six beers and ten cigarettes by Carter Monroe

the euripides  sanction immerses itself
in some kind of bogus heartfelt  rendering of nothing
the salience is too definable to be obscure
sorta like dom perignon in a nightmare

observe the man child going his own way
in a sordid grip of opening prepositions
into a neon world of pissing on the floor
away from the mat and onto the tile

it was a mistake marked by a jesus contemptuousness
and floundered in an oral world
these lines converge into a syncopated lack of reassurance
where denial is a lollipop
and suck it as you will
just leave me in an equation all my own
to endure this current definition of humanity
that will be viewed as a joke in 25 years

scoundrels who masquerade behind non-profit entities
and who substitute education for experience
suffice it to say there’s no obvious blessing
just a pair of sunglasses that shield platonic reality

but that’s what we want
what we’ve always wanted
in the narcissistic justification
of our own beliefs

god, how we wish to be eggheads
in a two plus two world
where  holier than thou has some minor appeal
and the righteous never speak
but lie in wait for the illuminated to bring forth
documentation that can be criticized in the most subjective of manners

i think I hate you all somehow
because i took a math course once
and because i know how to tell time

Two Poems by Carter Monroe

July 18

psychotic expulsions in a loomed dichotomy
form the basis for the miscreants who proffer the dogma
incessantly,  the shakes continue
in the wake of manifest destiny
lined by the path of past mistakes

there’s a wandering sense of chaos
subverting the delusion of objectivity,
creating another cave
another fire
a new series of shadows

July 26

damn this equestrian ballet
that comes in the back and forths
between mama and the den
and the shaking head
that sees the “other guy”
in a skewed light

doesn’t know from where it came
or how it came about
they were just people
who met at Plato’s crossroads
puked together
and shared a cigarette.

Roll Another One by Carter Monroe

Definition by Carter Monroe

I am a casualty of self,
a footnote to sublime instinct.
Someone who ignored a perch
through a saturation of melange.

Kept sacredly in doubt
the tumult swept me
past dead dogs and scavenged wolves
into haystacked roadkills destined for survival.

The cars traveled on fumes alone
all the while squelching reassured needs
as the barbers lost their touch
against the brutality of apathy.

But, then there was the waiting,
the sands and the wind
and the wind
and I waited

until someone finally told a joke.

Words that refused to remain hidden…by Carter Monroe

So, you say to yourself
sometimes silently, sometimes aloud,
“I’m doing this now
because there’s nothing left to do.”

I mean, it’s a confrontation of sorts.
A seeing yourself as you are
for the umpteenth time,
The reality check you’ve repressed
until now

And, you know
this is not a poem.
Merely what you can do
at the moment.
Something about which
you can convince yourself
on a sober day
had some meaning
some significance
because it damned surely
has none now.

The conjugal selves swirl
in and out.
Testing the limits,
if only for the moment
and the grip is in doubt
like the lock
on the ancient back door.

You wish to use the word “fleeting” here,
but it takes too much of your soul.
Places you into a boxed context,
which is the same
as writing your own eulogy.

And, briefly you consider
a concept as totally meaningless
as posterity
and you chuckle aloud.
All the while forcing
a Platonic barf
that temporarily denies 53 years,
giving you the security of imagined ignorance
and allowing you  a chance for sleep.

Words that refused to remain hidden…by Carter Monroe

So, you say to yourself
sometimes silently, sometimes aloud,
“I’m doing this now
because there’s nothing left to do.”

I mean, it’s a confrontation of sorts.
A seeing yourself as you are
for the umpteenth time,
The reality check you’ve repressed
until now

And, you know
this is not a poem.
Merely what you can do
at the moment.
Something about which
you can convince yourself
on a sober day
had some meaning
some significance
because it damned surely
has none now.

The conjugal selves swirl
in and out.
Testing the limits,
if only for the moment
and the grip is in doubt
like the lock
on the ancient back door.

You wish to use the word “fleeting” here,
but it takes too much of your soul.
Places you into a boxed context,
which is the same
as writing your own eulogy.

And, briefly you consider
a concept as totally meaningless
as posterity
and you chuckle aloud.
All the while forcing
a Platonic barf
that temporarily denies 53 years,
giving you the security of imagined ignorance
and allowing you  a chance for sleep.

Jack… by Carter Monroe

The sway is but a mere happenstance
when the line swaggers.
The thought is so far in the distance
that to notice it would be a lie.
The hands are tied,
but not in bondage,
as you wait for the transmission
to transcribe.

A drink, yes, another drink
and the voices gain clarity
when the soul comes alive.
Is it code
or just a mass of words
needing no organization
or interpretation?

Is there muse in the mix
or just the rap of indulgence
countering the desire to punch
into the formality of “should.”

When the final breath
has led you to sleep,
do you remember?
That is the question.

“Do you remember?”