Poetry 1996

The Poetry of Paul E Sexton3

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Poetry 1996

Waiting By The Watershed

Poised on edge of plastic chair
scoping winterscape in
rain filled graywashed scene.

Seen through aluminum
and green plastic verticals
while drips, drip on.

Must be fifty degrees.
Must be nearing the
end of everything.

The patio is where the patients come
to sit and smoke cigarettes
and chat.
Some cry
because they hurt so bad
they can no longer pretend
not to.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED

UNDER THE GRAY WET WINTER.

To mourn the loss of expectation,
of our grasp on the impermanent.

Spiritual pilgrims in the cold church
of those who love life
no longer.

I hear highway traffic and airplanes.
I see dead trees
and dying dreams.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED.

Must be nearing the end
of everything.

This Sweetchild Madness

Child of madness, child of my heart
your insane pain tears me apart.
The stories of sad things that flow from you.
Lonely crimson rivers from inside of you.
Make me want to hold on tight to you.
To pull your sweet beautiful head next to mine
so close, and hold on for dear life
and no one could hurt you
and you couldnt hurt you
and Id never hurt you
I hope.

Close your eyes sweet gentle child
lets pretend we live in our own dream world.
We will travel around everywhere
shop in Paris, and dress up so nice
and see everything with brand new eyes
just you and I.
You would always smile
and your hand would always hold my hand
and whatever you needed or desired
I would provide and never grow tired
of your touch, of your beauty
of your youth, of your laughter
of you.
You are sweet sad nectar
you are rabid desire
you are atomic romance
you are sexy self destruction
you are sleek dance seduction.
Playing in a teardrop rainstorm
soaked in a thousand droplets of bittersweet
under a pale blue gray weeping sky
spinning and spinning and spinning
away.

Open your eyes old man.
Dream worlds will drown you
in sadness and despair.
We live in a world
with madness everywhere,

Sweet sleek crazy sexy wild child
I cant love you, I wont love you
I dont love you, I dont love you
I dont love you, I dont love you
Your madness infects me.
I cant hold you, I cant save you
I need to open my eyes now.
I need to run away now.
I cant make everything okay now.
I dont love you, I dont love you
I dont love you
Keep telling myself that.
Keep telling myself.
keep telling
keep telling

SHE IS

She is candy corn.
She is white cumulous cloud.
She is smell of fresh honeysuckle.
She is clear starry night.
She is yellow lightning.
She is a thousand pornos.
She is soft breath on window when
its so cold the airs turned blue.
She is milky white dripping icicle.
She is Christmas morning.
She is slow crashing waves
on seashore, toes in wet sand.
She is kitten doing backflips.
She is eating fresh cold snow.
She is better than average.
She is Humberts Lolita.
She is sparkling champagne.
She is the American Flag.
She is a million Hallelujahs.
She is Phasers set on stun.
She is sensual Satori.
She is lower extremities tingling.
She is pack of hungry wolves.
She is puttin on the Ritz.
She is rainy train station in Paris
waiting.
She is razor sharp.
She is deadly bloom.
She is pins and needles.
She is ripe tomato.
She is a million gasps for air.
She is gears grinding.
She is fourth of July.
She is Italian Opera.
She is electric current.
She is Greek Nymph.
She is turbo charged race car.
She is moist sky rainbow.
She is marshmallow melting.
She is touch in the dark.
She is little girl held tight.
She is sweetest soft flesh.
She is desire.
She is.

Wondering About the Taste of A Stranger

Ebony hair snake charmer chick
just a chance encounter
just the slightest glimpse
of your eyes and mouth
and magic midriff
bring about some sort of ripple effect
that charms my meandering
nocturnal visions
all - night - long.

I wake up in a sweat.
Heart racing like a slipped gear
breathing shallow
and the darkness somehow pulses,
somehow pulses and envelopes
my sweetly tortured manhood.

Im thinking about sleek white flesh
and how it would taste
in my mouth, on my tongue.
Toes and knees and neck
and each and every space in between
vibrating wet.
Silky smooth to the touch.

Despite the fact that I dont know you
or really anything about you
and Ive only seen you once or twice
just tonight
and once I watched you dancing,
the kind of dancing
a man cant turn his gaze away from
even if he wanted to.
Somehow lying here on THIS night
at two or three A.M. half awake
wondering about you.
Wondering if your thoughts are racing.
Wondering how your kissed lips would taste.
Wondering if you have an empty space
at your side, at three oclock A.M.
and if your hand falls there
slowly rubbing female fingers
speculating.
Do your closed eyes form pictures?
Does your leg shake just a little?
Are you jolted awake by visions
that make your mouth water
like you do mine?
Do you breathe a gentle sigh
and return to mystic female sleep.

I dont know you , probably wont know you
we may speak again,
and Ill try to say something that sound cool.
Something not as honest as this poem,
and that will be it.
Just know this,
sexy, sleek, shiny female beast.
One night, one man
dreamed about you,
and how you would taste,
and as all tomorrows and yesterdays
seem to slowly fade away
your eyes
your glance
penetrate
into my today.

HEAVY

It hangs heavy!
The sky hangs heavy.
Winter hangs heavy.
Bird sounds.
Rain sounds.
Cold breath in moist air.
My heart hangs heavy.
WORDS,
her small words
hang heavy,
Burdonsom
hanging in the thick hospital air
are feelings
are lost raindrops
sliding tomorrows away.
The future hangs heavy.
The truth hangs heavy.
The sky hangs lower and
seems to be squeezing us all into place.
Mood hangs heavy.
Questions hang unanswered.
Secrets unrevealed FESTER away.
Imagery hangs heavy.
Last parts of sentences hang heavy
and remain.
Bits hang heavy.
Parts hang heavy.
The whole hangs heavy.
When she is needed.
When she is needed.
The need hangs heavy.
Her mouth seems candy.
The need hangs heavy.
Bits and pieces of a man
spread out through time and space
from now until the eighties
NOW
all broken up.
The pieces hang heavy.
Everything hangs heavy.
I hang heavy.
IT HANGS HEAVY!

Thoughts Like Rats

When lying on
edge of bed,
I get
a terrible
pain in
my chest.

I think
of the
last one
or two
or five
or seven.

That held you
touched you
fucked you
ate you
smelled you
felt you.

They felt your
heat
while you
were asleep.

They touched
your lips
and
breathed in
your breath.

The pain
is sharp and
proportionate
to the
thinking.

I think that
right now
you are some
where that
is not
here.

Yet you are
here, you
are very
much here.

These thoughts
like
sticking
pins in one's
head.

Unbidden
they come.

Like rats
angry ones.

Wearing out their
welcome, they
are chased away,
but only
with much
beer and
many tears.

Crying to sleep
is one way,
but not
a good one.

MARCH OF THE RATS

Thoughts like rats
invade
my every mental
sanctuary.
The vermin army
a creation
of my own imagination
on the march again.

Some are lonely poems.
Some are teardrops.
Some are shards of glass
Some say
barkeep
more of the same.

They gash
and nibble
and chew

When driving
or working
or sitting poised
on edge
of bed.

Here they come
to fill me up
with regret
and loneliness.

Spinning infestation
GO AWAY.

The rats of the past.
The teenage rats.
The female rats.
The rats of fear and doubt.

The rodent
war machine
on a mission
of civil
self-destruction.

There will be no
stopping
the marching,
at least
not for now.

Coffee, Sex, and The Gods

All the kids on dream street
fill the chasms
that are the city streets.
Like whacked out enchanted gnomes
or imps or fairy elves or nymphs.
Amid the droning creep crawling
of internal combustion dragons
a never ending, never beginning
meth death sex dance
snare sing seduces
everything in the street.
All these young female beast
smell of child porn masturbation
and narcotic prom night date rape.
Theyve got SEX in their eyes.
Theyve got SEX in their asses.
In every single swing of asscheek
from side to side to side to side.
With seman soaked midriffs shining
in sinful silent moonlight beams..
You can almost smell the vaginal fluids
flowing over silken teenage panties.
dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping
with milky white oedipal memories,
and there is no trace of humanity.
And the genetic smells and sights
and sound swish together,
and the streets seem to seethe
and millions of years and
millions of reproductive organs
cry out
cry out and ejaculate,
and the truth seems crystal clear.
THE WHOLE STREET SHOULD BE TORCHED.
With karosene or gasoline or something
and all the PUSSY,
and all those seeking PUSSY
herded into the flames fanned white hot
hotter than the hottest steel smelting furnace
and melted, melted down.
To the pure component genetic code.
To a pure dark black pulsing
radio active molasses thick liquid.
Pure liquid sexuality
distilled, cooked down, like pervert espresso
and then, and only then
WILL I DRINK IT DOWN.
Swallow it, like a dying man.
Then in one screaming explosion,
like the father of the Greek Gods, Zues,
Spontaneously produce a race of titans
that will dominate the world
for a hundred thousand years,
while I spend the rest of my days
rubbing a flacid penis
sorta like now.

TO HIT, OR NOT TO HIT

So my friend invites me over
to do a little boxing;
and Im thinking, "yea"
"That sounds like fun"
"I had a bag I used to work out with
when I was around nineteen."
(Forgetting how long ago that was now.)
Anyhow, I end up very TIRED,
and somewhat INSPIRED.
So I go get a hundred pound bag
with my Sears credit card,
and I hang it from a tree
out in my yard.
Then after spending quite some time
leveling out the ground,
I START HITTING THE BAG!
And Im hitting it! And Im hitting it
And Im hitting it! And Im hitting it
And Im hitting it! And Im hitting it
Until it starts to change the way Im thinking.
And when I am out delivering pizzas
and someone doesnt tip me,
I think about just hitting them
just hitting them right in their fucking face.
And when some guy pulls out in front of me
I want to hit him!
And when I see some teenagers
I want to hit them!
And the people I work with
I want to hit them!
Theres this dog that some dude is walking
I want to hit it!
And I want to hit parked cars
and shopping carts and glass windows
and telephone poles and trees.
I just want to HIT SHIT!
And hit shit! and hit shit!
and just keep on hitting shit!
Until everything is broken , or bleeding,
or running away!
Its like Ive tapped into some primal urge
older than civilized ideas
about the way we should behave.
And the animal inside seems to crave violence.

I think about every comic book Ive read.
I think about Bruce Lee movies.
I think about all the fights I was in when I was young.
I think about the homeboys that smashed
a 40 oz bottle on my head one Christmas.
I think about TV shows.
I think about wars, real wars, Greek type wars
before there were guns
when large groups of men would wade into battle
and beat the holy living fucking SHIT out of each other!

And my blood is pumping.
And my thoughts are racing.
And Im sweating.
And Im hitting
and hitting.
And I realize that in the subconscious
just below the surface
HITTING is more important than FUCKING
or THINKING, or CREATING, or SPEAKING
or living
or living..
or living.
Or ANYTHING..
anything.
And Im just an animal,
so we are all just animals
Im breathing hard, and Im breathing hard.
I take off my gloves, go into my house
grab a shower and lay across my bed.
I flip on the tube,
and Its Beverly Hills 90210
and there is Luke Perry, and hes smiling,
and Im gripped with RAGE!
And I jump to my feet shaking my fist
and scream into the air
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER
IF YOU WERE HERE
I WOULD KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS!!!!!!!!"

then exhausted.
I take a nap.