Sunday, December 8, 2013

After We Give Thanks / Sickness


Walter Beck is a native Hoosier and has developed a growing cult following for his hard hitting verse and outrageous live performances. He currently works as the Gonzo Correspondent to the Colonies for the UK digital magazine Polari and has several chapbooks available through Writing Knights Press.


After We Give Thanks

(By Walter Beck)

The day after we give thanks
The gates will be thrown open at the crack of dawn.
The gates will be thrown open
And the hordes will rush,

Rush down the aisles,
Kicking old ladies,
Beating each other,
Knifing each other.

Flashing blades and guns
To get the hot item;
Whatever the TV tells them
To buy, buy, buy.
Buy, put on the credit card
And pay the interest
With a closed fist.

The day after we give thanks,
The aisles will run red
As the security guards
Pick the bruised bodies off the floor.

The day after we give thanks
The CEO’s bottom lines will run black,
And the aisles of America will run red.




Sickness

(By Walter Beck)

I’m sick from overdrinking
And under-eating;
From living off pork fritters and frozen pizza,
Forgetting what a good home cooked-meal
Tastes like.

I’m sick;
I’m hungover from failed relationships
And romances that went nowhere,
Mainly because I never had the balls to say
“Would you?”

I’m sick from quitting and sick from firing,
Of being able to stand the ground on the picket line
But not being able to toe it on an assembly line,
Or a register line,
Or an order line.

I’m sick of machinery,
Of clanging registers and horns,
I’m sick of the public.

I’m sick from running,
From hiding,
From escaping,
I’m sick of escaping.

I’m sick from my friends worrying about me constantly,
Worrying if I’m gonna make it.
How long can you run full-tilt boogie
Without collapsing?
And isn’t it sick that my friends are more worried about me
Than my family?

I get token prayers from my family,
My friends bring me food and music,
They bring cigarettes
And remind me that I’m not always so alone.

I’m sick;
I’m clutching my trashcan,
Puking up memories from the old days
That somehow almost never seemed to exist.

God, I’m sick;
I’m hurling,
I’m burning,
I’m pissing,
I’m confessing.

And will it all be enough
To feel well again?




No comments:

Post a Comment