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Poems by David Thompson

dirt road dreams

Netherby-man wrote a long one home,
and formed before,
he flew into the trees,
a short hope of sun long after dusk,
and netherby-man kneels to water,
ditched beside
the road of his name,
his grandfathers built here first so long ago,
where their carts broke down,
horses stopped for drink,
and shoes stuck deep into the muck,
and stayed always thinking,
of moving on but instead,
they took the wives of the parish,
into shacks along the road,
packed dirt floors,
wood stoves,
oil on the walls,
almost like a Rembrandt but formed from flame of fat,
framed with axe and shotgun...
so long ago,
so long ago and thinking of moving on,
netherby-man,
the other side of freedom,
and dig new dirt,
haul new well water from a mile away,
fell new trees for new lumber for new shacks,
thinking of moving on,
where his grandfathers meant to go,
before they fucked the woman here,
and made dust dream,
dream of the new life and cash money for gasoline,
new winter clothes...
before it gets too old,
these wheels rust quickly in rain, sun, wind,
along this road,
and look at this ditch,
this scraggly field of stone crops,
and gutted grandfathers car by the fire of '62,
what anyone can call home,
looking for something more,
oh God,
before autumn harvests gravel,
before bone turns to dust,
before fire looks too much like hope,
before it gets too old...

lumenesque

Bash your head into mine,
bash your head into mine
and learn
the earth,
water is hard when belly-flopped upon
learn
the metal,
roses draw blood when rubbed the wrong way
and bash your head into mine,
into mine
and find
the mouth,
words are hot, I speak them
with oven mitts on my tongue,
know
the man of might is knowing weakness
as abstract art,
infinitely
arms stretch out, in all directions
yesterday
came and bent perception,
find
pennies worth happiness today
purchase nothing tomorrow,
bash your head
bash your head
into mine, and find
eyes bleed upon cheeks
and bone breaks into painted glass.

100 lovers

ahhh - maybe this crowd will seduce me
buy me pickled eggs,
bathroom prophylactics and
queen eizabeth gin and
talk me into letting them take me home
where hands of both sexes
strip me down
to tattoo'd temples of
catholic sins
and two hundred lips to mine
benedict me blowing two hundred
lungs of smoke
into mine,
800 fingers, 200 thumbs,
120 breasts,
40 dicks...
oh, I think about it;
savagely tearing at my
reptile scales
and driving stilettos through my thighs
to tack me down so
I will not rise after three days
making them all
apostles and another religion
out of pickled eggs, condoms,
K-Y and gin,
but Jesus!
he don't need the competition.