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crimson stature

rising like cracks
the dark stain
fanning like sticky smoke

we were rooted
the fascinations burning into us
like a brand
we could feel the
we could taste the
hot bite

the whole dream jumped
into yesterday
and replayed
and we wore
tragic jacket

standing in the grass
the tall buckles
catching dry stalks
and the glitter of all
that crap on the dashboard

driven the four hundred miles
folded by time
by horror and fate

close our eyes
and the dust in our mouths
turned up by the tires
thrown aside by the shovels

there is a blue I awake too
and a line of brow buckling
in worry

the smell of the week forgotten
wrapped in the sheets
burning and sharp like gunpowder
and fire

stare through the cracks in the
huddled against the ragged
the roar of the motor
the jolt of the road

your hair lays like unspooled
like nights curtian
ablaze with a new dark freedom
full of damp wind

where you can lick the scars
with hot lightening
and drink the grease hot
volitiale escape
from the battered flasks

while a fly dances against
the yellow lure of the lamp

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


Road trip?
this stanza maybe think of the smell of sleeping cover by sweat saturated sheets for the long day of not being able to bath. the cat bath of a road trip
"the smell of the week forgotten
wrapped in the sheets
burning and sharp like gunpowder
and fire"
I'm not sure if I like it or not, but an explanation could clear all that up
this is one that I would like to be in your head when you were write it.
PS a had another poet read it, and he thought you were writing about death also that it seem to junp from the main subject.
those the Crimsom indicate blood?
Please explain!


It's very Kerouac like, reminds me of some of his writing in On The Road, the sheer magnetism of it all and the metaphors and the people around him at the time, this has all those same things within its words, it is not quite as frenetic a pace as Jack's is but it is nevertheless freeing for the spirit.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

but I dont mean I write like him..
burroughs is an old favourite too
and some women

I tend to shorten everything to few frames
like my small sketchs on cardstock
paper that I do in Twiggs
and on styrofoam cups
which lately at the meetings people
have actually been covetting and taking
them home

and thats what i do when Im not writing
poetry but thank you for the compliment
and notation on this one

when I read him he drove me mad with
the jump in sequences in his visual
descripts but then of course for a young
writer for that time it was very daring
The whole madcap affair of living life
like that

im old (forty seven) and live a slower now

but my zest for poetry passion and dark
states of realms still enthralls

author comment

crimson stature
its more of a feeling
the red
in battleships in the old days
(1770's) the lower decks
were painted red
its elemental the whole title
I try to place something
different on them if I wasnt then
I would call this by ordinary
"Shots of Snap" see just to
play with words and imagery

bits of fragments of everything
death is always close
life for all its strength is quite

and volume for me is
words and flow
in the ballet of construct
the dance and crash
of trails and merger
of falling stars
and nights drowned
in the seethe of storms

thats the basic through
and through of all this

of course all my poetry
is personal
if it wasnt I wouldnt be
able to write

author comment
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