BUZZING English Poetry

8/8/2019 BUZZING English Poetry

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BUZZING

An Original Book of Poetry

By

Christopher L. Jones

All rights reserved.All material contained in this manuscript is copyright 2010.

Cover image by the author.

Permission to use all or part of this manuscript is given as long as authoris given credit.

www.jonesing.com

http://www.jonesing.com/





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3 Weary Brown Frowns4 Buzzing5 Quiet Moment6 I Can Smell My Feet7 Last Memory8 What Am I To Make Of All This?9 The Little Infantile Devil10 When Did I Get So Old?11 Hungry12 What Is The Point?13 Silently Pensive14 Organizing15 The Little Boy Said16 No Appetite for Life

17 Sad Land18 Shoveled Sand19 Painfully Broken20 Existing in This Gluttonous Self Indulgent Land21 Lost in Dream World22 Family Handouts23 Voice Haunt Me24 Tired of the Lies25 Jade Green Stone In My Pocket26 Softly Sleeping My Little One27 About the Author



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Weary Brow Frowns

Weary brow frownsSo low to the groundMy ass dragsMy legs and feet are numbI am unfeeling from all this reelingToo much having funNot caringOr seeing which way the wind blows meJust caring on crazyAs my loved ones and friends stand byHorrified

And hope that I landOn two feet and at least somewhatCoherentWhich I don’t always do It’s true



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Buzzing

BuzzingBuzzMy ear lies next to my amplifierAnd I think I do not hearAnything except for the grating on meOn my stringsPick in handFlat on my backStaring up at the ceilingWhat for I wonder and whyI strum

A buzzing buzzCrescendoAnd rushLost in the static of my amp



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Quiet Moment

Quiet moment to myselfBefore the baptize begins againDowse her with water and scrub her downWhether or not it produces a frownI smile and laugh and try to make it funBut she will have none of itShe merely wants me to be doneI say to wash your hairScrub your face and your chinClean up that ass and mop up your cheeksSo I can pull the plug

And we can all be throughWith this ritual that is bath timeWhat is a parent to do?



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I Can Smell My Feet

I can smell my feetMy soles they stinkMy whole body reeksOf all this death and decayThat has found my wayThrough all this vapor and gasThat I inhaleI frown and am dismayedFor my day has gone so unfetteredSo person left to obstruct meEach individual chased far away

Only my daughter is leftAnd she willingly stands beside meAs I wither awayTo die my last dayBut not beforeI leave her a legacyTo stand on



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Last Memory

Blank chalk board stands out in my mindWill that be my last memory?I visit each day as if I had never gone awayBut each time it is differentSo surrealMy smell, my touch, the who I am has vanishedIt has become the shell of a tombEmpty and with no planningDusty and bareAs if no one caresFor no one

LivesThere



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What Am I To Make Of All This?

What am I to make of all this?This big mess that I createdIn another stupid fitWhy is it I who throws everything to the wind?Is it really just for the sheer amusement?Of seeing it all fall apart and scatter like leaves in the grassWhat am I to think of this juvenile self?This person who I have becomeSo unwittinglyAnd now so dumb



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The Little Infantile Devil

The little infantile devil lives within meIt rears its ugly headIt smiles at meIt knows me secrets and all that I dreadAnd I know that it is going to throw them all out to the floorExposed and aired dried for all to seeAnd it will just sit there and laugh at meThen fold up and go back insideTry to hideWhile all the fingers are pointed at me



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When Did I Get So Old?

When did I get so old?And what does that make my mom?Should I lie decrepit?Lost in my own wasteOr stand up tallLike the daisyThat grows in such hasteFrom my ashesIts rootsHave sprungIn full bloom



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Hungry

So hungry for a cockA dick for my throatA stiff hard manTo stand me downAnd shove that thingFull chokeGrind some gearsPump those pistonsI’ll pucker my lips And pretend to listenSo hungry for a cock

And nice hard dickA penis to pounce onSome cum to lick



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What Is The Point?

What is the point of this?If all I do is sit, sit, sit?Never get up off my lazy assWander the worldFind a girlFall in loveAnd spend my days in the shadeEating grapes by the bank of a riverInstead I sit and brood and wonderAt all the endless possibilitiesAnd I get lost in the choosing

The method of selectionThe reason of sorting and puttingAll this up in my faceI forget



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Silently Pensive

Silently pensiveChain smoking cigarettesMy fingers are stained a sick greenish greyMy skin is dusty and ashyCalled a ghost of myselfFleeting in and outBetween the relics of all my past livesThat lay shattered and wastedIn a long wide trail behind meTo the side of meAnd now spread out before me

I sit on a slabPut my head in my handsHide in the shadowsFrom the machines overheadAvoiding all the prickly needlesWatching as my nerves shake



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Organizing

OrganizingRe-organizingThrowing it all outStarting againNo matter how I arrange myselfMy life and all its contentsI am dissatisfiedIt is all so unkemptIt is all so clutteredWhat happened to the back wall?My nice clean lines have all disappeared

In this clutter I am maddenedAnd grab to strike a matchPut fuel to itAnd watch me burnStanding up tall and proudOn this pyre



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The Little Boy Said

The little boySaid he wanted some dickSo I felt obliged to give it himI unzipped my fly and poked it in his eyeWhen he slid down on his knees to preyFor finally he had seen godIn the form of a hard phallic manAnd in his handsLay the keys to salvationIf only to work up and earnChrist’s blood and vital fluid

Served him gaggingWith the back of his headIn my hands



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No Appetite for Life

I have no appetite for life todayIt tastes sourAnd I want to throw it awayIt leaves me spitting onto the floorMy phlegm flying wildlyHard to ignoreI shut my mouth and hopeHope that this all just goes awayPerhaps through starvationI can somehow have my day



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Sad Land

So sad I am to see this landWhen I know the historyThat has since endedShadowed faces of those who wereAnd flickering illusions of that which is no moreAll the place namesAll our the reference points taken downGoneNot a friendly faceA warm embraceOr a pat on the shoulder from a friend

Just a cold harsh windBlowing from beginningTo end



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Shoveled Sand

I shoveled sand todayFrom one pile to the nextDig a holeThen filled it upStood next to itAnd pondered my graveI rested my brow on the shovel in my handsWatched the sweat drip downFall to the groundLeave dark circles like targetsSwirling the dust as they hit

My skin and teeth grittyA layer of filmGrimGrime and diseasedBack to the grave diggingHigh piles of sand



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Painfully Broken

Painfully brokenDisconnectedDisjointedI have never been able to find my grooveAs I have never really been here to begin withThe wrong currentThe wrong type plugOut of synchUnable to touchMy hands always just pass right throughEven when I reach out

And try to getSome loveFrom you



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Existing in This Gluttonous Self Indulgent Land

Existing in this gluttonous self indulgent landI take my penis in hand and try to masturbateBut so disgusted I am of all this wasteThat it leaves me flaccid in my hasteTo ejaculateWhat am I to makeFrom this taken from meAm I to give it back?With loveAnd sacrifice myselfThe lamb



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Lost in Dream World

Lost in dream worldI was last nightBut not asleepBut wandering in the world of my idle thoughtsThe things that I put down on pagesThe remembrances and forgotten acquaintancesThat surface before my eyesAnd remind me of the pain and the reasons whyI have learned to despise and hate this whole form of reasonThis thing called lifeReality

This space we inhabit and that is in between us



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Family Handout

I offer a hand to familyTo soften the blowOf dealing with the crazy oneThe psychotic nut job on the verge of a breakBut who looks good going downIt is hard to tellThe freakSo I calm downLook aroundAnd act calm as they come and see meEverything is alright

I am so out of sightWhen really I just want to die



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Voices Haunt Me

Voices from dead peopleHaunt me in my thoughtsI see their wordsSo plainly writtenAnd wonder at what costDid they give to create?These things that have been left lastingDid they know then?As I do now as to which would be pickedAnd which disregardedDid they throw their lives into them?

I wish I could close my mind like the bookAnd not see them againBurning putrid in the frame



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Tired of the Lies

I am tired of the liesOf all the disguiseAll the excuses and make believeWhy can’t it be truth? Honestly told even in the face of painIs it all just about respect?Is it really as simple as that?Or is it about true love?That romantic idealThat in our zealWe killed.



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Jade Green Stone In My Pocket

Jade green stone in my pocketTo forever remind me of youIt is not smoothIt has a large crackThat runs down itOn one sideI capped it with goldAnd put it on a chainWhere it will remainTagging along with meAt my beck and call

There for me to fondle and cherishOr lose and destroy



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Softly Sleeping My Little One

Softly sleepingMy little one should be dreamingThinking of pleasant thingsThose little children doLost in colors of creams, yellows and goldAdrift, awash, and constantly seekingI unfurl the great rug before youIts deep velvet of purple and redTo luxuriateTo fascinateTo lull you back

To sleep



About the Author

Christopher L. Jones is currently living in theAmerican Southwest in Tucson, Arizona. His poemshave appeared in many journals and collectionsthrough the years. A graduate of New Mexico StateUniversity, he has contributed to the performing artscommunity in his area for over twenty five years invarious capacities. His work ranges from battling thedemons of mental illness to illicit sex and drugabuse and has been described as “masturbating onthe world’s stage in verse” and “…exactly what iswrong with the average white American male…”

Aside from writing you can find him getting high,being naked and generally pissing everyone off.

To find out more about the author and work pleasevisit www.jonesing.com

Other works available:

ADDICT

FAGGOT

SLUT

BITTER

MANIC STATE

DISLOCATION

GOING TO COUNTRY

FRAIL SCABS

OVER THE BACK OF THE CHAIR

CROSSING LINES

LINGERING ON THE SMELL OF YOU

THE CRAZYMAN IN THE CROWDFIRM YOUNG BREASTS

ALONE WITH WANDERLUST

Prose:

BLACK POUNDER





BUZZING English Poetry

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