Sunday, October 29, 2017

Kind of blue (for Carol)

In the middle of Miles Davis
and a cool Jack ‘n’ dry
I thought about you
your image blurred by a sudden
pull towards loneliness
but as you and I both know
I refuse to suffer loneliness

As the picture cleared
between the Miles and Jack
I recalled that first night
that silky red robe you wore
your breasts stroking my fingertips
as we sat in your bath

Miles is done blowing his horn
and my empty glass
wants a little more whiskey
and my lonely heart
wants a little more of you


© Harry Rout 2017

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Playing peek-a-boo with baby Jesus

The other night
I was feeding baby Jesus
his evening bottle
cause Mary’s nipples
have a severe case of cracking
due to the boy’s
ferocious feeding habits.

I told her to try rubbing
some rose-hip oil
or some good old Vaseline
on them twice a day
while keeping him
on the rubber tit
till hers have healed.

She was happy for the help
and all the medical advice
as Joe was working nights
at the Bethlehem Casino
dealing cards
at the blackjack table.

Things are a bit rough
between the two of them
at the moment
as Mary doesn’t want
the lad circumcised
but dad’s adamant
the foreskin’s got to go.

So I’ll keep doing
what I can to help out

and besides…..

Mary’s got a body
to fuckin’ die for.


© Harry Rout 2017

Monday, October 23, 2017

Try a little tenderness

there’s always
that constant struggle
to keep
the tenderness alive
after listening
to the radio news
over a bowl
of cornflakes
and
that first cup
of extra-strong coffee

rapes
murders
crazy motherfuckers
killing for their stupid
GOD

tender
is the tenderness
that rests within the soul
so fragile
is the heart when so often
left alone

and now…

well now with broken
back
one pours
another cup of coffee
while contemplating
jerking-off
to images
of a better world
…a world
where beauty is real

but my hand is
limp
and
the coffee is cold

and
so it goes…

© Harry Rout 2017


Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Bohemian bum-hole

it was one
of those Sunday
mornings
when
you really want
is to sit down
with the gods
&
discuss
all the bullshit
that's going
down

so
I grabbed
the darkness
and
tore a tiny
fucking
hole in it
so
I could squeeze
my head thru

well there I was
staring
out of my
own ass-hole
with
my ball-bag
dangling there
like
some grotesque
growth waiting
for the surgeon's
knife

it was then
that
I realized
that it was all
just
one giant joke
&
as I laughed
&
farted
at the same time
my
sphincter muscle
tightened
and
almost choked
the
living shit
out of me


© Harry Rout 2017

Monday, October 16, 2017

Enlightenment

when one discovers
the chaos
lurking between
reason
and
meaning

one finds
only dystopian ideas
festering
just below
the human soul
like a cancer
devouring
all the hopeful
innocence

one hears
all the fears
&
tears
as they sink
beneath
the surface


© Harry Rout 2017

Me and a little Jim Beam

I have two brothers
and a sister who’s gay,
of course that’s either
neither here nor there.

My brother Bob, who was
a year and a bit
younger than me,
jumped out of this
thing called life
with a long rope
secured to his neck
some years back now.

Like many other gentle souls
it all became too fuckin’ hard,
he just couldn’t keep
swallowing all the crap.

As for me, I’ve just turned 61,
I still have all my hair
though it’s all grey now.
I can still piss in a straight line
and once in a while I wake up
in the morning
with a raging hard on.

Go figure.


© Harry Rout 2017

Thursday, October 5, 2017

There's no help coming

today
the abyss
appears deeper
than usual
with
countless souls
clinging
to the edge
pleading
to their silly
gods
for redemption
&
mercy

standing back
I offer no
assistance…

you see…

I know what’s
fucking
down there


© Harry Rout 2017



Tuesday, October 3, 2017

What the world needs is more guns! (For the 58 plus)

Screaming images
of unborn children
with
automatic rifles
in their hands
fall from my
eyelids
as I sip
sadly on a
Bloody Mary
&
ponder
the artistic
genius of Kalashnikov
&
good old
Mr. Winchester

Somewhere
some mother mourns
in the arms
of her dead
daughter
while politicians
preach promises
of better
times to come
&
silly fuckin’ poets
write silly fuckin’
poems just
like
this one


© Harry Rout 2017