R. Bremner – Four Poems

Belock 7/22/16

Judy climbed the dirty fences to the full tramp, and the slovenly flesh tone took a good look at the olde time kids who were the same as a ruby.  Will you listen to a different kind of beat girl who’s walking out on love but stands back and takes a good look at a one way ticket which is alive with natural sound? Don’t forget that Judy is a punk who drives a Chevy Vega to a gentleman’s twist and can feel the noise with a girl like you. Hurting’s on your side if you don’t wait up for me at King’s Cross which is too high to cross if you love yourself. Dig the American beat at a bachelor party for a full heartbeat that has famous nerves.  Meanwhile, lovers of love also love cubist blues with thirsty ears from Armenia in the sky who send unhinged greetings to an out of control white mystery that might look my way  with no promises of faded pictures in the memory box of an omnivore. But the speeding plough won’t tire the tide of a wonder wheel, especially when it’s digital on the Eastside of a six-fisted tale of the tower of strength. Bobby was full of shakedowns of El Paso Linda Lu, whose nervous breakdown in New Orleans fought the law with a little bitty pretty one

Armies of the King of the Beach and the King of Minnesota fought over bangles, taking prisoners for now and forever, as those wiser and more miserly crazy kids sought an outside chance for water. Traditional fools surfed in the red streets, searching for fool’s gold in the uprising coffins, aggravating Cleopatra with their thought rhythms, as she worked out her kinks.

(Thanks to Joe Belock and WFMU.)

Hamilton

Witchcraft said bye bye to the karaoke blackbird which lamented  for milestones. There will never be another you, but in walked Bud, who trusted in me as he took the A train. It could happen to you if you don’t get around much anymore, but it’s all right with me if you’re in a sentimental mood.  Johnny came lately, from where or when I don’t know, possibly Arabia, where Barbara feels pretty but themes cosmic rays at Don Quixote who’s groovin’ for Nat in a parade of dreams to come. I get a kick out of that old feeling of your Adam’s apple on sale in a farmers market under sunshine in the rain.

(Thanks to Rhonda Hamilton and WBGO.)

Bentley

That crane kissed many pricks of brightness, then stroked Machu Picchu with a pretty pimp under a new sun that faded out. I was window shopping when you walked right back for one more night with a heartbreaker who (you hope) is fresh with you. A washed out punk feels all right as he lights up an avalanche while living underwater with something wild. Mama, I don’t believe in nobody’s empire whose best kept secret, if ever I was a child, was to throw down your guns.  What are you talking about? Didn’t you see me go down in flames while driving with a hammer, a blind world problem, and a lucky star?  I was calling my real estate broker in the central rain, but she had to hear the voyager break a tall man while the skinny lady’s teenage dream turned to stone.  The beauty parade was broadcasting public service remixes of felicitous plunder of Mike Piazza, the New York Mets’ catcher who was back together so far so good.  I am a fool screaming in blue when the soaring eye of a hurricane cheats me. I shivered my delirium timbers when you said yeah and we took our breath away.

(Thanks to Jason Bentley and KCRW.)

You can hear the walls roar, see your brains on the floor,
become God, become cripple, become funky and split.
Why was I born?  Laura Nyro

Scrumptious syllable wench of fractured ice, you burn my soul’s cold, cold flames, a killing intensity, I stretch to grab your hand, but like frozen glass it shatters, cutting my heart and freezing my head, you write so damn good it shames my damnable proselike pap, but what did it get you?  I want to hug you, pull you from your exorcised self, but you’re turned to stone and anyway, you were alien to my flesh.

(for the late, great, brilliant and beautiful Laura Nyro)

After publishing in formal, Beat, and Surrealism in such journals as International Poetry Review, Paterson Literary Review, Poets Online, Quarterday, Oleander Review, and others, R. Bremner has ascended into Absurdism, the only poetry that makes sense to him in an absurd world.