Poetry

“Lulu”

In a little corner of this thrift-store-head

A something wonderful is trying to tell me

What’s her deal.

Some God had a novel idea; no hidden agenda.

Nothing up his sleeve. 


He was so full up of

Pure concentrated joy.

Compelled him to create

A being of pure love and gentle Reason.

A nurturing kindness,

And the brightest

White Light Beauty

Ever, and ever

From her is emanating.

She had two smiles

Perfect lips-smile.

Two-eyes-green; they grin!!!!

No lie! No sin.

I believe in her.

I thought she might be real.


I can only imagine

The love she has given all; free to all.

Yes–even bad ones; unholy fuckers what feed on shame.

But I’m low-born; known to scorn.

I’m one more damned.

I believe in her, so 

That she can’t be real.


I feel she spoke to me

And I thought I—did I speak to her?

Half-asleep now; it’s all a blur.

I am dreaming.

I can finally see her alive!

All light! All love!

She walks right through me.

Believe me. Straight through me.

A thing as me sure has some nerve.

I tell ya.

 


 

©2017  teagown

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Poetry, Uncategorized

“As Like as It Can Stare”

 

“I am not rock and roll. I saw The Name of the Rose; I think I enjoyed it. The Mother’s

        son expires in act of cowardice. They left his body by the river…”

—Richard Roe

    Cuck #RK138

                                                                                                                12/03/2065

                                                                                                                        Bottle Toom, N.B

                                                                                                                        (Slow-Work Co.)

——————————————————————————————————————————P.E. Tottenham

    09.05.18

    At Sesuit Neck, South Dennis, MA

——————————————————————————————————————————

©2018 teagown records

 

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Poetry

Epistle To Michael #1

 

All yr pacing to & fro

Across the Party floor


You: with yr Eternal

Quest for rare earth


In our damaged & filthy house

You: of Dream Puzzle


Man of God

Enemy of Mystery


Why can’t Mystery just be?

Don’t you fear that?


With the End of Mystery:

  • God
  • Will
  • Parish

    —P.E. Tottenham

             09.05.18

             Sesuit Neck, South Dennis, MA


              

©2018 teagown records

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Poetry

“2018 AD: Slow Work Under the Gun”

Tresna is intended

To be read in a left to right margin scan.


And yet, it follows these days that a

Distracted, incredulous attitude is the norm.


It is default; even for that rapidly dwindling

Tribe of mangy, feral, metaphor-mad text zealots.


More commonly known as:

The Literary Crowd; it’s merely

Standard, baseline response.


In my case it merely indicates

The pedigree of a full-blooded

American. And let me assure you,

My comrades, this is a red, rich blood

Filled proudly with a potent mixture


Passed down to me by my very own

Salt of the earth ancestors of

Irish, English, Polish, &

Italian ethnicity.


Slash me open—American

Through & through—

Through & through:

All the dirt piles

Of vagrant plots


Against vacant lots;

We all, the small ones,

Seen them…from

Top our “War Hill”!


Granite, maple, bramble, &

Pine rococo tangle.

——————————————— 

(We boys of gawk; Shelton “shit-talk”;

Plastic gun squawk; sole treasure

Cached in cracks inside hill’s rock: 

Pulped, gacked, and hacked

Pages jacked from mag porn

A vintage of damp, decaying,

And degrading…)

——————————————— 

O! Plastic, yellow, & ubiquitous

Whiffle balls & bats! What set us kids 

To slashing! Clubbing around, game or not,

Honing our violence on trees, big rocks, dirt,

Brothers, cousins,—and sisters!


And quite often ourselves. Now take note:

The world famous Whiffle Ball Corp.

Shares my Shelton hometown 

(South Connecticut).


In elementary school my friend, Mike Padilla, had

Whiffle factory as closest neighbor…

Can you imagine.

That creek running behind his house!


Trudged through it in heat haze

Looking for frog babies.

One time floating toward us

On shallow creek at surface

In melancholy meander: Whiffle balls.


These balls were mutants; the fugitive grotesque.

Whiffle black-ops debacle.

Hollow, plastic black orbs of various shade

And size—And—


Well. I wanted gone with this.

Blame for New England-style

“Damage” & “Brokenness.”


(Had seed of theory featuring Nathaniel

Hawthorne, Hester, Dimmesdale.)

Kept brief: End Transmission


—P.E. Tottenham

08.24.18

Near Scargo, Dennis, Massachusetts

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Poetry

“Roman Comment Misheard”

“Caligari killed Caligula,”

Someone said

With Coliseum lust.


Ergot Bread & Circus

Decayed legions, cohorts

Manic carmina decoro


With three expelled

All ears prick up

The Chorus lips slick

Wet with cuss


Fifth Columns in the colonies

Are only long con

Colonnaded forgery imposters


Only marble left to see:

The cattle carcassed

Grassy sea…


Her Sicilian lover

No lupara cover

And he’ll never

Fill her whole


 

The love she told

And the love she made

Just a Tuscany bird

Now flown away


The love she believed, left

Unkissed, left to bleed just a

Roman comment misheard.

_______________________________________________

—P.E. Tottenham

08.24.18

Sesuit Neck, Dennis, MA

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Poetry

“Southern Belle Wilting By Punch Bowl”

(For: D.C.B.,B.N.,& S.J.M.~~~and: (presumed damned) William T.: “slíbhín”)


Somebody clicks their teeth

We will not stay underneath


Secrets winding through the beats

Women start to leave their seats


Dancing, dying, winding sheet

Shy ones melting from the heat…


A Southern Belle is Wilting

By the punch bowl

Gentleman line up for her review

She prefers the slíbhín*

And the polecats


She has waited long…


…For her debut


Ivory skin

The bathtub gin

Has poisoned

Hunter Bean

Chaperones collide with waiters

Weaving through the scene


Ivory skin

The bathtub gin

Has poisoned

William T.

Chaperones imbibe with waiters

Hiding in latrine


(*slíbhín — pronunciation: /sliːˈviːn/ a disingenuous person; trickster

Origin: Gaelic English

synonym: scoundrel)

©2017 teagown 

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Poetry, Uncategorized

“The Black Hammer”

by

P.E. Tottenham

Looking for a special grave
near the center of town.
There was never a fountain &
No symbols were found…

Boston’s blue
Alachua grey
Torn at the seams
And turned away, so:

Rose:
Shaved!
Fucked!
Dranked!
Smoked!

Joined up at six with
The Crystal Spick
(nee
Neamathla James Veracruz)

Got Isaac Saul Shelaylay:
(obsessed with English grammar)
Black Jew, Black Irish, and Crystal Spick
Enter the Black Hammer

And auto away
From Entropy,
Aunt Chunowa,
O, Dear Aunt Tippi…

They think:
Too much style in Subaru
But I-95
Brings the Cold North to you

Heater Core blows
Washington, DC
Crystal Spick bewares
To the Black’s reddened nose:

“Gone Heater Core’s naught
But debut of an hysteria
This auto dies slo
In the Tri-State Area…”

There’s fire in the ground
From Pennsylvania coal
So we burn down New Jersey
And it’s Pine Barren Soul

Money moves out for the gift
Of Natural Light,
Cigarettes, roman candles,
And M-80s stun the night

O, Boston, Cape Cod,
Them islands somewhere
O, why are we always
Escaping up here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

©2017 P.E. Tottenham/Teagown

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