-Real Pagans Drink Blood-
Pianos made for dragons are pushed
into the crevices of their hearts,
in places where music doesn’t exist,
bare, prone and pungent
like a piss-stained mattress on
the best friend’s floor.
They dream of a pianist career
impossible and daring
a 3rd (& fervently dissociative) party
rattled by the bleak standards of a 2 party system
often find themselves in the company of
those willing to question which endeavor
is higher and best suited,
chase down the avenging spirit?
wrestle the diluted dream into submission?
werewolves on the prowl
in darkstar nebulae,
violinists w/ bionic attachments,
eventually a pattern erupts
& it all leads to jungles
in full moon pitch & high strung
engagements w/ Morse enemies
wearing bridal gowns & a ring
of upheaval that holds their full
The midnight stumbler
is grifted by locusts in
detective coats/monocles cuz they’re
winged scrutinizers who
can really stomach all the clues.
But he’s not too naïve
that he misinterprets their deliberations
for the sound of palmetto bugs
flying in the dark
and even though he can’t really
call this night a win per se
it’s a hard one to chock up to a total loss.
The pair of knuckles in
his polyester pants are made
from brass and dragon teeth.
Everything feels justifiable/within bounds
Ideas of self defense leading to Homicide aren’t necessarily unappealing.
A rat lives another quarter of a decade
inside the walls of an AIDS house w/ green energy
The broken glass in the parking lot doesn’t make it
into the heel of his polyester Vans.
It’s not a TOTALOSS.
& when the sun comes up,
all the dismay bleeds off like a cherry popsicle
on a hot sidewalk. Everything’s got possibilities to
He keeps stumbling,
carrying an empty Mason jar of something dark & rich
like virgin punk blood.
A real pagan on holiday, the reaper
Ignoring locust theories &
palmetto songs heard exclusively in notes of pianissimo.
Basquiat Wannabes w/ I.E.D
winning staredowns w/ Cooper’s Hawks perched on chain-link fences in need of repair just as bad as the park itself,
ripped apart by monsoon storms that soak to bone like baptismal water or motherblood,
running away from unfit challenges & lightning bolts in the eyes of predator,
hand mirror stand offs made square on the
edge of a hairpin inevitably play out between men of similar/unequal understanding.
Stringing all those crypto-maxims together w/ a chip on your shoulder that feels like a bulbous clot and having tunnel vision ahead of mowed grass is convincing enough.
It’s a prominent argument to be self-reliant when you can only see what’s in front of you, that moments where vigilance falters, someone’s ready to cut down your neat,
unilateral visions of what is achievable in a codependent world where nothing out-rightly expressed or offered is genuine and w/o consequences.
What a fuct way of coming to some grandiose & ill-formed conclusions about the people around you, the people ‘willing to lend a hand’.
You build mantras and weigh daily affirmations around your exposure to stressful situations, against the fact that Cooper’s hawks aren’t passive aggressive, the monsoon season isn’t passive aggressive,
predators, hand mirrors & hairpins are not passive aggressive. But you’re not an elemental reaction to hot air or a hunter with the nerve.
You’re used to avoiding direct confrontation,
so you relate more with the broken fences, you’re ripped apart on a regular basis, you’re very used to running away from perceptibly insurmountable challenges, shying away from standoffs w/ crypto-delusions in the mirror.
Do. Not. Fall victim. To self righteousness, to fear, to apathy as a result of bearing down/trudging through. Slink back into the earth like something coiled w/ venomous teeth when the blood is cold. Be brazen and unassuming in matters of wisdom, stretch yourself against Cooper’s neck and stop fucking running.
Let yourself fall prey to being
carried off by a purpose bigger than yourself.
Bio: Frankie Metro is 1 slice of the pie and co-founder of Kleft Jaw Press, which celebrates transcendental realism (a fancy way of saying we like to put stuffed baby bears in t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and read poems in front of it.)
Poetic Statement: Transcendental realism is the equivalent of butchering your grandfather’s WW2 notebooks, but throwing a party for him afterwards, which includes every Decepticon you could possibly conceive, wearing baker hats and grilling your sensibilities/conventions with a fire that is only stoked by your capacity to see past moral ambiguity.