New Project

Now available through LuLu publishing: Smoke & Eyeliner

http://www.lulu.com/product/lulustudio-photo-book/smoke-eyeliner/16811507

A Public Note

I should mention here, that all poems are subject to rampant revision. Should you see a poem here, that I have posted elsewhere, and you notice that they are completely different, consider what is here the final product.

Atrophy

she
was
like
a
floating
flower
on
a
river
of
asphalt;
beautiful
once.
there's
no
joy
in
her
life
now,
just
a
used needle
to
cure
her
lonely,
distorted
reality.
a
terrible
waste,
like
some
antique
left
to
rot
among
other
discarded
treasures.

©Gary Coker II, 2011

Left Behind

she could have been
the last
one,

a long line of
pretty faces before hers.

broken
like the shell
of an almond,

my heart
tossed on a shelf
littered with empty shell casings.

she was a pistol
with a grip
to grab the substance of a man;

left for
dead in the carnage
of her passing.

kiss her for me
if you see her
and tell her where to find
me--

I'll be at the bar with nothing
but a
burned out,
hollowed soul.

©Gary Coker II, 2011

Good Husband

he's looking for the good life
he said:

"it's around this joint,
has to be"

and it's true, there
is a lot of

panty hose, eyeliner
lipstick and a sweet sweaty
smell that only a dime could make.

I told him that his wife
might not be too pleased
with his extracurricular activities

outside

the boundaries of a suburban
mini-van

this is what he told me:

"my mini-van has
lots of leg room"

There's no arguing that

so we bought another round and
his hopes became mine
in some drunken bond of brotherhood.

A Night In The Life

eyes burned
red
and
irritated,

bright like
a neon sign-

some rugged Jersey
street corner

whore
beating against the hard

landscape
of her life--dreams

snuffed
out.

a need

to get to the vein sensation--gone,

she's wasted

tuned out;

a trip while tripping,

stumbling,

rambling and mumbling

her next payment on pavement:

"thirty dollars."

that's her dream

her life on Jersey
concrete
and there's no
hope of getting out alive.

Update

This evening, I have submitted several new poems to Black-Listed Magazine, Gutter Eloquence and Word Riot.

I think these poems were some of my better work, so piss on 'em if they reject these masterpieces.

Now, where did I put that Vodka.

To My Admirer

you tell
me
that
I don't
write
"good"
so
excuse
me
while
I go splash
around
in a
fucking
well.

understand that
I don't
care to
impress
you,
with your
inability
to
write
at all;
recognize
my middle
finger
upraised to
impress
upon you
the importance
of my
final
words.

your rejection
only
fuels
the comedy
I'll write
for your
eulogy.

After The Funeral

I went to Johns
funeral last week and
it occurred to me that
Samantha, his wife, looked
damn fine in her black skirt.

I remember she tried to give me a tug
behind Johns old
Ford pickup once,
but he was alive then,
drunk as usual and passed out inside on the seat.

I pull myself away from my hardon long enough to hear
the preacher ask the crowd in front of him,
"does anyone have anything they'd like to say?"

At this point I figured I should say something,
he was my friend.

I stood up,
serious and stern faced:

"John, I almost fucked your wife
once, but you were alive then,
so I didn't."

I said it with tears in my eyes
and a lump in my throat:

"You're not alive now though, so I guess you won't
mind if I do fuck her after we blow this joint,
or she blows me, whichever comes first"

The gasp from the crowd
is audible and I can't stop the tears.

"Thanks for the memories, pal."

I sit back down,
feeling a little better about the whole affair.

North West Maple Street

I decided to take a trip
back to my childhood
spent on North West Maple
street

walkers patrol the frontlines
today.

Those were different times,
when cigarettes were cheap,
something like a buck fifty
and women dressed up like
broads in nursing homes.

Now it's cheap blow jobs,
something like a buck fifty.

Yeah, this place changed,
but it changed for the better;

women wear less clothing these days.

The Last Word

I'm half wasted from
smoke in my eyes
and the vodka tonics
I desperately drank at the bar;

met another dime this evening,
maybe a six, I'm too fucking drunk to know the difference

She's one of those girls that wears
shorts just long enough
to show men what they can
expect if she lets them get close enough-

she knows that's all we really want,
and she knows how to get us.

We make it back to her place
and she grabs
a bottle of gin waiting on the coffee table;

She does this a lot I guess,
but I'm too fucking drunk to care.

My cigarrette is just a cherry
by the time she grabs a couple glasses
and pours us a drink.

All I'm thinking about is how long ago did
she lose her cherry - yeah, I'm too fucking drunk to care.

She walks over to hand me my drink
and sits down,
in that special way that whores sit when they want to tease you:

"you'll have to touch my face
before you touch my flower"

she whispers into my ear.

I'm right surprised at that,
because I didn't expect anything romantic
before a quick and furious fuck in a strangers bed.

I'm too fucking drunk to care.

Rosedale

there was a time

when my fingers

caressed

her blushing face-

a memory

gone

to waste-

no longer visited

on street corners-

creep back in-

she walks another

beat now,

but they'll never have

Rosedale moments-

dirty hippie-sheets,

wrinkled dollar bills laughing

from a corner table,

cheap perfume mixed

with motel signatures;

we were just two beaten souls

in a closed down rat race,

and behind stained-fabric

curtains,

we found our place.

Late Night Glare

stare blankly at

a blazing white screen and

go blind; think like they do.

surely if I think like they do,

I can write a 'they do' poem

with enough of me to take

away the sting of them?

they consume my cancer,

my disease-

my need to produce,

like a man spreading seed

to feed

his desire for a

fertilized dream: I give this to you

take from me what you want

and give only hunger

back.

I know that flames

burn bright in youth, and my

youth is flickering out like

a candle stuck in a draft-

this poem is for you,

understand? your hunger

to consume me is all that

I have left and not even these

words will sate you?

what can I give to you?!

here,

take the last

piece of my soul that you haven't

gnawed upon,

but chew slowly and savor the essence

of my death.

People

people are like gum stuck to

the bottom of

a public park bench,

disgusting to touch,

but secretly fascinating.

about as fascinating as

dog shit

on a public sidewalk;

some asshole left his mark.

like gum stuck to

the bottom of

a public park bench.

people are hidden in daylight,

unknown.

unknowingly,

assholes

have a skewed perception of their

own importance,

and that's when I like to think of that gum, and

that dog shit. people sometimes leave

behind their mark,

and nobody notices

until they vomit

from the contact. I

smile at the people walking by.

Same Old Poison

I have no use for women today,

but yesterday was a downright

heavy affair.

long legs and blue eyes;

so blue I fancied for a moment that I must be a

drowning victim having some kind of

pre-death delusion.

she was real

and so was her husband,

that raving mad lunatic

with a shotgun in my rearview mirror

as I drove off into some romance novel;

fucked up

lit, wasted--gone;

I have no use for women today,

but let's be honest and truthful

because tomorrow is another blue-eyed day.

Moving On

her lips tasted cheap and sour

used

like some broken down professional athlete

after his last come back knee surgery

and her career will go on

because assholes like me never did mind

a bum knee

and the only color to her complexion was

the red and white mixture of a cheap thrill

and some shitty makeup from whatever

thrift store she happened to steal it from

but who was I trying to fool?

eggs never need a sell by date

with dates like these and nobody gets hurt

in the morning

besides,

they don't make lockers for her game anyway

and I didn't plan to stick around long enough

to need the storage space