the windows
Driving through the forests
And the streets
Raindrop stars
Around a green
Dashboard moon.
Kevin Reece
Based on writing my main character of several of my novels.
He is my would be lover
My late father
The brother I never had
The son I will never bare
Imaginary friend,
I wouldn’t go that far
Imaginary: yes
Friend: I’m not too sure
If he knew me, met me
He would probably hate me.
But I live with him in my mind.
“My angel, my all, my other self”*
Everything that I am
Everything I can never be
My livelihood and future
My, sometimes good,
Sometimes dark,
Alter ego
*From Beethoven's Immortal Beloved letters
Kevin Reece (v.2)
He is my would be lover
My late father
The brother I never had
The son I will never bare
Though as his Provenience
He would probably resent me,
Hate me even for all I put him though
“My angel, my all, my other self”
I live through him
As many parents do through their children
Everything that I am
Everything I can never be
My livelihood and future
My, sometimes good,
Sometimes dark,
Alter ego
Untitled
I can hide these tears behind a mask
And dance
I can hide my love behind a paper heart
Until we part
I can hide it all in a black disguise
Before I ask what’s the meaning of being wise
And I sing with gay abandon:
‘I think I love you
So what am I so afraid of’
How many songs must I sing with you
Before you see it’s true?
What must I do?
I love you.
Soon we must all be what we have been
Paper faces abandoned in the wind
Masquerade
Behind a rhinestone studded face
Under a gown of gilded lace
I can hide all pain in a black disguise
Dance to music played above the lies
My dress of silken sorrows
Hides wounds from Cupid’s arrows
Let me wear raven’s feathers
In the wind, hear their whispers
After perching on the rim of goblets
I will feed on the bodies of poets
Until all the love songs die
Let me sleep where fallen angels lie
Let me feed on fanged adders
Then fly over other hearts’ slaughters
And sing with fellow sinners
My songs of guilty pleasures
My portion of a modern retelling of the Canterbury Tales in my senior English class
When Christmas snow falls
And strips the green from all,
The spirits marry
With wine from berry
With frosty ice breath of winter
They proceed with a causal saunter.
With warm coats of furs
All the fashion of the world defers.
All the invited rich and famous
For a night often very tedious.
Yet on this night they come
Not a tongue would be dumb.
With this we wait in the White House parlor
For some good Christmas hauteur.
Among the cheerful crowd
Only one of her kind allowed.
A most pious lady
(Some see her daily)
But one of her vocation required.
Now her husband has retired,
She comes with a nice young man,
He looks so handsome with his tan.
Tammy Fay Baker was her Christian name,
Says the devil is always to blame.
Still on her golden throne she’s perched,
Hair so high she looks like a birch,
Asks for money for the spiritually needy
So she buys a sports car for her hubby.
Another of her charity we have none
Alas to say, she isn’t done.
Unreality
It is the most wonderful thing.
That lightheaded feeling
The one where you couldn’t believe
That any of this was real.
You didn’t know what was real . . .
But it all was.
Sometimes left without memory
Like the memory of a dream
And sometimes the most vivid recollection.
Before cynicism, before the real world
Finished setting in
That feeling of unreality
What happened to it?
Here I am
Believing everything around me
Everything I see
Now I fear I will faint in that headiness
That once was wonder over the new
And the joyous.
The Earth is shaking
A violent quaking
Buildings fall
Chaos like Chagall*
Mountains crumble
While men, they mumble
The stars, they fall
The moon moves like a bouncing ball
Kingdoms falling
The queens crying
A moving force
Like a wild horse
The moon is red
The stars have been read
Now it’s over
Someone clam down Rover
*reference to the painter Marc Chagall
Apocalyptica
Three to four cellos
And the occasional percussion
Horse hair on wire
Like wind over water
Vibrations in the air
Like air cupped by a hawk’s wings
Exulting the soul
Hailing voice from mute throats
To wordless music
Or lost lyrics
Almost like a stings’ divine erotica*
You’d never guess it was Metallica
*A nod to Kevin Max's book of poetry Divine Erotica.
Music
Perhaps we did sell our souls to the devil,
Paid him tribute for the music he gave us.
Or was it merely to the composer?
Vulnerability
Our souls open for anyone to possess.
Was it a heathen god or goddess?
A Grecian muse or a Christian angel?
The genius of man might be responsible,
But the beauty of music is ethereal;
Spiritual.
And thus,
I’ve sold my soul to a gypsy violin.
Untitled
Infected
I am fleeting
Dejected
I am leaving
A lost soul
Without
Heaven’s
Sweet
Torment
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