google2a2dd558cabf67a3.htm

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Poems By Timmy Mars


This Timmy Mars has grand  intentions on a marginal drive, trying to line up the holes so to trace the trajectory of the spark that first did pierce him so.  Published lately by Zombie, Neologism Poetry Journal, Blue Collar Review.



The Shower Scene

We are one and half of it is bathing.
I hold the soap with my knees
as your voice knifes through the curtain
again and again.
It is not enough to be clean and responsible;
the self-contained play their hand
close to the sudsy chest and risk
leaving their bowels on the tile.
English is a lovely language, not universal,
but can get us to the edge my dear,
tangling fully extended on the sea floor
well beyond protection.



                   Kink in the Flow

The tube is blocked with debris,
hubris, the letter A in amalgam;
lotus blossom must go brown.
"You should never have said that,"
another bound pig over the cyclone fence.


We go about love kicking and pitching,
dynamic motor drive, pneumatic pistons.
Thus I left the girls behind
to chase the white whale
as a salty lap dog to the Captain's fate.


The iron strikes and leaves a mark.
Second honeymoon sun sinks
like a used Aztec heart in a bodega broth.
Old two-stroke could use a valve job,
but we don't give a damn for the smoke.



                         Breakfast with Ducks

Multiple ducks line up for a biscuit.
The white star cluster last night
filled a vessel with cold milk.
Our sun again spreads butter up
the east trees, and the mist
smells of reptiles for the frying.
I turn the day to be over 
and then I turn it back again;
a fever prickles my fingertips.
The ducks have a biscuit habit;
I hear them outside the door
shuffling and quibbling.



                    Barbeque

we burned a shed full of our clothes
heat and smoke across the cracked ground
the stench was the essence of our modernity
we felt strange for several days
then went to shop again
I bought a new green belt to tie off with 
you got some silk to cover your wrists
flaming dogs pull meat from the fires
but eat none of it.




               Lifetime with the Sanhedrin

"Goodbye old head ," they said.
"Goodbye old mission accomplished,
tattered baboon of the mist-
a wretched eye on your summer door.
You may not enter the still purse again,
cheated by your bridges,
poked by sharp rocks everywhere."


I laughed and tumbled down the slope,
cutting several members.  Our union
was an explosion on the horizon.
One dinner of light could be enough, like
red doughnuts and St. Pat's beer in a boneyard.


If I must cross these mountains again,
I'll take an empty birdcage and sing to it,
but it won't matter since already I feel
the degeneration.  I walk floppy,
the sinuses drip blood, and
not frightening but annoying-
it's not mine.



                         Scary Legs

the spider came down oh the spider
came down and sat beside my head
the spider washed out the gutter oh
that thing with the scary legs
and that stinger oh
she whispered in my ear and left a sac
and I am very careful now
the boiling waters rise now
and I am careful with my prizes oh

No comments:

Post a Comment