PSH: Poets of the Week

Edwin Walls
hopfrog@ix.netcom.com
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Gallery/3028/

Bio(auto)

Edwin E. Walls has has been writing poetry for over 16 years. Some of the publications that have included his work are Out of Chaos, Writer's Exchange, Poet's Domain, and the Washington Post. He is a native of Manassas, Virginia and works as a graphic artist to support his passion. He recently participated in an international collaboration of a Poets and Painters from India and the U.S. Edwin's work has been described as fresh in language and crisp in imagery by English professors in the Washington, D.C. metro area. He likes to think of himself as a dark romantic with a modern voice.

Sunday afternoons.

Sunday afternoons for this crossthetracks kid, are laid down easy
settled back stroking the dogs fur; playing with the floppy ears

rolling thoughts of lovers between my thumb-like some crumb
chewing gum wrapper you don't know where to put so

you stick it in your pocket and take it home with you
just so much pocket debris.

I wish I was a strapping big man
a Duke man, a John Wayne man

on these Sundays when I sink into the sofa lounge tongue almost
just barely, just a little, non-existent.

I wish I was a Gary Cooper man, a High Noon Will Kane man.
On these Sunday afternoons I'm a Magnavox lover asleep by prime time.
Ready

to be folded and stacked neatly behind the basement door where
the special event furniture is kept. For weddings, family gatherings,
facing

Frank Miller and his boys at 12:00 on these crossthetracks laid down
easy Sunday
afternoons.

Still waters

How should we aged children speak?
With a splintered tongue,
dry-rotten and dilapidated?
We are fields of deep shadows,
with late date glimmers through
our holes and scars.
Wheel ruts fading to no destination into
what went to,
what is no longer
there.

Should we speak in old faded yellow whispers,
through the grass's heavy and hazy hay?
Combed by the unkind harvest wind.

Our voices are there.
Mandolin strings sing on the blow,
muffled, yes; but still there.
Hinges silenced,
with exception of the push of breeze
and the hoe rusted to it's broken handle
idle
whistles in air resistance.

We are old now.
We are old. Leave us be.

We are old now!
We are old. Leave us be.

Single scattered historical statues
to the world which suffers
the song of the silenced.
Acreage long choked in acorns.

Vocal chords throttled by the change
of season.

conspiracy of the minute

lonely and powerless
I sat cowering
in the cracks
eating stale sand crackers
with the roaches
plotting anarchy
a million antennae
planning the destruction
of the systematic cruelty
in a spider's web.

Scarecrows

the ladybugs have all flown.
flies know the contour of my face
idiot that I am- defunct,
delicate hairy legs tickling my beard
crevassing my lips
dancing on my lids

cold and crisp as an autumn leaf
hollow and barren, my soul cracks
as junebugs grieve

crows haunt my slumber.
denied dialect
drawn tight into little chapels
where fixed frayed wooden rows
hold a harvest, ripe

there, poised -
a scarecrow
stuffed, for until the earth
will suspend me
eyes crossed in fastened buttons
I am sewn up
puckered lipped
in my favorite suit

are you afraid?
of death
we all are
we all are

Shoo, Shoo!

Morghune' Khaite
Whtwtch@sprynet.com

Bio(auto)

Morghune' Khaite is a man.....?
He was raised in the coastal locale known as Costa Mesa; living with his mother and various paternal stand-ins until his departure at the age of 15. He then roamed the country side in search of Gawds-Know-What, jumping trains and
squatting abandoned buildings for some time until he found what he was looking for on the steel-toe of a cops' boot.

He then returned home to Costa Mesa to seek "Higher Education"; living with his mother and a tight commune of like-minded freaks. Playing musick with his brother and others in such bands as Chula, The Drums of Pangaia, as well as stand-ins with Instagon and others. Finally finding the splendours of city living far too taxing and repulsive he escaped to the backwards town of Morgantown in gourgeous West Virginia where he currently resides in relative peace with his computer and a stiff drink. Morghune' is currently playing in Battery Acid 666, spinning obnoxious records at WVU's radio station U92, taking too many courses, going crazy, writting words and musick, and trying to organize his writtings for publication.

He can be reached, insulted, invited, proposed to, bought and sold, at Whtwtch@sprynet.com or 467 1/2 Dallas, morgantown, wv 26505.

Thee Ill Wind That Blows

There was a promise of truth
when the seed was planted in fertile soil
But truth is subtil as flowers
fragile as glass
and may be shattered
Shattered or overcome by more powerful scents
It is an Ill wind that blows through this world
Blows and carries the smell of decay
to the four corners of the earth
A taint that one, who is not immune to emotion, may
sense
The sickly sweet smell of hopelessness
And to watch humyn beings swirl like leaves
on the rank wind of stagnation
is to lose ones self
Or, less commonly; this is to hate
those people, who
fragile as glass,
light as leaves in their ignorance
flutter along on the path without care
Crushing others as they go
without stopping
Never stopping to sense the enourmous beauty
of strength in determination
Never stopping to notice the fragile nature of truth
and the beauty of her illusions.

Hemorrhoids

I'm looking into a mirror,
seeing glazed eyes starring back at me like a stuffed deer.
Permanent headlight Tharn,
expression like a gun-shy dog quivering at your feet.
Then the tears come and Iím running.
Down the hallway,
into the yard and screaming;
only to find myself laying on the concrete steps
that are so much a part of my life.
Nose running like a leaky faucet
and the dried tears caked on my eyelashes
like the mud on my boots.
And now I know how a brick must feel,
being tossed through the second storey window
of some patriarch's house;
Used, to express a futile hatred for the world.
I can feel my teeth rotting as they chatter
to the rhythm of my pounding heart,
rocking as I turn my head
Cause I've heard my name being called.
As I wrestle with my demons,
in my gut I can feel a hunger,
and I notice nobody is calling, only ghosts inside my head.
And now as the dust storm settles
And I begin to wonder
how this story is gonna end.
With more crying, I suppose,
a happy ending would be out of the question.
We all must have done something terribly wrong to
deserve this or it doesn't really matter.
Well, I guess she never cared.

Saturdae Night Lunacy

Humbly,
we walk down nighted streets
Smiling at the windows as we walk by
Many students of economics
and suchlike non-sense wander,
bumping merrily into one another,
choking down poisons,
refining the portrayal of Televised Masculinity.
And we pretend that the streets are dead,
Playing,
with a cleansing breeze
sweeping filth from gutters
into the eyes.
Each ferocious gust
reminding us;
This night is for naked virginity.
Standing under the yellowed streetlamp.
Exposed
For all that we are,
Stumbling
As new deer on wobbling legs towards mother.
Reaching out to her with slurry words,
questioning :
A-ma?
A-ma?

What are you hungering for little one?
Reaching out to her with vagaries,
Searching.
With a child's brain dictionary.
Searching.
Oh the tangents you lead me on could
dumbfound the schizophrenics,
With those word-flurries
like fat snow flakes blinding.
And the philosophers would scream out;
Frustrated,
at the formless formulae that confound
the ordered wreckage of western dogmas.
And giggling
Like lunatics,
skipping down the streets,
past the walking dead,
skipping through nighted alleys.
Perhaps the buildings,
these constructs,
will at once
Be disappeared.
Leaving only the
Formless
And Naked
Virginity
Exposed
to smiling eyes.

Caustick Whirlwind Holocaust in G-flat 7 minor
The Filthy Street Prophet screamed:
"Swallow It All you Sissies!!!"
As the Sub-Beatnik Anti-hero in Black
wonders if he's talkin' 'bout the semen or the lies.
Crossing the street, a womyn who looks
more like a frightened animal
scurries into her conveyance whilst dodging
the sidelong glaring starings of the porn-shop patrons
as they moulder in their own repression.
Then it's Mardi Gras with the fuzz
pulling pieces on a New Jersey parking ticket debtor
who shrugs impotently as the pigs throw him into the
cruiser, only to chauffeur Mr. Jersey a quarter block across
the street
for his complimentary three days stay in the luxury tank.
Big Fuckin' Trucks totin' Rebel Flag sportin' red-necked
car-jackers come for the unfortunate Mr. No Fear's sporty
ride.
Jacking it up onto the flatbed and away they go
with a noxious cloud of testosterone and peanut shells.
and here we are now
sitting in this Penny University, drinking too much coffee
and shaking like the barley,
watching pre-pubescent high-school girls flirt with
longhaired Fratboys
on this steamy Fridae morning
Wishing for a tornado to take it all away.

Balls and Fury

Nobody wants to hear about unrequited love and
lonesome.
They want Balls and Fury!
Songs of Lust and Fuck.
But I swear on my own grave;
I've never wanted to 'fuck' anybody I've ever seen or
met,
And, I couldn't say a damned romantic thing if my life
depended on it.
All I know about is Pain and Fear,
Drowning in Apathy,
Wanting to hide from the world, myself, and everything.
I guess I have loved a few humyns in my lifetime.
But when theyíre gone, I rarely think of them.
Then only late at night, alone, in an empty house;
when I have absolutely nothing better to do.
I don't even know why anybody,
in their right mind,
would want a lover anyway.
You share the good times;
the laughter,
the success.
But when it really comes down to pain and suffering;
when it really gets down to the meaner aspects of life.
(in all its splendour)
You are all by yourself, babe.
Beating your brow; weeping.
Drinking yourself into oblivion.
Picking up shattered glass and torn photographs;
Alone

Logick Reigns

Objective Truth is like a hammer
Bludgeoning mind/body/and soul
into a fine grey powder
which is collected and sold to suckers at bible revivals
and broadcast though the Aether
Directly
Into your home

And Righteous Indignance
(Bottled and marketed by Advertising Giants)
Just happens to be the hottest seller in the market
(to date)

Potent chemical reactions intiate dramatic physiological
Imbalance
Hurling reason beyond Yonder Abysses
Plummeting silently towards a new madness

Heat seeking missiles eek out patent liars,
and, with ever persuasive arguements
Convince heathen madmen of the validity of
Western/Northern/Eastern/Southern
DOGMAS
And with the rythmic ponderings of the common
Intelligencia'
(in perfect harmony with the semple folk)
Furious Knights Templars rouse from Antient Slumber
Come to bring purification by flame with corpulent hands
And then;
With a blinding flash,
Microcosmic chain reactions touch off
ìa mysterious spiritual revival'
Tempered with a most humble
and colourful capitalism,
Tender Hierarchies,
And Cheerful Cruelty
Delivered by pasty faces in monotone intonations
Then come the last days,
Marked by Fiery Lodestones
streaking through the night sky
And a Symphonic Cacophony of Screams
Issues forth from Unhallowed Congregations of humyn
animals
Heaving and Frothing
Hither and Fro
As foam upon the tide
And Hu'zz'a for the Apocalypse
And the Blessed Silence that may Follow

Autumn

Crimson leaves fall from the sky
(gentle fluttering wind)
Mouldering in piles on the rotten earth
(musty basement smell)
Glittering worms crawl across the parchment
(excrement of trees)
Taking advantage of the waste, the spirits play a game of
scatter on the lawn
(crinkle, scratch, crinkle)
And the days pass by as the leaves seek refuge in safe
places
('round garbage cans)
Obfuscating the roots of a tired oak
('neath abandoned cars)
They collect like so many weary fascinations
(cluttering the lawn)
Rotting away with cobwebby slowness
(with our passions)
Fading gentle like our inclination to fight
(with our memory)
They rot away, becoming one with the collective
unconscious
(feeding tired trees)