Sunday, July 7, 2013

poems by John Grey

John Grey    

Bio is as follows:

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.


a la affection,
amongst the latter-day suitors,
always followed by flowers,
arrive bedchamber
behind which the believed,
beloved, besought,
enter the. big blue room,
window by the bay,
sills copper-casket brown,
like your skin
wrapped round
a face defeated by cameras
eiderdown quilts
fleet and wavering,
having flung your fragrance
for 30 years,
now around your mouth,
another gigolo,
full disclosure


We drive by the site of the murder.
No body, no blood-stain,
no cop car with whirring siren,
no ghoulish bystanders.
But there's no people either.
Not a soul in sight.
It's just this brick wall
with faded election poster,
a sidewalk with weeds poking
through the cracks.
I stop the car, get out.
You stay behind.
I am exactly where the victim was.
You could be as close
as the killer.
We're at the site of a murder
and it feels as if
I'm the first since then
to stand here and wonder,
what if it happens to me.
And who but you,
from such close range,
could ask yourself
what if he's the one
I do it to.
It's not even a murder by this.
It could be love
for all we know.
It could be whatever
we feel or fear
could happen with another.
No violence, no death,
no arrest, no execution.
But we leave the site of that murder
like it's the site
of something in our lives.


and you think you dragged
yourself up from nothing
but not like the nothing I'm from

eating out of trashcans
licking the rain off sidewalks
begging all the alley bums
to be my old man

just look at my face
can't you see the fish-heads
the taste of raw cement
the breath the booze
that I am heir to

so I've cleaned myself
up a little since those days

I only eat the best garbage

I only drink the pavement
outside the fanciest addresses

and I even have a kid of my own
the bum


you're on the mound
you're in command
you're elevated
like your body
is your brain
and they're both pumping

two guys
struck out already
this inning
you're throwing smoke
and the fans are
as rabid as wolves

I'm wishing
I could write poems like that

readers cheering
or tensed up for the next one