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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Afterparty

Two steps forward
Towards the fire
Towards the light
Burnt rubber toe tips
Accompany a hasty retreat
Of a one step backwards beat

The smell hangs like a passing skunk
Up up nostrils and nose
Past the first knuckle's reach
No hopes of getting it out
Not even with bleach

Cheap gumsole sneakers
Leaving inexpensive footprints
In the mud all the way to the car
Altogether looking like a stock footage scene
From a far off undeclared war

Fumbling in dirty pockets
For keys that hung from the visor
Directly in front of far off eyes
A deep sigh as metal slides into place
Actions causing a hesitating mechanical mayhem

Random sparks
Preignition

Would you know it was me
When I turned the corner onto our street?
Slipping the clutch
Matching broken synced straight cut gears
Clattering plates
Stressing springs
Flexing the driveshaft
Flying to you on rusty wings


Saturday, June 18, 2016

The Dog That Was Almost Something More

The dirty white dog
Falls twisting in the air
Endlessly
Feet searching for purchase
Eyes showing their whites in fear

Her life flashes before her
All a whirly-burley speed montage
Of food-sleep-outside-food and lazy
None of it mattering the least smattering
To anyone at all

A sudden surge of yearning
Fills the tiny weightless pup
A to make a difference feeling
A thirst for adventure
A want to leave a pawmark upon the world

Until she lands gently upon her favorite pillow
All new thoughts pushed away instantly
Replaced by a hunger for snacks
A thirst for a sip of dirty water
And a desire for a nap


Pulse

Somber-faced DJ
Spin me a song
Scratch it out with your dirty beak
All the night long
Above the gunfire and the screams
Make the humid night air thrum
"WOOMP WOOMP WOOMP"
Till I can't tell the difference
Between a bass beat battering my body
And the Pulse of violence all around me


Oh Brother, Vend to Me a Memory

A dollar slipped right past me the other day
Right between the gender pay thigh gap
Unbeknownst to me
Straight into a vending machine
Freshly packed with butterflies
All delicate wings mangled by corkscrew dispensation
Hung up on that last little ledge
Just above where it says $1.00 - A3
Now to either fall victim to a two for one
For the next patron to come along
Or to a Hulk-worthy grasp and shake
Of this vending automaton bandit
Where I will walk away with half of the inventory

Crushed colored veneer thin wings
And mangled caterpillar body bits and things
All gotten for the low price of one dollar
Proving that money can buy happiness once again

I collected them all up in an impromptu pasted bouquet
To place upon your grave today
Held close beneath my painted face horrific
To frighten away that curse specific
Of time being the great forgettorator
Where you will become less and less with its passage
Crushing out all the specifics as it does
Leaving a furrow trail within my mind
A place for new memories to take root
No matter how frantically the little farmer in my brain
Comes and tries to smooth out the soil once again
The details are gone
As what grows anew will never be the same

The forgetting cannot be stopped
Even with a million broken butterflies
Until only generalities
And false memories
Remain