Sunday, March 13, 2011

Craig Firsdon: Five Poems


Dreams Of Nuclear Napalm
As a child I would lay in bed
and dream of pumpkin pie and napalm
My innocence was lost forever
amongst forever nothings
sent as serialized nightly visions
Little Orphan Annie raped
by experiences never felt
never seen, never alive

She would continue on oblivious
afraid of nothing.
Too bad it all comes
to her as nothing
packaged in bloody Versace
and Sachs 5th Avenue somethings.

Anthrax and diamonds
forged with the crushing hammer
called idiocracy taking form of democracy
and cooled in the geyser of hate
that will set the world on fire.
It was nuclear napalm
erupting from a radioactive wet dream.

Little Orphan Annie rides by in fallout skies
on her shotgun vibrator set on high.
Boom! Boom! Pleasure for the masses!
Let her scream!
Let us all scream!
And then after the fallout and hate,
after the nuclear napalm and shotgun dreams,
there is silence and innocence.

American Truth Chronicles Part 4: Toy Soldiers
They exchange babies for bullets
trained little toy soldiers
just wind them up
and knock them down.
Kindergarten Marines with runny noses
passing on sicknesses to enemy soldiers
Anti-aircraft slingshots
and bottle rocket submarine launched missiles
Entire crews of boogiemen lay dieing
They call themselves pirates,
sword in one hand,
pacifier in the other.
Prisoners of their customs.
We are warned of evil terrorists
and defended by a kaleidoscope of colors.
Oh look! Its a red day,
get to your bunkers,
grab your automatics.
Terror hits home
as rattles and binkies
and five year olds plant i.e.d.'s like tulips
watering the harsh soil
with tears and blood of American mothers.
The mission is all that matters,
only some of their babies
will come home.

Mission codenamed murder
don't mind the brightly colored ribbons
in her hair
or the muddied pigskin
in his,
they are only remote controlled assassins
masked as preschoolers
by protege programmers
whose only goal in life
is making weapons of mass destruction easy,
a dirty bomb with pigtails and a bottle,
after all it's hard to kill a target
when it's teething
and justifying an explanation
for the use of deadly force
when the victim is only three.

Suicide bombers, suicide infants,
suicide toddlers crawling for the first time
on their knees in front of tanks and convoys
like marbles rolling across tabletops
c-4 packed diapers worn perfectly
never to be changed
blowing away fellow toy soldiers
fallen down never
to be picked up once more.

The reality of today
is trust is dead
truth is dead
innocence is dead.
You can't trust a toddler
to not be packing heat,
a clip or two
hidden by a cute smile
and your afraid to walk
down the street to the park
scared you will see a little boy in Batman
or little girl princess in pink
strapped with dynamite
enough explosives to level a playground
waiting to see the surprise in your eyes
then pressing the button
back and forth
like the swing set creaking nearby,
but much deadlier.

These days educating our children
seems unnecessary
when they don't need
to learn how to count to ten.
Ten seconds would be more than enough time
to kill you or I,
their mothers, our fathers,
teachers, doctors,
priests and Buddha himself.
No, they have no need for school itself,
no need for math, social studies, language or art,
no need with lives predestined
by the hand of the toy makers,
our own hands.

The ten digits on our palms
assemble the bombs,
cock the guns,
wind up each toy soldier,
aim and let go.


Let go..

Each little life we have aimed
at adult targets
and let go,
washing blood from adult hands
and no matter how hard we scrub,
how much we wash
the blood is eternal,
a reminder of each and every
little toy soldier.


Out on the city streets
passing by every unforgiving streetlight
wondering what it would be like
to feel without a high
to see through unblurred eyes
to be one with every child's laugh
                        every homeless gaze
                        every street whore
                             making that one last buck
                             to be free
                             to be happy
                             finally happy

Faceless symphonies mute for too long
drowned out by political laughs
and the sound of the almighty dollar
finally crashing
down into obscurity
better known as the poor
the huddled masses
we, the people.

Remove your trench coats and cardboard shades
the down pour is over
the world has spit on you enough.
Millions of unanswered prayers,
sleeping under neon Jesus'
Every night
you salvage every disappearing skyline
only enough to have some sort of chance.

I believe we've had enough trying to save the world.
Did you hear me?

One Word

The other day you asked me to write you a poem.
I tried to say no, but I couldn't.
Your desperate gaze said all I needed to hear.
So I thought
and leaned over.
I brushed your hair aside,
put my lips to your ear,
and whispered one word
just one

At that moment your eyes lowered,
head fell flaccid from sympathetic neck,
and one tear ran down your cheek,
just one

I had never seen you so vivid
as you were at that exact moment
Your blackest nights were now shades of gray.
Every self-inflicted scar no longer runs red
leaving a trail of fear and hopelessness behind.
Your counter once cluttered with open bottles
is now filled with open bibles
and it was then that I realized
that one word,
just one
could save a person's life
and, possibly, even save
this one

Painting Liberty

Health care, marijuana, flip-flops,
conservative signs of the Apocalypse.
The anti-Christ sits at a computer
in boxers that cover the naked truth
while waging a holy war.
His vision is sparked by syllables,
words, lines, poetic essence
and fed by societal combustion
exploding onto the screen
as common sense in an age of idiocy.

I slide my fingers over the keyboard
and begin to type, black on white,
on a canvas of hopes and ideals,
a colorblind Picasso attempting
to master the Mona Lisa.
Every line inside waiting
to come alive.

We live in a gray world
amongst gray lives
existing solely on gray morals
as red innocent blood
is spilled by black hearts
for just a little more green
in their pockets.

One word, and then another,
bringing truth to light
a homeless child on Cherry Street,
a gangbanger on Erie.
Seen, but never seen,
a poet's calling in the flesh.

Red, white, blue, purple, green,
We are all poets of the mind
living technicolor dreams
and painting liberty
in a colorless world.

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