Poetry Spotlight on J. F. Kinyon

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HOMETOWN DRIFTER

This is no town to drift in
Pallid moon, river barren
Nightshades drawn with leering eyes.

Strangers pass, suffocating
On air thick with innuendo
And the occassional lynch-mob din.

Death is a way of life here
Greed; the blood that feeds
Our pleasure-seeking hearts and minds.

No one asked to be born
And raised in this hopeless state
Turned inside out and out again.

Incapable of bringing joy
Only doom and gloom
And an unbelievable history.

Will this reckless abandon
Ever come to abandon me
To enjoy your simple pleasantries?

My pleas fall on deaf ears
Or maybe I'm too blind to see
Even the very slightest of mercies.

©1997 J. F. Kinyon

 

BROS.

They sat together, closer than brothers
Sharing Guinness and sinsemilla
In the stillness of the workshed
Where one would later hang himself.

©1997 J. F. Kinyon

 

DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY REUNION

Second-hand luxury cars
Fill the lot, where the kids
Will soon be fistfighting.

Barren evergreens offer
Sparse shade, bringing little
Relief from heated discussion.

Black flies nestle their eggs
Fruitlessly, into flesh
That is bound for the fire.

Accounts of sexual conquests
Are shared, out of earshot
Of wives and girlfriends.

The punch bowl is spiked
With the usual, table strewn
With various petri dishes.

Facelifts and tummytucks
Are compared, then the women
Move to more fertile chatter.

A stereophonic device
Creates ambiance, drowning out
Sounds we cannot endure.

Photos are taken
For posterity, as if anyone
Is ever going to care.

©1998 J. F. Kinyon

 

CHILDHOOD MEMORY #113

Our babysitter
Was a coke dealer
On the side

She kept one eye on us
And the other
On her customers

Until one day
The masked man
Shot her in the face.

©1999 J. F. Kinyon

 

 

 

THE DEATH OF RICKY RAT

Hey there
Hi there
Ho there

You're as welcome
As a knife in the gut

Tape your mouth shut

Smell the funk
Shoved in the trunk

A bullet with your name

Another bullet
With your name

Another bullet
With your name.

©1999 J. F. Kinyon

 

DAILY ROUTINE

I wake to a bowl of my favorite breakfast cereal
'Death & Mayhem', it's an acquired taste
a little hard to swallow at times, but then
everything good for you is.

I stand in the shower for hours on end
practicing the precepts of Onanism, but mostly
revelling in the fact that some of the dirt
can be washed away.

The bulk of my days are spent stalking
long lost interests, pointless prose
I'm an abortionist in alarming proportions
a deft destroyer of the forever unborne.

I take pride in my mechanical abilities
my rod is pumped and hard, reflecting
not on a lack of endowment, but rather
on my need for a quick get away.

Love leaves a bad taste in my mouth
sometimes an even worse smell on my clothes
especially when mixed with tobacco and alcohol
but we don't have time for that here.

I cut my teeth on sharp wit
I cover my tracks with dark humor -
I'm alive for the sake of chance
and I really hope it'll be over soon.

©1997 J. F. Kinyon

 

FLOPHOUSE ON ROUTE 666

Smut mattressed under the sign of the ghost
Christened in blood, the sleep walking virgin

Rends herself upon the banister rails
Gay-hearted Jack cracks his skull-like shell

Hatchlings feast heartily upon a gracious host
Beneath their hoods, teeth gnash like tin

Driven men peer from eighteen wheeled jails
As mudflap girls quief their majik spell.

©1998 J. F. Kinyon

 

WATCHING HER

Taking in the view
I am struck

By the impressions
Her features bring to mind.

Those lips

I have kissed them
More than once.

Those eyes

I have missed them
All my life.

For the weakness
Of my heart

I shall let this pass
As well.

Yet I cannot help
But watch

As she hits her cigarette
And washes her hair

In the heavenly light
Of that sun drenched shower.

©1999 J. F. Kinyon

 

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