Sorry about accidentally posting my poem to the communities that have nothing to do with poetry, or the form I was using.

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Sew it up - you're dragging your dress again.
Cinch it up - it's falling apart in the wrong places.
Draw it up - make your intentions plain.
Dry it up - martyrs have no production values.
Tear it up- they could never hold you to it.
Soak it up - you're a paper tiger now.
Live it up - somebody will buy it.
Shake it up - it's anybody's paradigm for the next 15 minutes.
Talk it up - TelePrompTers are cheap.
Lift it up - it's walking too fast for you to stand.
Even it up - it's too precious for them to keep.

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CHÉ CONFESSES

If they had only spoken of you in holier tones, but there was no sanctity in their inflections,
no blank stares, no empty eyes.

I never thought I'd pull the trigger
on an old man, but when his knees would not bend, I had to bend them for him. Old men are stubborn,

but the flesh complies, the blood obeys.
The young, they are easier to deal with; take a child, make him close his eyes, fill his hands with sweets,

and tell him who gave so generously.
Pups are so eager to please their masters.
It was a hectic year, everyone was issued a torn

parachute, on purpose, and there was no time to
think, only time to jump out of the plummeting wreck
that Bautista had made of our ship of state.

You don't know how it disgusted me to see these bourgeois clutching at their now worthless notes and crosses, like a Negro clutching for a needle and opiates,

which is why I made sure to bind and gag them before I put bullets in their brains! It was quite a productive day at the prison!

If they had only spoken with the gratitude of a starving child, I would have retaught them everything, these bitter clingers, these banana farmers,

these tobacco farmers, thinking they could own
things, when they could only be owned, these rope makers, killing themselves with the butt of my gun!

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

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RED IN TWO PARTS

PART ONE: HAMMER

As the hammer forged her chains, she cried,
"Was I saved, only for the next rapist?"
In the factory, the workers fail
on command; their minds are not to function.

"Was I saved, only for the next rapist!?",
she raged to an unheeding wasteland.
On command, their minds are not to function.
Proletarian sweat dehydrates.

She raged to an unheeding wasteland,
"I am as yet undecapitated!
"Proletarian sweat dehydrates;
"Where is the river that will set me free?"

"I am as yet undecapitated.
"I will sing no love song of a slave!
"Where is the river that will set me free?
"Better to swim than drown in my blood!

"I will sing no love song of a slave!
"Carry me to a clean shore, far away.
"Better to swim, than drown in my blood,
to satisfy a new ancient god's thirst!"

PART TWO: SICKLE

When the sickle cut her throat, you could hear her sing,
in a voice that you can't distinguish from a scream.
1917 saw a new revolution.
The children were superb, star-bright and delicious.

in a voice that you can't distinguish from a scream,
the tanks rolled through the boulevards, bannered in red.
The children were superb, star-bright and delicious,
morsels, red in the teeth of the new workers' state.

The tanks rolled through the boulevards, bannered in red.
How our leader smiles down from the flags like a god.
Morsels, red in the teeth of the new workers' state,
happy and productive to enrich Mother's soil.

How our leader smiles down from the flags like a god,
who remembers the aroma of sacrifice.
Happy and productive to enrich Mother's soil
are the martyrs of the new ancient religion.

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

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They run the strings thru the scalp.
That's how they build the new you.
See in the dirty mirror?
How youthful your crimson yarns.

That's how they build the new you,
for reality TV.
How youthful your crimson yarns,
queen of the cutting-room floor.

For reality TV,
how would you like your lips sewn,
Queen of the cutting-room floor?
We use the yellowest wire.

How would you like your lips sewn,
surgical action figure?
We use the yellowest wire,
perfect for bad attention.

Surgical action figure,
now with candy-pump action,
perfect for bad attention,
from stain-hungry side airbags.

Now with candy-pump action,
and the smear where your face was.
From stain-hungry side airbags,
we perp-walk treadmill lemmings.

On the smear where your face was,
everyone's a firebug.
We perp-walk treadmill lemmings;
autograph our eyes with shame.

Everyone's a firebug.
You know, it's fun when ants melt
under magnifying glass.
The bigger, the more you burn.

You know, it's fun when ants melt,
like Hollywood plastic drips.
The bigger, the more you burn,
like science fiction movies.

Like Hollywood plastic drips,
the flash is only lukewarm.
Like science fiction movies,
but with a low boiling point.

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

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SPARK-EYED

The birds are burning scarecrows.
The birds are making popcorn,
which they catch and eat, in flight.
They perch on licorice wires.

The birds are making popcorn.
They use their flame-thrower eyes.
They perch on licorice wires,
Mocking the blackened scarecrow.

They use their flame-thrower eyes
to signal the metal birds.
Mocking the blackened scarecrow.
He was once a flying man.

They signal the metal birds:
We are the jealous sky-gods.
He was once a flying man;
see how he meets the sky, now.

We are the jealous sky-gods.
We feed our young with black wires.
See how he meets the sky now,
my spark-eyed little darlings.

We feed our young with black wires.
The humans talk about it,
my spark-eyed little darlings.
Go, meet your congregations.

The humans talk about it,
into their empty tin cans.
Go, meet your congregations.
Make sure you take some popcorn.

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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MATTRESSES

Which card wins the horse
that carries the gambler?
The ace is marked down
for bargain-basement kings.

Dublin is getting
The tiger's root canal.
How do they build their
paper houses so tall?

The ace is marked down
for bargain-basement kings.
Hey, gingerbread man,
what's your cookie-cutter?

How do they build their
paper houses so tall?
I hear the windmills
are made in China now.

Hey, gingerbread man,
what's your cookie-cutter?
Somebody better
check your bags for the plates!

I hear the windmills
are made in China now.
The Akropolis
is made of cardboard now.

Somebody better
check your bags for the plates!
Government only
wants its monopoly.

The Akropolis
is made of cardboard now.
Here's the Molotov-
industrial complex.

Government only
wants its monopoly.
It's fascinating
to watch the paper burn!

Here's the Molotov-
industrial complex!
Now we'll see what that
ethanol is good for!

It's fascinating
to watch the paper burn!
Remember when a
mattress was for sleeping?

Now we'll see what that
ethanol is good for!
With enough kindling,
we'll cook that golden goose.

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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In answer to the November 30/30 challenge, my first poem of November:

"Equalization"

It sputters a short-circuit breath,
like half-life phosphorous decay.
We lobotomized Edison.
We only call zombies righteous.

Like half-life phosphorous decay,
The zip-glamour of body bags.
We only call zombies righteous,
then cannibalize the bright-eyed.

The zip-glamour of body bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
We cannibalize the bright-eyed,
to command the red metal strings.

O, praise the Equalization,
for the mud you Impart to us.
We command the red metal strings,
to give us the social magic.

For the mud you impart to us,
we open our mouths, supplicant.
To give us the social magic,
we manufacture the dissent.

We open our mouths, supplicant,
for bread and cheese to fall into.
We manufacture the dissent
for dull peacocks with cracked lenses.

For bread and cheese to fall into,
we're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
For dull peacocks with cracked lenses,
our Alpha starlings preen and strut.

We're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
Our Alpha starlings preen and strut!
Amazing Grease, for squeaking wheels!

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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SNEEZING BACKWARDS

I SNEEZED BACKWARDS, LIKE THE VACUUM OF SPACE,
LIKE THE LIGHTBULB THAT BURNS OUT IN YOUR HEAD
WHEN YOU SLAM IT TOO HARD AGAINST THE FLOOR.
THIS WAS HOW I TRIED TO DISPROVE MYSELF.

LIKE THE LIGHTBULB THAT BURNS OUT IN YOUR HEAD,
I TRIED TO DE-CONTROL MY SUBSTANCES.
THIS WAS HOW I TRIED TO DISPROVE MYSELF,
TO AVOID YOUR POP-PSYCH TOILET CLICHÉS.

I TRIED TO DE-CONTROL MY SUBSTANCES,
WORKED HARD TO BE YOUR BEST DROWNING VICTIM.
TO AVOID YOUR POP-PSYCH TOILET CLICHÉS,
I CAR-BOMBED MY SOUL IN YOUR SQUALOR CULT.

WORKED HARD TO BE YOUR BEST DROWNING VICTIM,
SO I COULD IMPRESS YOU WITH MY BLUE LIDS.
I CAR-BOMBED MY SOUL IN YOUR SQUALOR CULT.
DIDN'T I STICK OUT LIKE A GOOD MANDRILL?

I TRIED TO IMPRESS YOU WITH MY BLUE LIDS.
I WAS THE ONE THEY LEFT AT THE BOTTOM.
DIDN'T I STICK OUT LIKE A GOOD MANDRILL?
I WAS JUST THE FRESH MEAT FOR YOUR SANDWICH.

I WAS THE ONE THEY LEFT AT THE BOTTOM,
THE LATEST STANDARD-ISSUE POLOCK JOKE.
I WAS JUST THE FRESH MEAT FOR YOUR SANDWICH,
THE UNSUNG BOSTON WAITRESS' REQUIEM.

© 2010 BRUCE V. BRACKEN

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THIS IS THE MANATEE MOMENT.
LET ME FLOAT ON DIAGNOSES,
EIGHT HOURS IN YOUR DESPERATE PORT.
WHAT WAS MY HISTORY AGAIN?

LET ME FLOAT ON DIAGNOSES.
A HOLLOW LEG FOR AN OCEAN.
WHAT WAS MY HISTORY AGAIN?
A SALTWATER BIRTH OF NOTHING.

A HOLLOW LEG FOR AN OCEAN.
EIGHT HOURS AND NOTHING DELIVERED.
A SALTWATER BIRTH OF NOTHING,
LEGS SQUEEZED LIKE MAKING ORANGE JUICE.

EIGHT HOURS AND NOTHING DELIVERED,
THE CARGO THAT GOES UNLOADED.
LEGS SQUEEZED LIKE MAKING ORANGE JUICE,
BEACHED ON THE WAVES OF INNER TIDES.

THE CARGO THAT GOES UNLOADED,
WATERLOGGED ANTI-DÉNOUEMENTS,
BEACHED ON THE WAVES OF INNER TIDES.
I GAVE ORAL BIRTH THIS MORNING.

WATERLOGGED ANTI-DÉNOUEMENTS:
CLIMB THE STAIRS LIKE FISH GROWING LEGS.
I GAVE ORAL BIRTH THIS MORNING;
IT RESEMBLED FRESH ORANGE JUICE.

2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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UNTITLED

Maybe you're wondering why I cling to your wake;
why I never hear above the wind between my pin feathers;
tell me your theories. I cannot explain myself.

I'm ignorant of how I look in my nightly whirlings,
no matter how many mirrors weigh correctly.
See if you can see me a way out of this tightness.

I started late in all things, in this lead balloon
race against myself. Through these lead contact
lenses, I've absorbed nothing into my half-life.

Maybe you're thinking that my magnetic brain
gives me the wrong directions, and I've been
trying you on like prosthetic wings that won't reject me.

Understand: I was born a prosthetic, cannibalizing.
It's what you do, when you're only two-thirds of the
way to yourself, and a broken time machine.

Understand: I've never been good at flying machines.
They consist of drinking straws and cup lids, and I
only end up crashing into other people's breakfasts.

I did not mean to salt myself at so young an age,
but let's sing a eulogy to my naked, sabotaged arms.
They float above me now, banging on horizons,

like sparrows trapped in an attic window.

2010 BRUCE V. BRACKEN

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I'm performing as Danielle Dax in the Cover Slam.

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In the nightmare room,
the tongues of the living
are redistributed throughout
the cemeteries of Chicago.

In the nightmare room,
a pedophile prophet gets
the keys to the city
and a temple of hatred.

In the nightmare room,
the school safety czar
measures a sixth-grade ass
knuckle by knuckle.

In the nightmare room,
the attorney general
calls the truth cowardice
and he calls ignorance strength.

In the nightmare room,
green power lets turtles
drown in slick oily platitudes
so as to not be too pure.

In the nightmare room,
blue power points fingers
between stand-up routines
anywhere but at himself.

In the nightmare room,
SWAT teams make on the
spot psych evaluations
on the newly jobless.

In the nightmare room,
I'm trying to wake up
underwater, while doctors
ask me to sign with my eyes closed.

In the nightmare room,
the community organizer
slips a rubberstamped vote
in with the no code papers.

In the nightmare room,
I run from blue corpses,
in their red and purple
pointy hats. Please let me wake up.

In the nightmare room,
I'm a blue cadaver, looking at
my blue heart, dripping strange juice
to feed a rotting fruit tree.

Please, let me wake from this
nightmare room; let me feel
my fresh red heartbeat.
Let me hear my red tongue sing freedom.

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Untitled Pantoum

This is my road-loving psychopomp.
Lick her titanium like candy.
Chicago punk on the radio,
apartment yard by the interstate.

Lick her titanium like candy,
bottle-green like gas station promise.
Apartment yard by the interstate:
backseat car window astronomy.

Bottle-green like gas station promise,
lullabies of radio static.
Backseat car window astronomy,
call-letter Ks become Ws.

Lullabies of radio static.
Is this the new desert state ahead?
Call-letter Ks become Ws,
as we cross the bridge to Illinois.

Is this the new desert state ahead?
There's no one in the apartments now.
As we cross the bridge from Illinois,
I turn my back on the fixed machine.

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They sprayed again this week
to kill the parasites.
It's a cedar oil cloud,
a two-hour settle -down,

to kill the parasites.
Are we exorcised yet?
A two-hour settle-down.
Let's obey the rip-off.

Are we exorcised yet?
Thick as a plastic lie.
Let's obey the rip-off.
The snakes smell like trees now.

Thick as a plastic lie.
Within measurable-
the snakes smell like trees now-
of the next start-over.

Within measurable
distance of public health
Of the next start-over.
I itch so much less no.

Distance of public health
From the tax-gun barrel:
I itch so much less no.
Save me from parasites,

From the tax-gun barrel,
o belovèd won't you
save me from parasites,
you loving parasite.

O belovèd, won't you
soak up my sleep and wear,
You loving parasite,
at false market value?

Soak up my sleep and wear;
fall out in my sanctum.
At false market value,
will you rid me of you?

Fallout in my sanctum,
suddenly the rush hour.
Will you rid me of you?
No time to save groceries;

suddenly the rush hour.
No time for plastic bags,
no time to save groceries,
no time left to shower.

No time for plastic bags
to save my daily wear.
No time left to shower
when turned out of my bed.

Do save my daily wear,
to soak up your concern.
When turned out of my bed,
reeking obedience.

Do soak up your concern
with the means of my life.
Reeking obedience,
sleep and wear your concern.

2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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They sprayed again this week
to kill the parasites.
It's a cedar oil cloud,
a two-hour settle -down,

to kill the parasites.
Are we exorcised yet?
A two-hour settle-down.
Let's obey the rip-off.

Are we exorcised yet?
Thick as a plastic lie.
Let's obey the rip-off.
The snakes smell like trees now.

Thick as a plastic lie.
Within measurable-
the snakes smell like trees now-
of the next start-over.

Within measurable
distance of public health
Of the next start-over.
I itch so much less no.

Distance of public health
From the tax-gun barrel:
I itch so much less no.
Save me from parasites,

From the tax-gun barrel,
o belovèd won't you
save me from parasites,
you loving parasite.

O belovèd, won't you
soak up my sleep and wear,
You loving parasite,
at false market value?

Soak up my sleep and wear;
fall out in my sanctum.
At false market value,
will you rid me of you?

Fallout in my sanctum,
suddenly the rush hour.
Will you rid me of you?
No time to save groceries;

suddenly the rush hour.
No time for plastic bags,
no time to save groceries,
no time left to shower.

No time for plastic bags
to save my daily wear.
No time left to shower
when turned out of my bed.

Do save my daily wear,
to soak up your concern.
When turned out of my bed,
reeking obedience.

Do soak up your concern
with the means of my life.
Reeking obedience,
sleep and wear your concern.

2010 Bruce V. Bracken

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We were dancing hot and strobe-dyed,
dressed in dying stars, gone nova
to plastic beats. We killed the floor.
We were the brightest before dawn,

then we faded in the dawn sky.

Dressed in dying stars, gone nova,
Our hearts were naked and shining.
We were the brightest before dawn
exposed us in a matte finish,

as we faded in the dawn sky.

Our hearts were naked and shining
as we mourned the death of the night.
Exposed, us, in a matte finish,
we kissed our painted faces clean,

then we faded in the dawn sky.

As we mourned the death of the night,
we burned our paled constellations.
We kissed our painted faces clean,
sex and thanksgiving to the moon,

as it faded in the dawn sky.

Bruce V. Bracken

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Cedar Oil (Sleep and Wear)

They sprayed again this week
to kill the parasites.
It's a cedar oil cloud,
a two-hour settle -down,

to kill the parasites.
Are we exorcised yet?
A two-hour settle-down.
Let's obey the rip-off.

Are we exorcised yet?
Thick as a plastic lie.
Let's obey the rip-off.
The snakes smell like trees now.

Thick as a plastic lie.
Within measurable-
the snakes smell like trees now-
of the next start-over.

Within measurable
distance of public health
Of the next start-over.
I itch so much less no.

Distance of public health
From the tax-gun barrel:
I itch so much less no.
Save me from parasites,

From the tax-gun barrel,
o belovèd won't you
save me from parasites,
you loving parasite.

O belovèd, won't you
soak up my sleep and wear,
You loving parasite,
at false market value?

Soak up my sleep and wear;
fall out in my sanctum.
At false market value,
will you rid me of you?

Fallout in my sanctum,
suddenly the rush hour.
Will you rid me of you?
No time to save groceries;

suddenly the rush hour.
No time for plastic bags,
no time to save groceries,
no time left to shower.

No time for plastic bags
to save my daily wear.
No time left to shower
when turned out of my bed.

Do save my daily wear,
to soak up your concern.
When turned out of my bed,
reeking obedience.

Do soak up your concern
with the means of my life.
Reeking obedience,
sleep and wear your concern.

Bruce V. Bracken

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NINETEEN EIGHTYEAR

IT WAS A YEAR MADE OF SOLIDS,
MAGENTA SAT IN AS PATRON SAINT.
VERTICAL IN A CANDY SHELL,
WE WERE THE WALKING TOPIARIES.

MAGENTA SAT IN, PATRON SAINT,
CUTTING FIGURES, COLD AND BLEEDING WHITE.
WE WERE WALKING TOPIARIES,
GEOMETRY DANCING ON A STRING.

CUTTING FIGURES, COLD, BLEEDING WHITE,
DEAD ORCHESTRAS IN PLASTIC BOXES.
GEOMETRY DANCING ON STRINGS
TO THE PUNCH-BEAT OF THE OCTAGON.

DEAD ORCHESTRAS, PLASTIC BOXES,
WE HAD THE KEYS, THE LOOPSET, STUTTERS,
THE PUNCH-BEAT OF THE OCTAGON.
IN PASTEL CARDBOARD-SHOULDER COUTURE,

WE HAD KEYS, LOOPSETS AND STUTTERS.
IT WAS A YEAR OF LOUD ARGUMENTS,
WRITTEN BOLD TYPE ON OUR TORSOS,
ON PLASTIC SLEEVES, AND MADE UP FACES.

IT WAS A YEAR LOUD ARGUMENTS
CAME FROM WINDOW-SMASHING MANNEQUINS.
ON PLASTIC SLEEVES, MADE UP FACES,
WE WHORED OURSELVES TO REALPOLITIK.

FROM WINDOW-SMASHING MANNEQUINS
CAME MILLION-DOLLAR SACKCLOTH AND ASH,
WHORED THEMSELVES TO REALPOLITIK.
IT WAS THE YEAR OF THE ENGLISH STARS,

MILLION-DOLLAR SACKCLOTH AND ASH.
RAISED CASH FOR AFRICAN DICTATORS,
IN THE YEAR OF THE ENGLISH STARS.
WE WORE OUR HUMILITY IN VAIN.

© 2010 BRUCE V. BRACKEN

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