week of September 11-17, 2000
Darren Johnson and Alan McLaughlin
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
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Darren Johnson
rocketusa@delphi.com
Bio (auto)
Darren Johnson is an award-winning, widely published writer and poet Johnson uses tight, streamline free verse to experiment with words and thoughts, often tying everyday reality into a sex-charged fantasy world His latest chapbook, “-30-,” hits stores in May In case your local mega-chain doesn’t carry it, simply send $2 to Rocket Press, PO Box 672, Water Mill, NY 11976 for a signed edition Johnson, 30, lives in Riverhead, NY, with his wife, Eileen, and daughter, Kaylee.
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Darren Johnson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Rich Girl
it didn’t matter
that she told all those lies
about how she was
going to buy me this
or that take me to
europeit has to be expected
when you’re so
much older and
she’s a virginwhen she’s so much more
naive that
she doesn’t know
that europe
doesn’t existthat
i won’t be in the
hotel room
the next morningsince although
it was a unique
experience her
clutching the t.v hardit could only be done
onceSexual Relations
Monica is pretty,
I told Alice,
pointing at the TVShe reminds me of
girls I went to
High School withwith rounded hips
and a smile like
a mother’s arms wideYou can tell
she brushes her hair
100 times each side
before she goes to bedmischief in her eyes
wants a relationship
but wants the moment too“That’s why you want her!”
Alice exclaimed “She’s horny “Test Poem
This is a test of the BCC this is only a test if this were not a test
you would melt in the ozone layer of Mars as the red planet crashes intoEarth and women bare their chests and men are happy if only for a
millisecond before they catch into flames but this is only a test
Alan McLaughlin
almac@eos.net
Bio (auto)
Alan McLaughlin is an advertising executive (who believes in minimalist bios )
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Alan McLaughlin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Knits
She sits
and knits
and clicks
a one note sambaBut her furious brow
and silently working mouth
spew Wagner across the room.Crime Scene
The couch
The television
empty bags of Frito’s
littering the coffee table and the floor
Coke cans
on their sides.Bluesman
Old black bluesman
Never fretting with the frets
Hoarse hollow bellow
Cigarette ash
Tumbling into the strings
Blood and guts
Forty five
Upside his baby’s head
But he wouldna
Done it ‘cept for the whiskey
And here comes that first line againTeeth camel stained
Lips chapped
Almost blue
Moanin’ in the wee mornin’ hoursLinoleum platform
Bad lightiing
Sparse tables
Surly waitress
watered drinks
And still he
Lost in the playin’
Lost in the singin’“Oh Jesus my baby’s on the floor
oh jesus my baby’s on the floor
guess she’ll stay there forever
said she didn’t love me any moreworse gun I ever handled was that smith and wesson forty five
worse gun I ever handled was that smith and wesson forty five
if I’d used a twenty two
my baby might still be aliveToo late to do something, don’t know if I can
Too late to do somethin’ don’t know if I can
Downstairs neighbor heard the shootin’
And I know she’s called the man”Final verse
Lookin’ into the light
Re-orienting to club reality
Getting ready to go home
To fried pork chops and gravyHard livin’
Hard dyin’
