Uncensored

Dear Blog,

I've been a little depressed lately. So, I got this image of a kid being beaten with a crucifix. This is what I got out of it, it's very macabre. This is not an autobiographical poem, this is not how I feel about the church or the school. I've written other things about that. This is just another terse rebellion and more of a take from an unhindered, overly dramatic side, something with no apologies for once. Except for this one I guess. It's so hard to wave a poetic license these goddamn days.

Bible Camp For Teens

They beat us with the crucifix
Until we're bloody but fixed
They carved me a new smile
With a sharpened nail file
Who goes there walk lightly
Forced circumcision nightly
They tell us what to burn
Faces, white and stern
Called my mother Monday
Almost died on Sunday

Son do not fall away from the light that we have brought you
If it takes us thirteen years we will carve what we have taught you
Into your holy hands and arms and back, pierce your sinner sides
You will learn why Christ died and you will learn when not to cry
The only sad thing is that sinners like you go free and unpunished
Content in their Roman hedonism, reckoning leaves them famished

They can prove it to you
Bible bruises black and blue
Lamb's blood on my throat
Burning up the goat
They rip out the old silver
From faces with mad vigor
Branded with a holy mark
All called to the holy ark
Basement readings hurt
Whips with every word

Son your sweat and blood are symbols of resistance to God
If you were truly of the light, then we wouldn't see your blood
I hardly hear your screams over our prayers and liturgies
You have no need for worldly corporeal things, those frivolities
I am going to strike your skull with this symbol of our Lord Jesus
Until all your evil thoughts and rotten teeth lay bare on this dais

Yours,
B Morgz

It's Too Late To Be Writing

Dear Blog,

To start, I was (and still continue to be) very tired and I listened to a lot of the Hold Steady. Then I wrote this poem. Here it is (it is long):

Gutters
By Benjamin Morgan

I. I'm gonna seriously think about moving to Las Vegas
Then I'm gonna seriously take another sleeping pill
Holding onto pillows in the bottoms of the rotten barrels
Singing old folk songs about drinking and raising my glass

All of this is mine and I sail into the night of my decisions
The course I chart forever into the blood-stained bedroom
The crucifix and picture of my mother on the floor from off the wall
They fell down when I slammed my head against the ceiling

No one comes by with the baked goods like they used to do
The raspberry filling made me feel just like a human being
One time last week somebody peeked his or her head inside
They saw all the destruction and left confident it was suicide

Homeless for fifteen days in the middle of April this year
When it wouldn't stop raining and the landlord put his foot down
It was just what I needed to be back out into the alleyways
It gives the public a chance to reaffirm all of my suspicions

I can hear the rain from the inside now and it's running down my gutters
I could take the metal pipes and pathways straight into Nevada
Though I wait for my mother to lift me out of this armchair
It does about as much good as me praying does these days

II. I praise all my grade school girlfriends as I chop up furniture
Axe in one hand and a glass of something alcoholic teeters on a table
The gouges in the wood remind me to go back to the doctor
He's a close, personal friend and a wizard with the small talk

Fill your mouth with curse words and go out to the playgrounds
Tell them to the children and then ask about their parents' favorites
Wish them a fine day and run to avoid ducking all the purses
These days even lawsuits can still be ducked if you run fast singing

Plugging your ears at night is not a good way to get to sleep at all
It leaves your hands in an awkward position and strains them
The strain that's all built up in your body will not reap good rest
I find that it's best to drink Nyquil generously and pretend it's socially

These are things my doctor hears and like a madman he attends
Listening to every single word of my simple plans for condemnation
He can string them all together like a narrative if he cares to
The audio tapes of our conversations are like jewels in themselves

I forgot how to get home again and when i say again it's every day
The people at the crosswalks are undercover cops at best
They've been on my trail for ten days since I've been counting
To get some heat off me I pretend to be my brother and start yelling

III. I mainly hear the neighbors arguing on Mondays and Fridays
Though I've made a chart of the prime time to sit with open ears
The TV is on mute and I think about my parents with my eyes closed
Holding nothing in my fists that have balled up like little stones

The waterbed finally gave in to the pressure and collapsed on Tuesday
I tried to rip it open and ride the water like the ocean
Pretending that it would kill me I drank the old, bitter water
When I had my fill I got up soaking wet and smiling

I guess I can remember what it used to be like but it fell down
What I mean to say is that I toppled it all like blocks
No hold on I swear I had the perfect metaphor picked out for this
But wouldn't you know it that I can't recall it just now

My memory has started an alarming chain of retrogressive destruction
Times that I once had seem uncertain and too bright
Then they get dark around the edges and burn up in the light
And when I wake up I don't remember or believe that they happened

I bottomed out a couple years ago at an age that I hardly remember
The ocean always seemed to go on further than it needed to
So I never spent any time imagining what could lay beneath the floor
Nothing good resides there and that's where it's gonna stay

Yours,
B Morgz

I Stand Corrected

Dear Blog,

Here is a new poem:

Oh Dear Miss...
By Benjamin Morgan

My jewelry is stolen by park hopping vandals
the thing around my neck
a brazen, sunlight idol
Is gone to the night air at long last
How did they know?

The perpetrator's wretched laughter sick scorches the night
like a vomit or worse
like the flaming pits of hell
Where all the bad men are going to end up
I know what I know

I think of the worst ways to tell everyone I know
pathetic to my wealthy friends
sobbing to my wealthier parents
Green wires, once clipped, run wild with sparking greed
I know what I need

Hugging my gathered loved ones tight and squealing
they smell like cologne
or almost like too much liquor
Why was I even walking alone in that park last night?
I don't even know

Yours,
B Morgz

Anger

Dear Blog,

I'm angry because I'm getting things ready to submit to the Review and I can't even give them my best stuff. My best stuff is "innapropriate." It makes me so very angry!

Yours,
B Morgz