...that time i said too much...

Neon green meteorites rained down
on an old brown Buick Century;
windshield glass fogged by indiscretion.

Too delicate to look away and
too embarrassed to admit that
he was rubbing the armrest that
he mistook for her leg.

Stealing quick glances at her
petite breasts that leapt out of her low cut
sundress as she bent over to retrieve her bag.

Hippies don’t wear bras, thank God.

I tell this story and laugh because
that was a long time ago and
the mental trauma has faded to hilarity.

So I pen this story in atypical orange ink.

That’s right motherfuckers I’m comfortable
with my sexuality; stupid hot pink tattoos
that I’d love to show off on my pale biceps
because they are so damn awesome.

But I would have to take off my shirt
and I dare say no one wants to see my scarred
nipples from 10 gage rings that used to
sag my man boobs and bleed through
my best shirts because they never fully healed.

Do people see the hidden meaning of the
fact that there is no hidden meaning
in my artwork?

If dinosaurs could diffuse bombs then
our pop machines would always be
stocked by poor tyrannosaurs with short
arms and senior citizen style extension grips
used to retrieve soup cans by people confined
to their Hoverounds and fueled by
a desire to never give up
as they cruised the Grand Canyon and Wal Mart aisles.

I’d write more but I can’t feel my hand…

Shit.

(c) 2013 p.hill

…Of Captains and Mobster Poets…

Such should be a

class that could be

as a lab where

we might get up

to such business…

Nefarious.

Such should be a class

where the captain forced us to dark uncharted

waters. The soul shown as dark mirror that gives

deep seeded introspection; gives me vision.

Allows me to see that which I should not see,

mourning the loss of my child like romance.

Bound to rules that

when are learned well

are so easily cast off, now.

Shunned!

Banned from the pages that we dictate

as being the rod and rule. For now we have

come to the end when it has all been laid

onto pages milk white and lined dead blue.

The pen has now become the pun, a tool,

you see… Giv’n life by hands no longer trembling.

The word is now the picture, a frame of mind…

I will make no apologies for that which is

said, and what must be put to the paper.

The thoughts that have rattled around are so

near to escape, a sweet release. Far too

long have they been constrained; forced to live in…

inside the depths of my dimension. Now

soon, free to float without form or shape

that was given them by a sinister headmaster.

Words take wing; FLY! Give us your heavy downdraft

to buffet our brains with phrases unclear and meanings unknown…

Standing on our desks we cry loud, “O Captain!

My Captain!” A last honor as we slow march

out these frosted and stained wooden doors.

Oh Captain, My Captain…

…what a lesson we have been given.

(c) 2013 p.hill

Oblivious to Obvious

Porcelain china doll skin
shows bright under stark yellow
fly bloated light.

I reach to take your hand
unaware your fingers have broken off in mine.

A silent victim becomes ash,
the twinkle in your eye once so green
now a melting pool of candle wax.

Under the onslaught of flame
your delicate lace bra  strap
has fallen on your exposed shoulder.

Moving to fix it I fail to notice
the charred sackcloth once sundress.

Oblivious to smoke I see fresh mountain air;
a bountiful spread of vivacious hair
so eager to have fingers run through it,
now fallen away to soot.

An unnoticed television plays in the corner,
a sad box encasing flame.

What was once so good
shall always be now.

The glorious rays of paradise
bask me up and down,
reclining in the crematorium's coffin.

(c) 2013 p.hill

Toy Soldiers in Maple's Autumn

I would if I could tell you we died well
that in glorious fashion a charge we led
such that men might remember and tell stories
these things I would love to tell you about
but the truth is not simple
it never is

instead on a fall's cold day staring down
the impending onslaught of winter's embrace
an old man stooped in the last sad rays of muted sunlight
blood that once ran hot in his veins
now lies tacky, spilled on forested floors

a valiant knight once stood tall in his saddle,
white hair signifying an age but not condemning
him to the sentence of a number
his brave band of armed countrymen stand defiant, to the last
against the coming assault; a ragged fence

I would if I could tell you that he died well
but, in the summer's last light his life he gave
stood barrier between women and men, so proud and brave
however as the sun sank low in the western sky
with puncture wound drawn open, he led his charge, bled and fell

the knight we so bravely and so valiantly defended
stood tall in his saddle for the very last time
but even our brave Lord could not hold out
against the final insults of treacherous hands
placed in power by the same ones that stripped him bare

and we brave few held out as long as we dared
no matter time of day we kept our charge close
until bitter end when we too must give up this ghost
facing the long slow fall on brisk breeze's wings
back towards the earth from once we sprang

the piles of our fallen brethren
await collection by unknown hands
uncaring as they are piled into
heavy plastic bags in an attempt to
ferry us away

but my brothers do not go easily
and in one last act of defiance
destroy the bonds that attempt to hold them
scattered to the winds as prisoners set loose
their muted rustle marks passage of time
but they do not get far, poor lost squires

dead mingled with dead
vibrant colors drained to earthly brown
I would if I could tell you that we died well

(c) 2013 p.hill

Letters and Paper Promises Raining From the Sky

sitting in an orchard of destruction

watching paper promises fall from the sky

letters symbolic of nuclear snowfall

dead red berries clung to the branches

silently weeping tears of blood

praying to whatever gods berries pray to

that they would suffocate in the blizzard

of letters falling from the sky

sitting all alone in an orchard of destruction

letters you wrote to me

words you spoke to me

I wrote them all down to keep your memory alive

that ghost that you became

it crowded into my head and exploded out my eyes

and blizzards ensuing

choking out my tears

letters falling from the sky

sitting in this orchard of destruction

once upon a time so alone but not anymore

about the stroke of midnight

the moon came out its rays calmed the storm

falling letters bound themselves into

tiny little novels chapterizing our time together

written words that we shared

slowly becoming epitaphs

monuments to the love we once shared

marred now only by the sight

of letters falling from the sky

sitting in this orchard of destruction

berry’s blood fell asphyxiated

drawing perfect red lines

on the letters that fall from the sky

creating a blueprint (redprint)

becoming a plan for the future

making my pain the destroyer

making my hope the architect

subtleties that intertwine the lines

create a work of art for my heart to follow

all because in that instant

letters fell from the sky

(c) 2013 p.hill

Once Upon A Time When I Was Haunted

There once was a time, not so long ago

When I was haunted by the spirit of a pretty little thing

She used to creep into my mind

When I wasn’t looking

She would steal visions from my eyes

Replacing them with the memories of days long gone;

Times long dead

 

But then once upon a time when I was haunted

This pretty little thing

She left me one day

I watched her walk out of the door,

Out of my life

In that instant I hated her the most

Because she had taken all those little memories

That I used to hold so dear

Once upon a time when I was haunted

I was filled with the rage and sadness

From innumerable terrible events

From the time that I can remember being able to remember

I attended the funerals for the things that I held most dear

Slowly letting the dirt of life slip through my fingers

Gently cascading down to soft little piles spilling over

The sides of those golden coffins

Once upon a time when I was haunted

I watched this pretty little thing

Keep me company in the darkest hours of my days

Keep my sanity to a level that was unreachable on my own

This little ghost of a thing kept me intravenously fed

Bleeding herself off, so that I could be nourished

And when she was bled completely dry

This little ghost that used to haunt me

She walked away, into the dark of the cold night

Once upon a time I was haunted

And while I hated that the torment was of my own creation

Sometimes I miss the fact that a little spirit would come visit me

Sometimes I miss the fact that there was a little spirit at all

Sometimes I miss being haunted…





(c) 2013 p.hill

Cinammon Girl

"I want to live with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy the rest of my life with her
A dreamer of pictures I run in the night
You see us together chase the moonlight..."

It's amazing what a little Type O Negative can do for my thought processes and editing purposes...  I'm just thinking that if I could do so many writing projects over again, I would gather up every one of my Type O Neg albums and set 'em back to back and use them as my soundtrack for writing...  Whether it's science or not, the voice of Peter Steele really makes me wanna just rage against my computer, rage against the whole revolutionary thought process and let flow the words from my fingers as they strike the keys with such a ferocity that I can't help but be impressed that my poor little Dell didn't send a SHIFT key of an ENTER key a flying through the air...

I've tried to use various forms of other music to work to and it just seems that no matter what I use, I always come back to my Type O Neg...  I've got a beautiful record player in the living room and it has more often than not put forth the sound of Dave Brubeck and Miles Davis and just to be silly a bit of The Clash...  Yet the nostalgia doesn't get my juices flowing as the sounds of the song BLOODY KISSES does and how I want to weep and strike my keyboard as if it were a medieval organ gnashing as the saddened undertones of the woman's weeping in the background seems to put forth the curtain that my writing lies behind.

As I sit and become stressed at the amount of school work that I am faced with and the amount of paperwork that never ceases to fall before me, both in the academic world, but also the business world and the personal world, I know that I can count on my Type O Negative to really allow me to reopen those old scars and fall back into the dark pit of writing.  I think that we always try to deny dark urges of writing but once in a while, ya just have to lest that bastard out and see what hell he's gonna raise on your paper in front you...

Professional or not, sobriety or not, there is something to be said for a piss warm "beer" in your hand and a keyboard that won't relent to your insistent bashing and the keys that would cry MERCY if they had a voice other than what I gave them...  The music sets my mind free and at this stage, it feels good to let it all of your chest and let it fly, if only to wake tomorrow and regret the words that have been put to paper.

The ink that was the blood of my thoughts serves to remind me that the process is never complete........................

never