WORD THUG FEATURED WRITER - J.R. MASTON (Click for more by J.R.)

Golgotha's Day (Iconoclast)

I have laid out funeral robes

I intend to wear for my burial,
when they come to wrap me
in all things I have done

after whipping me raw
with all things I cannot change

… this is my day …
the moment when I will make
storytellers' heads spin

they will tell my fables

and housewives will remember to repeat them by rote

my death will form two millennia

sandals now old
always meant to patch them
never got the chance,
so busy running around, spreading rumors
thin as the hair on my donkey's ass

now they will have to bear me
through the dusty streets
a bent thing, sigh of a man,
promised meat on the bone

so what if I die a man's death?

who will mourn me?

a people, a generation, a tired throng
who will kill again and again in my name
to avenge
one death
just one
mine…

the death chosen for me

this robe is old, too
it is patch-worked, faded, tied to the strands
of my disparate faith…

I'm the iconoclast

I'm the one who tore
the rotted fabric of religion's current

I rocked the boat in shallow river water
just to give a baptism

They may make a golden statue of me, an icon,
something to hang above the crowds and say:

this, this is the generation's sore mouthpiece!
this is the dream, blind meat,
rotted to appease your empty mouth!

There is nothing left to do, I've washed my final toes
by the sodden reeds on mud-lined river
the last cup laid aside, to spurn the wicked

time has come to go, leave this garden

long path to Golgotha
think I'll take it
one step at a time

WORD THUG - FEATURED WRITER - DEBRA MARLAR - Click Here for more work by Debra

and she frolicked in angelic beer shit

bukowski said
the reason he'd stayed drunk
for ten years and wrote poetry
was not because
he was so good at it
but because
they were so bad at it.
then he went on to talk about beer shit...

my point is,
who but the most shallow among us
gets wet when reading meaningless poetic prattle?
or pretty flowing adjectives
wrapped in mind numbing platitudes
floating them off to places
where no-one could possibly reside?

not i, said the little piggy.
i want to stay right here
feet firmly planted in the journey.
i want to read trials and tribulations
of the human condition doing the odd thing,
the morbid thing, all things
large and tiny. i want to nod in agreement
over another writer's latest lament.
i want to read about drinking and cussing and fucking
and everything in between.
know what i mean?

i'll even pardon the rhyme if the write is real.
give me poetry that is raw, makes me laugh,
describes for me the stink of beer shit
verses that break my heart,
but i'm begging you on bent knee,
upon a marbled,
glittering
lovely
inlaid
exquisite
sumptuous
divine
beautiful
gorgeous
sainted
voluptuous
sensual
ethereal
heavenly
floor.

don't give me bullshit poetry i can't digest.

© Copyright 2007, Debra Marlar

A Rosie Red Valentine

OK. Not a good poem, but definitely a thugging. Screw you, Rosie.

Rosie sweeet Rosie
why won't you be mine?

You're hot love and kisses
my true Valentine.

Your soft voice like petals
all Rosie and red.

Your blood-sugar high
my candy in bed.

But they tell me today
that my Valentine dreams

Are ill fated visions
as clearly it seems

Your tact and your wit,
your forked razor tongue

are reserved for another
of which I'm not one

So my moves and my game
aresure to be whacked

We're two different Train Wrecks
on opposite tracks.

Lame as poem by Train Wreck Pimental
the Train Wreck rolls, on and on...