Lester Allen

lester allen
think tank

it's supposed to be quiet
in here
but it's not

I can hear the electricity
in the walls
and the roaches
tiny mockery

the eyeballs
of the crowd
slide about their slots
I listen as their lenses
focus in

and the noises my brain makes
while playing the thought game
like a hunting accident in the
forest of infinity

the bathroom is a better place
the circulating air sounds
drown me out
a better backdrop
for the words to fall out to
the seating could use an upgrade
the fluorescent lighting hurts my eyes
and I'm not too sure about the various holes in the walls
but it's meeting all my needs
at present
and for that I'm thankful
and comfortable
amongst the sinks
and watered-down hand soap
toilets
and toilet-paper rolls
and paper-towel dispensers,
highlighting the paint chipped walls
of lying mirrors
and broken tile

all of it
immortalized here
and forever
like the dirty
words
adorning this stall
till somebody or some thing
comes along
and tears it all down

under the day & over an ocean

A summer of love,
south of France,
dogs gnaw the city blocks
outside my window.
The afternoon coils 'round my heart,
like a snake around its prey;
squeezing the want from
my soul.

It's a summer of love
in the south of France,
with odd-houred telephone calls.
Static reminders
of trust and chance,
oceans wider than thought.

Summer of love,
south of France.
Somewhere out there
I've got a name,
a face, an assassin for an
imagination honing in
on it's mark.

It's a summer of love
in
the
south of France

It's a long hot summer
in hell
everywhere else.

retrograde

to feel it
to be cursed
into needing this
thing
to want it
like a trapeze walker
over a safety net
of fire

like the last good nail
on a nervous hand
or pants without
pockets

the mirage
of genuine humor
on late-nite tv

searching for a little bit
of substance
in the wrongest
of places
a view through
new curtains

though the shit looks the same
the gears grind
the spring snaps

fleshless

demons

fucking

everywhere

the eyes move


while women cradle prized merchandise
in their wrinkled souls

the honest
holed with lies
& repetition
like the toy train
circling
the Christmas tree
of a young child's mind
the whistle
startling dust of centuries
reminding the dead
that it is better to be
dead
than to have to stand here
now
explaining themselves
to you

when the shit comes
seeping in under the door
& out the coffee pots
& up through the drain

do me this one favor
& try not to look

so surprised