Three Poems by JD Brayton

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Three Poems

by

JD Brayton

 

Zen Snowcone

Kite flying in an arctic gale.

The Moon is a Hoax.

Truth a Trope.

Sentient Sneezing.

A mistake dangling

accidentally

Out of God’s nostril.

(here’s a whisper from the Buddha)

Fuck The Man

For He Is Wise

In Giving His Cash

To Sleeping Artists.

FELLOW CHAMPION

POWER CORRUPTS, OR IS IT THE

STRENGTH OF ONE TRILLION SUNS

AND LETTERS TO THE INSANE

YOU CAN’T CALL IT CANDY

OR ROSES FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER

IT’S SIMPLY THE SCENE YOU PAINTED

LIKE TEMPRA PILLBOX SUNSET SPEARS

USE THE PAWNS LIKE PICKETS ON A FENCE

KEEP THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN AND LEARN THEIR NAMES

LAMBS WHO EAT IVY SURELY WILL DIE

BUT ONLY AFTER A SECOND TRY

IT IS HUMAN NATURE, THIS WILL IN BATTLE

THEY SHOUT FROM ONE MILLION ANGRY THROATS

AND POINT TOWARD THE ARMOR SHIMMERS

WHISPERING JEALOUS POEMS

TO ARMS ALONE

WHO NEEDS AN ARMY?

THE UNISON SOUND BREAKS QUIETLY

TOWARDS THE FRONTIERS OF DELUSION

THERE WAS NO BATTLE

THERE IS NO FOE

YOU TASTE BLOOD BECAUSE

YOU BIT YOUR LIP

 

Chimera Bombinians In Vacuo

ssss-ssss-ssss-sss
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Unscathed.
Unscaled.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
Old tasted..tasting
Crazily (ME)-bite
Crazily (ME)-bite

Here’s a callous rubberstone
Bouncing, prancing, chewedly bone
Glissading dogmouth kites
“ Ah, Youth! You glide like God-Dog water.!”
(I’ve watched from my perch..)
Yes. I’ve sat and set
Drooling petrified
Down
In
Ice.

Down in silver trails unheat
Spattering cowbones at my feet
I eat more stone in hand
I smell beauty
Assuredly( ME )-seat
Assuredly (ME )-seat

“ The Chimera has a riddle, soft man..
~young             *              man~
who scars stone in a moaning sun?”

ssss-ssss-ssss-ssss

My poetic statement- has to reside with the words committed to blank pages. Though it may, (at times), seem so -these poems are not limned in blood. Racing thoughts and automatic writing are the stuff of whispering ghosts. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen between candybars.  Pass the salt and it had better be worth it, pilgrim.

Faith may be primitive, but it’s the rarest tribe I know.

Bio- J.D. Brayton is an artist and musician who can, as if by magic , transmogrify poetry into lyrics, lyrics into short stories, short stories into novels, and novels into guaranteed poverty.

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