Gently Foreign

I thought this could’ve turned out different
But now that I’m back here
I see that no amount of mental jujitsu
Is gonna unlattice this den of vice

I’m still gonna have to call you on your shit
In spite of the fact that it’s so
gently foreign here
it’s just when people get too close to me?
I pulse jump blood red
out of my skin and back again
I’m gonna keep typing this at you until my thumbs are sore

C’est la vie. C’est la vie. C’est la vie.

 

Skinned

I’m willing to admit that your head
Looks better shorn
Those jackboots really ground your figure
But your father is right to disapprove
Of you coupling them with such
A short skirt, even if it does willow your waist

We’ve got to stick together
You and I
Are more pawnable
More marketable and decidedly
In the till than most

 

Over the Hill

This was back before middle age scalped me
Back before everyday had become an onslaught of banality
Back when we used to dine on blood red steak     
Carved off the shank of a stuck ox
…by Picard’s bald beauty those were the days – 
All strawberry nipples and whipped crème

And then by Diana Troi’s cursed tits we
Found ourselves in the purgatory of life’s 7th inning
A stretch that seemed to go on forever…
…I woke up the other day my eyes so dried out from age
That I couldn’t make out my wife’s face
There was just a circular blur
Atop a turquoise slip
Faceless…my gorgeous wife…faceless….

*stands, howls like a banshee before spitting
Kruvvy red in the ever young baby face of death* 

Well you can take this anyway you want you
Chickenshit
Motherfucker
I’m gonna hotfoot this skateboard down this sidewalk and front board this handrail
And whether I nail it
or eat shit
Either way I’m celebrating


Judson Hamilton lives in Wrocław, Poland.  He’s published a couple of chapbooks with Greying Ghost Press and most recently a novella with Black Scat Books. He’s a contributor at Queen Mob’s Teahouse. Twitter: @judson_hamilton

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