Blue's Blog

    Poetry to Protect the Guilty!

Saturday, March 26, 2005

Danny Simon

    Danny Simon's twenty-nine
    and he's prematurely gray,
    and paradise is all around him,
    but it just gets in his way.

    Here's another unread message,
    a Gold Mine came to call.
    And everytime I'm the one to find him,
    he's got his face turned to some wall.

    Hey boy, what the hell you chasin'?
    Don't you know that sound you hear
    is your own heart racing?

    Fifteen guys tryin' to find 'im,
    each with blood in their eye,
    and our boy Danny's tryin' to find
    some place he ain't burned to hide.

    And the only woman that ever loved him
    is waiting for him at home.
    Danny's flyin' Jamaican wind
    and goin' to bed alone.

    Hey boy, what the hell you chasin'?
    Don't you know that sound you hear
    is your own heart racing?

    Last time I saw Danny
    he took off like a shot.
    I swear that damn motorcycle,
    it's the only thing he's got.

    yeah, that damned Harley-Davidson.
    It's the only thing he's got.

    And the only woman that ever loved him
    is still waitin' for him at home.
    Danny's flyin', shakin' and hidin'
    and goin' to bed alone.

    Hey boy, what the hell you chasin'?
    Don't you know that sound you hear
    is your own heart racing?

    Hey boy, what the hell you chasin'?
    Don't you know that sound you hear
    is your own heart racing?

      -beau blue

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Jersey Joe

    Hey Jersey Joe!
    Don't you know
    This job was all I really needed?
    Keeps me out of trouble on the fight nights
    When the white flights
    Go sailing with their leader.
    Those boys sure fly high!
    I've been blinded by their sparkle,
    Wounded by their smiles,
    Their orange exiles,
    And the coolness of their marble.
    But now I'm just a working stiff
    And I ain't got a thing they think they need.
    Just got this job
    And you and me, Jersey Joe,
    Don't you know
    This job was all I needed!

    Now talk about a blizzard,
    It was Christmas eve
    And I never felt so cold against the snow.
    You know, Lucy keeps a running list
    Of places I won't go
    And a torch for all the hangouts
    Where she's been busted.
    Angel dustin' ain't my style and she knows it.
    But every time she's close enough?
    She blows it!
    Six-oh-two time headed for the stores,
    Boosting black bandannas,
    Waltzing wickedly with whores,
    Ah Lucy won't you come on home?
    I got a job now!
    Don't you know you're needed?
    Just got this job
    And you and me,
    And Jersey Joe
    Don't you know,
    This job was all I needed!

      -beau blue

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

cartoons for creatures who can't draw

    I. The camel in the needle's eye

         sometimes through the door, a moose

    Please announce yourself to the receptionist.
    She'll notice your antlers immediately
    and escort you to Pete's pristine cubicle.
    If by chance she misses them,
    you can bray at these gothic columns
    until echoes fill the room,
    which happens with incredible dispatch,
    and brings prissy Huguenots who'll wave
    every manner of banner and scream
    about what's best and proper etiquette.
    You can act surprised and point
    to your jewel encrusted crown.
    Then the big guy'll decide if some mistake's been made.
    And if that is the case, he'll cancel the parade.

    II. The sad end of the albino lounge moth

    The albino lounge moth kept running
    into bright orange and mostly blue
    signposts (painted by pigmy giants who'd
    left leatherette barstools
    spinning in a dervish hurry;
    left quart cans of latex open to the air).

    And every time he lit on one wet
    pigment mottled his wings 'til he
    looked like a jazz-crazed bumble-bee
    and the danger at each warning seemed
    less real and less weighty,
    each splash of color dismissed another care.

    When strangely, to his surprise, the paint can
    lid he staggered onto - wouldn't let him go.

    III. "Oh Joy! A Playmate!"

          wishing I was Mel

    So then the mouse
    up & says, "Look,
    whiskers, there's nothing
    in your vocabulary
    that even comes close to
    anything in mine.
    'Specially 'bout sustenance
    & soul & silly things
    like where & when & how to sleep.
    So don't come here wanting
    to play some lethal game
    of hide & seek. Okay?
    Oh, by the way, have you met
    the yard's great black dane?
    Hey Spike!"

    IV. little chicken and the insanity defense

    everyone's said for years
    it's not that she's so weird
    it's that everytime she passes
    friendly ground she sends out sparks
    & they've watched her natter on of how
    no one knows a goddamn thing
    & on and on of how it's always her
    that's wrongly banished to the dark

    besides, all she really said was
    the world was failing all her tests
    something fell from somewhere
    it was blue and caused a briuse
    surely psyches small and fragile
    can be coaxed to understanding
    strange things happen to most everyone
    and we all know what it is to lose

    one's head at an inauspicious minute
    see the universe come crashing .. BANG
    all of us can be forgiving can't we
    even generous to one so meek and pure
    now she knows the consequence of panic
    can be counted on to just keep calm
    and of course now she takes her medication
    perhaps one day we'll find a cure

      -beau blue

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

See I'd always heard

         after bukowski,

    oets were pansy, pantywaist, cultural parasites,
    society's way of weeding out the emotionally dangerous,
    so, naturally, I signed right up .. blues music to my ear,
    then I found out that drugs, loose women and rock 'n'
    roll were part of the mix and I've been addicted to putting
    up with maniacs ever since .. if someone tries to hurt you
    beat 'em to death with asterisks and chanting, they'll come
    around .. and if they don't - fuck'em - cheap, superficial one
    nighters are almost mandatory for cultural parasites anyways,
    proof of the rule that one who'll pass out pieces of astronomically
    priced mind to anyone for the pleasure of the moment is a tramp ..
    and with that I'll have saxophone, cognac, and a few more buttons

        -beau blue