"POEMS"
by Robb Allan



CIGARETTES IN BED
SERIAL TRUTH
HARRY
THIS ONE'S FOR THE VICTIM IN US ALL




CIGARETTES IN BED

i feel you breathing
slowly  next to me
injury slashing like
knife wounded pride 
words slamming abraded
silky skin bleeding
rhythm settling in my bones
aching for redemption
i light my last cigarette
burning torches in the night
the matress aflame
you breathing
slowly next to me

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SERIAL TRUTH

They would certainly tell me if you were lying.
The machines hooked to your skull measuring
brain waves.
They weren't able to gather the whole story
from your tainted lips.
>From your empty eyes.
I-witness a smile crossing your lips that eludes them.
They want to see it.
They want to know it intimately.
They want to feel the blood you've let running freely
through their greedy fingers.
But they can't glean the protein from the meat of
your story you stick the bone in their protuding
lobes a stark stiletto lie
You stuff the gristle down their throats
and clog their arteries with your fat
dangling the lean before them 
but never divulging.
uncapitulating.
i quiver with understanding as technology
forces truths from your lips they wish
they'd never heard... they spew from your
mouth like southern baptist sermons...
"you are piss dribbling down my thighs.
drink of me. release yourself of this burden.
i walk among the people of this land and
feed on their depravity. i infect your children
with the disease of truth. you cannot stop me."

they throw you in the tank and toss the key
calling you a worthless liar. nothing but a
jeffrey dahmer copycat

while your truths continue to drown
newspapers too blind to see.

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HARRY

was a produce man from the late 60's
and they say his spirit haunts the store
mary told me about how he once threw a bottle
of beer at her while she was singing quietly 
in the corner by the wine
and i just laughed at her for being so conspicuously
superstitious had to be there i guess
i get a greasy feeling in the middle of a healthy
vomit now thinking of harry and how he infested
the night crew that spring the night crew
consisting of jason and i jason carrying a .45 to
ward off would be flower thieves started shooting
one night when someone tapped him on the shoulder
the music from the cd stopped and i yelled across 11
aisles jason why the fuck did you turn off the music? 
i didn't you fuckin' asshole he responded so i found
myself in the office worrying over the chewed up cd
tooth marks in the plastic like a dog with a bone
feeling the cold wind blow through a closed door
someone whistling sitting on the dock of the bay
quietly in my ear as i tried to concentrate on my
work it's a wonder we didn't go insane jason even
saw a bottle of some cheap wine emptying itself
among the shelves of the feminine hygiene section
(he liked to hang out there for reasons i still can't
comprehend) i'm not one to believe in ghosts so there
has to be a logical explantion for mozart suddenly 
blaring from the PA while listening to the jerky boys
jerk off some doctor in downtown manhatten
we escaped but barely mary giggling like a schoolgirl
chanting i told you so over and over and over
as she popped a healthy cd into the sound system
and walked away whistling sitting on the dock of the
bay

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THIS ONE'S FOR THE VICTIM IN US ALL

the nightmare unfolds around you
it's wrapped in bright little
dahmer, gacy foil paper emblazoned
with a picture of a turd
tapered at the end just like
your life tapered at the end
with screams jetting from your
ruined body like so much gas escaping
stinking up the place...

and the clock ticks on the wall

while rem helps you lose your religion
in the backyard buried like a dog
a bone
here
a bone
there

and the second hand slithers around midnight
caressing it ever so gently

then gripping
ripping and tearing reality into
yesterday's headlines...

cut in to neat little piles of
feces for inspection as the water swirls
down the drain tapered at the end
just like your life tapered at the end

and you become
nothing but discharge


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