Friday, January 11, 2019

Gene Barry writes

Stuffing Hanks

One day I will cry forever.
Not like a terrace loser,
or a baby-faced softy,
you know, a terminal cry.
I will stoke my engine with
nights-without-sleep and invasions, 
childhood floggings and hidden wounds,
attacks and black-suited fiends. 
I won’t forget to douse the unexpected 
with rivers of anal blood and
floods of small-boy tears.
I will hold up all of those walls 
I’ve fallen off and hidden behind
with screaming wrongs 
and decorate my sky
with pointing children’s fingers.
A cortege of forbidden questions 
will at last assemble
and trod with notice 
to a brand new place of old
where every squeezed-open
pair of perfect ears
will finally embrace 
my slowest form of death.
And they will no longer speak of the 
odd-little-boy who grew to be
that strange-kind-of-fella,
always the loner decorating corners,
the weirdo and the dark horse
and I will meet the dark father
dressed in dresses from the dark box,
the groomer of my un-lived life.
I will wear my coat of fury and
beat and stomp and slap and bite down hard,
return the pent-up painful years of screams,
accuse and insult and verbally stab deep.
I will hand back shame,
stuff hanks of guilt deep into his larynx;
I will pleasure for my first time.
That same day a man will 
fall into the carefully-planned
death of a family and each season
his only friend who understood him
will refuse to yield the buried
pictures of childhood he’d sown.

Image result for man on dark corner paintings
Der Gespaltene (The Split One) -- Peter Birkhäuser    

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