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    Graffiti Blowback: Poems in Mutant English
    Graffiti Blowback: Poems in Mutant English
    Graffiti Blowback: Poems in Mutant English
    Ebook106 pages56 minutes

    Graffiti Blowback: Poems in Mutant English

    By James Goodson

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    About this ebook

    The first section of poems are adventures in writing character sketches and caricatures. The portraits are about people with whom I had encounters. Some of the contacts were good and some awful.
    Then I go into explorations of ideas that were emerging from my subconscious. The pressure would be there trying to get out.
    I did meditations on solitude and silence.
    Poetry actually has no rules, nor does art for that matter. The artists make the rules that best suits their creative format. I love poetry because I can take the language apart and put it back together the way it best suits my subject.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateJan 26, 2011
    ISBN9781450293150
    Graffiti Blowback: Poems in Mutant English
    Author

    James Goodson

    "A Few Degrees Below Everything" was my first collection of poetry. "QX And The Dream Runner" was the second fantasy book that I published. I am now ready to publish another ten year collection of poetry. I have been probing my creative process since I was a child. I am now in my 70s. This maybe be the last work I publish. I am not sure. I will wait and see. I live in retirement now and I do not know if life will give me more reason to write again.

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      Book preview

      Graffiti Blowback - James Goodson

      I   CYBER SODOMY CRASHING

      Or Watching The Great Divide Of The Real

      From The Synthetic I.T. Boys. The Syn-Droids

      Would Perform The Annual Initiation Ritual Of Anal Probing

      In Their Herd-Mind Think-Link Binary Fraternity

      While They Collectively And Quantitatively Interfered

      With My Serious Ambitions Of Becoming A Dirty Old Man.

      THOSE WHO THINK THEY ARE REAL:

      In Module #1

      Eli.com pounds out a program

      As his smile sinuously wraps around his unbounded ripeness.

      But he sneers in fearful disdain at his gay face

      While he carefully wraps his boy toys in a blanket of secrecy

      And quietly hides them in the closet back in Babel, Ontario.

      His frolicking hormones, however,

      Tickle his nipples and laugh at his embarrassment.

      But, he thinks, no one will catch him here

      With his secret desire

      Writhing in the prison of repression.

      Please, let me not find passions boy among my friends,

      He prays.

      Let me stay with my wife and hide there in plain sight.

      Cubicle #2

      Pencil slim persnickety snit

      Encapsulated in the language of his

      Programming habitat,

      Isolated by firewalls of

      Middle class boredom while

      Sunk in his rolling chair

      That goes nowhere.

      He has everything so right

      That it died in his laptop years ago.

      Perhaps it should be given

      A proper funeral in the Cyberville Mausoleum

      Of obsolete ideas that never really worked.

      Then you might pray,

      "He leadeth me thru the Gateway Tower

      Where surely my dongle shall dangle

      In the valley of the Dell,

      And dwell in the infinite loop."

      This is solely FYI .

      He’s Down the Hall

      Second Door on the Right

      Hulking over the underbelly

      Of suspicious doings in the video library

      Hugging the old stand-byes that

      His daddy beat him with

      When he tried to talk back.

      "My daddy said . . .

      And then he told me …

      And I learned everything I had to know from him.

      And I’ll smash anybody’s otherwise

      Who says different. . .

      Because that’s how to be a man.

      Screw the marines

      They’re right as rain

      Bugger the sergeants

      If they didn’t say so too.

      Now, with a middle aged spread and

      Armed with a wireless quicksilver keyboard in his hands

      And a well worn skateboard in his brain

      He wanders about in the smoking zone outside

      On his fifteen minute morning break wondering,

      Why am I still alone?

      Johnny Heckle Freckle

      He wraps his slithery, flickering tongue

      Gently around the minds of his friends

      And coats their listless thoughts

      With agreeably venomous slime.

      He, very privately, skinnys up his own flag pole

      And never tells about his shadowy fantasies.

      They would betray him

      Throw a spotlight on his comfortable darkness.

      He is so careful, by day, about his whiz-kid,

      Normal Christian façade,

      As American as apple pie and skin heads.

      He was not educated, he was easily programmed

      He did not learn, he downloaded

      And is the very ditto copy of his Aryan dad,

      Always ready to grab mind control

      Of his buddies.

      He never looks at his real face

      Because he believes his own lies.

      And leaves the light on at night,

      So he can sleep.

      For he tries to serve two masters at the same time,

      But the toxic beetle juice is already flowing

      Through his veins and into his dreams.

      Yago

      His lizard slicing incisors

      Tasted exquisite as he sucked

      The slime from his double split tongue.

      His neurons raced through the

      Transistors he had for brains.

      He thrived on delicious envy

      As it wrapped around

      His plans like a ribbon in the wind.

      Like rust around a magnet

      His self inflation would multiply

      In gigabytes when he gently

      Closed his eyes to see

      Great gay genius dude

      Blinking in neon lights across his vision.

      There is nothing that can

      Destroy or penetrate his fortress

      Of self adulation.

      It upgrades itself

      Automatically each calendar year.

      THOSE WHO ARE REAL:

      Align Alika Allen

      A nice kid, a jock and a nerd

      A nice kid, though he’s part of the herd.

      Brawny little butthead

      Walks a straight course

      All of the way through to the end of the line.

      With his quicksilver fingers,

      And flashpoint brain,

      He never misses its aim.

      Hey Jude Dude,

      You’re the loose cannon

      In the elite squadron

      Of keyboard cruisers.

      How did your swift fingers

      And gentle program

      Fare in the I Am world of

      Computer geeks caught in

      The glaring gaze of Narcissus?

      You disappear in honesty

      Before their acquisitive reach,

      But they yield to the honey comb

      Of you innate realness anyway.

      Potent magic in your unrehearsed

      Enjoying the preview?
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