jason hardung

Suicide Kids

After midnight reading Harvey Keitel Harvey Keitel
Harvey Keitel I decided to write this
poem for all the half exposed skeletons dancing
under the Hollywood sign under the moon
under the straw castles we build.
The bearded boy from Pittsburgh
reciting S.A. Griffin's Apes of Wrath word for word
to a brown-eyed girl at a bus stop while she clicks her heels
three times and a tornado finally takes her to
Worcester Mass where Tuesday is always gone
and a simple man with a love
of Bill Parcells Ronnie Van Zant and
Rimbaud equally let's her take his bed while he takes the
couch he is a scholar and a gentleman in cut off sleeves. Me
and my friends are suicidal over women we have abandonment
issues anger issues we can't get out
of bed we just want
to be loved we just want that one
person that isn't afraid
to dance with us.


Last Month

I have been in love
and have cried over dead dogs.
Have judged others
like I was some sort of
insecure god.
I've been beaten
robbed and raped.
But who hasn't?
My words choked by the illiterate
hands of thieves.
I have stood on a mountain top
in fog covered morning
when I was taller than the sun
just to watch
something anything
rise again.


Too Much Teeth

My probation officer's quick fingers
danced as in Amsterdam windows
they typed the punishment to my crime
into the computer
and I was officially turned on in a government facility.
The sound of keys fell into a soothing rhythm
not unlike a Barry White tune.
I envisioned those tiny hands
wrapped around my cock
and wondered if she would take her wedding ring off
set it on the nightstand dashboard or back of the toilet.
Not that I mind if she is married
but if a diamond can cut glass
who knows what it would do to my shaft.
Then I glanced up at her lips
those soft glossy swollen lips
the lips of authority
the lips of every
cop principal judge politician
and all their rules and consequences.
They are right about one thing
I can't keep repeating destructive patterns.
I can't let a pretty face fool me again.
Anyway I'm sure
she is the type of girl
that uses to much teeth
and not enough lip.


Three Levels of Trust

When some middle class whore
is sucking your cock
in the back doorway
of a Vietnamese restaurant
nestled in a strip mall
between Boxes R Us
and the Saving Tree dollar store
there is an unspoken bond
between you
you trust
that she
will finish
you off
before your boss
comes looking
for you.
When you are buying drugs
downtown
at seven in the morning
from a young kid
from Honduras
in a Colorado Rockies hat
and a thin black moustache
you can tell
he has business savvy
by his eyes
you trust he
wants your business again
so he will give you
a little more
than what you paid for.
When a surgeon
has your guts
laid out
on a silver metal table
you trust
that he knows
how to
put them back.