Saturday, November 4, 2017

Poetry By Tim Meyer


This guy Meyer is unknown but rumored by some to be among the top thirty poets over fifty who owns his own car in Paoli Indiana.  Living with his Orthodox-X artist editor wife he has been published in Blue Collar Review Spring 17, Que Huong, Nobodaddies, Indiana Writes, etc.  He works in the rough trades.


I have a Jesus

He has tetracycline saddle bags
and a spring powered blade.
His mercy is campy, irrational.
I have a Jesus who talks to me
only when I am taking a dump
or climaxing shouting Mao's name.
He parts his waters to the left.


My father's Jesus had a five
tailed whip with barbs.
He didn't recognize his
and stuck to the one in the field
with the lamb, beast and children,
but the Old Jesus was there
hiding in the history of my father's father.


Build a brush arbor by the side of the road,
mix up some Kool-aid to save
the sycophants, and it's a business.
This is where my Jesus comes in:
nailing flesh to shingles
with an automatic air gun,
flying about the tabernacle
like a huge grey bat,
strafing the believers with portions
of what they have not eaten of themselves.



 The Tunnel

The sun perspires through the moon
and by her lens we are capable
of standing before God's face.
The violins at their searing peak
or poets' words when striking bone
have this cold light.


Oh, you can offer up to the sun
but in that light all is seen
and suspect before the light
like gazing upon an occultists' brazier.
The sister has fewer commandments
and through these easier rites
the fools, peasants, and poets find
their solace and, yes, their soul.



 Breath Under a Coating

Pastoral setting but for the mother's arm
coiling most tightly about the child
she is about to lose.
Sam knows where he will be buried.
He seems sure of this arrangement;
spats, slacks, they will drain him
into a burnt seed.


The stem extends around the world
or dries up.  Bilge water limns
our descent on the inner hull;
speak, oh black ship.
Father lies naked and whimpering on the church
floor amid clucking.  Sam lies down to warm him.
The damned castanets never cease.
The grease that coats the barnacled altar
is unfathomable.



Cesium Studies of Meringue


From the thicket mouse bird hinted the story.
Now gales bring green foam to the doorstep;
quick, what container will hold a spark.


Fluff blows from the waves like fat.
Catkins scattered over a countryside
forget their purpose in the delirium.


Storm wedges open the barn to possibilities
other than soft inheritance or handy plunder.
Wax runs down the knuckles just to see.


Bone marrow under x-ray.  The problem looks pretty.
Patterns of chaos form fjords of a new world
though no fauna are found here.


The tale reforms with new characters
thickening to main artery proportions
and there you are in a little wet gown.



 Necklace

The small frog saw the cat too late,
the cat that loved to kill.
Soon he was a wet lump of gleam and sticks
slowly illuminated by the moon.
The police came by, nothing much changed.
A lady was missing some pearls.
Her cat went on through the grass
in its Godliness stepping quietly.
We heated some soup for breakfast.
Tomato was what we had.
Part of the window out,
close together, each helping the other
heat that can of soup.
There were no pearls in the can.



 Off Drugs

Dreams come again to whip me like a droning baby
barking sonnets from a walless blue crib.
Four big thumbnails so there were two
with three on the column and a wad in the back
from support hose or the hair treatments.


Let's deal, Polonius was a wanker, all right,
and you can smoke cough syrup but not in the rain.
The breathers line up at the pay phone
where my night number floats in neon
so I'll give flesh in trade for anonymity.


If the trash floats it is still trash,
the fabric of blind communion.
Baleful bite and sucker marks splay
across Mother's bingo card as she tells the story
of the spitted pup coming back to life.


We do worry.  We do pain.  We do drainage.
We do what we do with two pieces
of wax paper on a knotted string
and any social workers with a glance
at their underwear will understand and condone.


The brick leaves the hand but just drops
to the floor.  A stantion keeps us on top
of the dam, but since sleep with her greasy palms
has bred the worm Uberalles to infest our dream,
the birds don't know us any more.


Follow Zombie Logic Press on Facebook