Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Country Music Death Poems

Tom T. Hall sings, a scratched record
open: dark kitchen
bubbling on the stove
marrow, chunks simmering in blood
butter churned from brains, onions
sauteed in white lightning
and in butter
churned from brains.

Hunting dawg stands on its hind legs
prized hunting dawg
speaks an ancient tongue
cleaves the hunter's head
with a tobacco knife
long-handled with a blade
fashioned from an ancient handsaw.
Prized hunting dawg shivers
brushes blood from his fine coat
mumbles to himself in an ancient tongue
smokes a pipe
learns to drive a car

old country graveyard

coffins of wood, real wood, collapse inward, marking the rotten slumber of decades with sunken spaces throughout the shaded sycamore roots

dead things wake up
light themselves a fire
have a dance, neck, get drunk on creekwater and fireflies

early morning, sun begins to rise, the ladies are exhausted, shuddering into the leaves, the boys left unpaired in their romance of tendons long snapped and skull kisses, they stir smoldering coals and talk gets real, far-out, they laugh about their dreams, especially the ones about bein' alive

written, I think, around Valentine's Day '13, I think

No comments: