Monday, September 14, 2009

Wind Like Swayze

Neither swayze nor Soviets breathe
grease for they have no ghosts to reach.
Swayze meant

how to treat a lady, surfing, booby-traps,
no longer bunking with ponyboy tranquility.
Growing up, the swayze introduction,

complicated and wong foo,
my own state-of-the art double deuce, a
high-security facility I rule as swayze.

What I'm admitting to is bank robbery,
gender bends, possibly slavery, but not
a kiddie dungeon. I see the fear!

Muzzled and swayze, baby heads my wolverine,
swings me round and round Nebraska.
It's just us girls, my whoopi,
my swayze.


first published in The Scrambler (2007)

3 comments:

  1. Poor guy, he was such a hansome dude and a great dancer, I hate that he died.

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  2. Great poem! Thanks for posting it.

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  3. Dark nights washed by distant rippling trees
    and alien winds covering your eyelids, purifying
    like everything, move on with splendid ease
    leaving us a message: life will never cease
    its sleepy course in vain
    in order to attain
    rebirth, since Death is not and Life is dying.

    The heat around Time's corner waves a scent
    for creedence revival of some virtual vampire
    as deep inside. A force considered spent
    returns from utter non-existence that was meant
    to keep us out of breath -
    Is Life both Life and Death?
    Riddle of the Night! The Day be hot and dire.

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