Two Poems by Craig Firsdon

The Star

his disability is not
the center of attention
tonight as he reads
he is the prom king
dancing
in the glitter shine
of the disco ball
the brightest light
in the midnight sky

he is the only one there
that doesn’t know he is special
no one mocks him
no one treats him different
they listen to the strength
and commitment
in his words
with attentive stares
poem after poem
each one a new dance
with new motion
and new rhythm
allowing him
to lose himself

they applaud
poetic waltzes
the claps
the finger snaps
a ballad of sounds
compliment him
building his confidence

watch him
listen to him
tonight he is
a dancer
a poet
tonight he is
the star

____________

 

Closer (Images In A Mirror)

The mirror spoke to him in words unspoken.
An infinite number of truths growing day by day,
every breath he inhaled led to another scar.
that passed by unseen by his vision, his soul,
only another checkmark on every bully’s list of fulfilled tortures.
Even as the checks appeared, check one, two, three,
the whips cracked and gashed his soul
leaving permanent tattoos as reminders of his pain.

He still stared at the mirror in front of him
as it rambled loveless melodies on and on
with an image that said it all.
No smile.
No one cares about him.
No one notices him until he’s gone
and when they do he’s remembered
for one short moment in time
when he was true to himself
But to others what seems to be a triviality,
something that is nothing,
just words to him and only to him
and his wrists become like his heart, sliced by each syllable,
nouns and verbs cut deep
cut by cut by intentional cut,
he bleeds until he no longer can bleed anymore.
As the words become sentences,
sentences become razor blades, Xanax and shot gun shells
and continue to cut,
to swallow,
to pull the trigger.

Eventually it all begins to fade,
getting darker as painful shadows
get closer and closer.
Drifting, thinking of what others have said
what they have done and continue to do.
What will I do?
What have I done?

They say they understood him
but they didn’t.
They wonder why he would hurt himself,
they had no clue.
Objects in mirrors often appear closer
than they actually are.

Captain America Carries A Glock by Craig Firsdon

 

Captain America Carries A Glock
Captain America carries a Glock,
the new world order’s new world justice. Shoot first, ask questions later,
let God sort out the innocent.

Captain America pulls the trigger.
Easier than it should be.
Each bullet painting liberty’s constitution
with rounds blood red
inked from preprogrammed enemies
of the white knight rounds scatter brains
out on false sky blue canvases.
Heaven is full, its gates are locked and
Hell doesn’t seem to give a shit.

Captain America isn’t blind.
He keeps his mighty shield shined
as bright as a halo
and as red as Hellfire.
His puppet eyes see what he’s meant to see…
tattered genes, rage against machines
needing to be put down.
Too bad what goes around
usually never comes back around.
We don’t want to think about it,
don’t want to talk about it
and that’s how it all began.

Captain American is an artist.
His new exhibit opened at the museum of art.
Crowds gather, the public flood the halls
trying to get a glimpse of their
hero’s blood stained lives framed on display.

Captain America carries a Glock
and has never lost Russian roulette.
Life is a game of expression painted by violence
and righteous perfection.
His missions are always completed.

Captain America –
the new 21st century super soldier
forged by our own blind, mute hands,
the flawless warrior of a flawed people.

God bless America.

A Bowl Of Popcorn And A Diet Pepsi by Craig Firsdon

 

So I killed myself.
Not really.
Metaphorically of course.
I wouldn’t be writing this.
I don’t have the balls.
Sometimes I wish I did.
That is had balls.

So anyways I figured that the fight
was already over.
I’m tired of all of it.
You know “can’t get out of bed tired,
make you wanna puke your guts out”
sick and tired.
I no longer want to fight back.
I will just live in blind acceptance.

It would be a boring but quieter life.
I figure I will listen to music,
watch some good movies,
horror of course, my favorite genre,
maybe sit out in the sun,
watch nature from my porch
and appreciate its beauty,
sketch some of that before mentioned nature,
paint a bit, likely dabble in oils,
breathe deeper
and, most importantly,
stop giving a fuck.

But what about everything
and everyone else?
What about the world?
What if Hillary Clinton becomes president?
More importantly what if Donald Trump becomes president?
What if they cause Armageddon?
What if IsIs gets a usable nuclear weapon?
What if North Korea attacks South Korea?
What if Russia keeps goading the world?
What if they cause Armageddon?
What if children in Africa continue to die?
What if the refugee crisis continues to get worse?
What if the world goes into financial meltdown?
What if a pandemic kills half the worlds population?
What if the promised zombie apocalypse happens?
What if THEY cause Armageddon?

You know what?
Screw it.
Screw everything.

I am too old.
I am in too much pain.
My words have never made a difference.
My poetry will never reach the world.
Resistance to the powerful and elite is futile.
They will do as they wish as they have always done
And now I will do what I want to do.
I will sit back in my “old as hell,
breaks don’t work” wheelchair
and just watch society continue to screw it up
with a bowl of popcorn
and a diet pepsi.

The City Below by Craig Firsdon

 

The City made noir
lay below big brother exchanges
hidden in the filth
hidden in the infinite unseen
transpired in gutter peace
and trashed tranquility.
After several awakenings
they had all become used to
a city of unrecognizable beauty
and the idea of a future
of industrial quiet commands.
An apocalyptic city
comfortable from birth
in a mirage
in an illusion
of the logic of past years
when wars against fantasy
led to lives of expectation
and humanity challenged itself to change
with false flag motives
that spoke a simple truth:

They wanted it this way.

Letter To The American Conservative by Craig Firsdon

I remember the days
when logic superceded
greed and power.

Now, instead of needy children
we adopt the highways
we’ve littered with inattention,
Bury them in freshly printed greens
and watch our printing presses smoke
themselves to an emphazema death
as we all abstain
only as long as the moment lasts.

With the focus of a five year old
high on prescription speed
we soon forget abstinence
and chase the first fox we see.
Its the chase, they say,
that makes the foreplay sweeter.

Chemically induced erections
and silicone inflated breasts
sliding on skin covered in
trans-hydrogenated fat
slowly heating our oceans
and sea-to-shining-seas.

Today the news said maybe
we will or will not
prosecute the murderers
lounging on our blackened beaches
in Versace and Valentino
writing memoirs to their greatness.

I know you understand me,
I can hear you scream “Socialist!”
just fine.

The next time we are out
and your logic asks me to pick up the tab
just remember I voted for
the black guy with a big smile.
This “socialist” is not giving you a dime.