Digitz

The tips of my fingers are wrath

spotted in the blood and bile of my enemies

running and dripping and pooling,

these coils of red, they are the lubricant of my battle,

Malice are my hands, my tools of war

my destruction, my hatred personified in flesh

they are my black hammers of retribution,

I am their wielder as they call me to war.

Father's Day and the Beatles

This is my second father’s day without my dad. I’ve made it a tradition now to do the hour plus drive out to his gravesite to see him, the whole subjecting myself all the songs and memories I can associate with him, his life, and his death. The soundtrack of this trip is the Beatles collection ‘One.

This is a time when I want to be cut off, if just for a few hours. It makes me nervous that my cell might ring. I leave it on just in case something goes wrong, but I wish it was off and out the window. I call my wife about ten minutes into it to tell her I’m going to stop by my grandmothers for some coffee before I come home. I hate talking to my wife right now, which is strange to me because I love her very much; but right now I’d be pissed if even God wanted to stop in for a chat.

I skip over “Yellow Submarine” because this morning it just doesn’t seem appropriate. I hit the turn to Clermont and think that Dad would have said this was the slow way to go. “Penny Lane” gets skipped too. No in the mood for the cheerful John and Paul. “All you need is love” isn’t a bad song for the moment. It stays on. The tears, just a few start halfway through the song. Not uncontrollable, but there nonetheless. This time going down I have some big fighter pilot type sunglasses so it’s easier. “Lady Madonna” kicks up and my chest feels heavy. I play it twice for good measure, just to make sure.

“Hey Jude” has to wait for awhile, that one and one other are the heartrippers. In my idyllic world I’m like Gore Vidal, Vonnegut, or Lear and someone reads this and cares about the detail that my mother in law has a chair on her front porch painted with all the titles of the Beatles songs, and little illustrations for most of them. A tall lanky John, a blue meanie, and so forth. When I see sometimes I think what my father would thought of it. He would have loved it, he would have smiled, studied it, and commented on how neat it was.

I’m twenty six and Beatle mania is long gone for me, Lennon died the year I was born, and I don’t get how influential the White Album was. However their songs are a part of my life, little stitches in the tapestry of my days. When I first started to date the woman who would become my wife I remember she had a painted stencil of ‘Imagine’ on her wall. The connection I have with these English fellows is odd, but real. I’m not going to say ‘they’ve been there when I need them’ or some other trite analog, but to be true, they’ve been a part of my journey for sure. Not just on this June 17^th, but my whole journey. I don’t know what a ju-ju eyeball is, but I’ve know that phrase since I played with transformers. It’s a legacy I must pass down to my daughter. At one and a half she’s a smart, clever girl, so I know she’ll get it.

I have to listen to one of the two now. ‘Let it be’ hurts me. When my uncle rotted away of cancer when I was in high school I played that song until it was Pavlovian for me. When I hear it, the man defenses come crashing down and I cry. It is my pain song. Maybe I’m a masochist, but I have to hear it today. The opening piano is like a gunshot. The Phil Spector wall of sound is like a vice around my temples. I cry like a madman. I cry like a hysterical madman. My jaw clenches and unclenches, by reflex I fight it like it was trying to strangle me. I fight it and part of me hates it, but those piano notes and the line about ‘being parted’ murder me. Alone in my car I let out the stored anger I have. I don’t buy into that macho horse shit that men don’t, or can’t cry. My father taught me better.

I play the song six times, enough to get messed up on it like some drug. I skip over to ‘Hey Jude’. By the time it goes into four minutes of ‘na-na-na-na’, I’m gone. This is the wet works. I see him, I see me. I think about bagpipes on a rainy day in January, I think about seeing his coffin above the earth. I think about my friends so ripped up by the ordeal you would think their fathers died. It’s touching and it’s what today is about. Like some madman I scream. I laugh. Oh lord I laugh.

I don’t spend long at his grave. What I had to say, I said on the way down. I stay long enough to pull weeds, clean it off, and mumble a few words. Dad wasn’t big on visiting graves, coming down here is something I inherited from my mother. I don’t know if my father looks down from some heaven. I don’t know if he appreciates me coming. I want to think he does. Most of all though, I come down here for me. Me, John, Paul, George, and even Ringo make this trip. It’s good, it clears the pipes in a way, freshens up the insides. Things like this fathers day on a hot morning remind me of good days in the past.

The waterworks are locked down when I walk out of Holy Cross Cemetery. I still miss him, but life seems to be a collection of speed up and slow down. Today is no different. I play ‘Help’ when I driver off. Not because I’m hurt anymore, just because I like the idea of being ‘not so self assured’. It reminds me why we need fathers. My daughter will never want for that, I’ll stand beside her and behind when the time is right. Maybe one day when I’m gone, she’ll make a journey like this, and it will renew her idea of parenting. She’ll leave some cemetery not with tears, but with a focus on doing the very best she can in loving her children. I can only hope so. Somewhere I know my father agrees.

Debutant

nasty princess groans

juicily, bumblingly, hate

quivering, screaming

Perforated

madman sinks, unchained

men screaming, screaming

catapults destroy.

Nighttime

fuming baby grieves

agonizes, saxophones

calls forth its mother.

Motion Emotion

Broken eyes came in hate
Your scythe lips tossed thinking to the hills
Light not quite clean wanting darkness
Revealed through broken clouds
You realized sadness suddenly
Half-uttered
In the impartiality of my face.

Glory Mire

I stand with dignity, my will not to submit,
I am malignant in my disposition,
Some small cancer of disposed greed,
I am excelsior, I am competent.

My honor is my crutch,
A broken metaphor or obligation of some corrupt idea,
A code by which I raise, I ride, I abide
I am exquisite, I am ideal.

Thoughts of expressive guilt,
And unfinished business of razor clawed angst
Is an explosive storm of toothless madness,
I am the sum of my faults, I am real.

Boast inside my chest, pits of my cockles
Braggart and bloodthirsty, a loaded cannon primed
Flash-pan written collection in ensorcelled tempest,
I am a blurb, I am bona fide.

In my pit, pitted against, pitied against,
Fishbowl menagerie of collated philosophy
Running with scissors stepped down in anxiety ridden abuse
I am unfeigned brutality, I am genuine.

In my mirror I have an image of mythic man,
Deep bearded, peppered with age experience, compassion, and stain
Skin that is smoked with too many problems, tinged with unbelievable pall
I am stained glass wishes, I am honest.

I am the collective pool of other’s ideas
I am the synthesis of my own creative ignorance
I am the rave reviewed rape in madness smiling
I am an ethical fallen angel.

GlockTeeth

I can feel ideas boiling in my head like lead
ready to be cast into bullets
They filter down, still hot into my mouth
and I load them.

Click-click.

I load those mean little guysI check to make sure my safety is off,
and that lead, that thoughtless lead gets ready to let looseout of my head, my tongue is the fucking trigger.

Boom-boom.

eruption, cut out of the barrel of my face
directed at you, snide, smarmy selfish
take it on the chin and i hope for a big exit wound,my heavy caliber words.

Splat.

Somewhere

Somewhere there is war, there is suffering and hardship
somewhere your problems are insignificant
somewhere there are battles of righteousness
somewhere men are being made gems in trials
somewhere romantisized visions become horrible realities
somwhere.

Kip C. Pieces......

This section contains poetry pieces written by a friend of mine, Kip C. He wanted to throw them out there and see what people thought. Hopefully, we can get some more people up on Blackacid Turns as well, and get some dialogue going on about people's work. Enjoy....

Graduation

What a rollercoaster ride of excitement and fear
The culmination of your early career
The beginning of your lifelong adventure
The ending of dependable structure

Excitement is all around
Possibilities for your life abound
Expectations of a tranquil peace
Giddiness from your worldly release

Temptation is your intrigue
Grab hold of it and you may bleed
Push it away and you may regret
Fear builds and your stomachs upset

Your world of options has no bound
You pick yourself up when you hit the ground
You’re a leader with a sense of self
In this direction you find your wealth

The Boys

Play
Have Fun
Enjoy
Run

Push-Ups
Pop
Sit-Ups
Stop

Race
Go Pee
Tie Lace
Wrestle Me

Stance
Shoot
Balance
Scoot

Half
Pin
Look Up
Win

Draussen
Lifting
Spielen
Whining

Wash
Dry
Brush
Cry

Pray
Creep
Lay
Sleep

Transformation

You do not look. You cannot see. I am in you and you in me.
You should not go. You do not stay. You do not know me anyway.
I am your love. I am your strife. I touch your soul. I breathe your life.
You know me now? You still can’t see. You think you can live without me.

The anger builds. Contempt’s release. You cannot live with this disease.
Eradicating living things. It’s in your thoughts. It’s in your dreams.
You don’t know why. You feel ashamed. It is not you but you are blamed.
In the mirror you cannot see a reflection of who you used to be.

You fall down a wounded man unable to speak, unable to stand.
You look with wonder, and then you see. Because I am, you will be.
Now you know. Your life is changed. You gain in love. Your thoughts, re-arrange.
You stand with new adoring eyes. When you speak my name you obtain repli

AngerLove

Born of the Portuguese King, one fine day,
were identical twin daughters – hip, hip, hurray.

Amor and Raiva were the twins’ given names.
With wealth, beauty, and glamour they seemed impossible to claim.

These two were identical, the way they looked, acted, and played.
Identical even were the sculptures they made.

Separation seemed impossible, but inevitable it remained.
Amor fell in love with a man by the name of Cain.

Raiva was not jealous, not even upset.
She was happy for Amor from the moment they met.

The two were in love, but Raiva made three.
Cain finally told her, alone they must be.

Continued happiness was not long for their fate.
Raiva’s love loss bred depression, anger, and hate.

As time passed by, Amor’s love grew and grew.
It seemed, by twin’s link, Raiva’s anger grew too.

Time has a way of letting us know.
Soon it would be time that Raiva would blow.

Cain, like a good man, was out tending the fields.
Counting and figuring the crops and their yields.

Raiva dressed faintly and called upon Cain.
It was in this field that his love, Raiva slain.

Acting as her sister, a horrible deception.
Raiva conceived her insane redemption.

In time, bearing child, can be seen by all.
Amor, not clueless, Cain she did call.

Questions asked and answered, Cain’s ignorance caught.
Amor is now loveless, although love’s all she sought.

Love and anger, not just emotion.
Identical twins, split by a notion.

Raiva and Amor were together again.
This time lost love replaced with anger and sin.

Amor is now love in Portuguese, Raiva means anger.
Don’t put your relationship in danger.

Smokers

You huff and you puff and you take down a drag.
You hack and you cough and the mucus makes you gag.

Forever surrounded by the toilet smells of smoke.
Why should you care what's healthy? You're cool because you toke.

The future is not here. It is something you cannot see.
What should you be afraid of? Something that only might be?

Let me paint you a picture of crevices and crinkles.
Lifelong tattoos called early age wrinkles.

Arteries filling, lungs turning black.
A rising chance of a heart attack.

Maybe you're right. It won't happen to you.
Instead there's emphysema and coughing a nasty green gue

The inside of your home, peppered with a dust of ashes.
But you just keep inhaling those fatal gasses.

Your walls turn from white to an ugly brown-yellow.
But the cigarette high is keeping you mellow.

Your children, if born, have allergies and asthma.
No sports due to birth defects and they wheeze like your grandma.

Don't listen to me, you've heard this before.
Go on, keep smoking. Is your throat getting sore?

It cannot be because you smoke.
Tobacco is cheap, you cannot go broke.

The cigarette costs and medical bills.
Addicted children that the tobacco now kills.

Let us make the statement together. "I will never quit!"
So what of the cost. Let my children pay for it!

By: A Smoker.

G.D Tobacco

My fingers tremble as my attitude worsens
I can feel my fingernails, the sides of my face
my cheeks are hot flushed, oily
I can smell again, and I don't like what I smell like
food is differant it has flavor
fuck me I need to smoke
I want to curl the camel around my tongue
spit it out and watch is dissapate
taste the marlboro man shoved in my mouth
goddamnit I want him.
Fuck I need a cigarette,
my damn fingernails hurt and my eyes tinkle,
as if tinkle was a feeling
right now it is,
my skin is crawling and I need to smoke.