Modern poetry collection by the contemporary Cleveland poet Steven B. Smith
Smith - contemporary poet

reading room #5
11 poems

Slave and Masturbation

An old plow hand, I play acoustic
Foreskin, hairy palms, white cane
Puberty, the fish and the fingers.
Old acids etch anew my brain.
The old wants? They still imply
Unoffered breasts, often rejected.

Original sin is condition given
So the knee bores say.
Yet dark ripples still unstill light.
Small deaths linger lightly on sheets
No longer washed nor nightly scented
With reason wrinkled, or raw.

slave & masturbation artwork    end    poetry

Acid Snow

Such cunning, these beasts
By pruning heaven
They've stilled the old wild yeasts
Yet in breeding unleavened
Seed such sheetings of grief
Shat out uneven
O'er poor human waste
That all dogs believing
Rise lonely and weak

These acids know weakness
No mercy for grief
Or inherent meekness
Unheeded beneath
These semen stained sheets
Keeps meat on its knees
And power unaided
Or tree on the leaf
And tragic the shaman

end    poetry

The Corporate Mean

The promised land of milk and honey
Hides the men of scars and shame
Who came they say to slay their dragon
Yet slayed to stay the same

Sleep creeps like Jason's wool
Down shelf enchanted eyes
Devolved from Mammon's muse
These self selected wise
Inside their phantom rooms
In fairy tale castles
Devoid of viable dooms
As integrated assholes
They sway
Illusion's lies

end    poetry

Our Public Servants
The needle men
 the wee within
 hides hollow
 shadows small
Such slime
 and sin
 and grime
 they grin
Much mock the moral mall
In greed they grip
 the public tit
Lick all
 the wrong behinds
The useless twits
 with inbred wits
 use farts
 to fuel their minds
Call down rehearsed
 their red tape curse
 in girth
 of unknown tome
 why alone
 no known tones
But worse
 they ALL tell lies

end    poetry

Warship Worship

The Polyesterites in their sterile might
Bequeath to the moon in sanctified loon
A not quite so nice ever after

end    poetry


The man walks through the door.
The door is red.
The man is not.
And neither has a hump.

end    poetry

Love, Lust & Atlantis

Big cups of American coffee cheat rent.

White bread rat dead.

She and he honkeys'
Random willed sex smiles
Eco eat spun doc wet work
Paid by skin inch.

Collective shoals hustle bush.

Shapes shadow symbol.

Vargas vaginas piss shit shower shave
Customized codes of conduct.

Sheep indivisible suckle our young
On the teats of the old,
Dewey without decimal.

Rather India-inked Indians
Than dead baby truth.

Missed and Mr. P.R. Clone
Dildo ditto dodo
Mime mind
Sheep asleep
Next dead guy to cum along
Arguments amongst the monks.

Broken soul mesa, America:
No desire
No fire
No fur.

end    poetry


Freud comes tonight
To mock our mere
Reflected lives'
Refracted fear,
Shelf dependents
Miming mirror
Of every man and action.

In abstinence
Such sibilance
Through undue trade
And undulance
Calls forth
In outlawed ambulance
Emotional transaction.

These scars we horde
Until they're heard
To bargain bare
A binding word,
The players paid
And pompous lured
To daily dead transgression.

Nipples rise
Through lemon dust
Raw, red
And real in sapient lust,
Emasculant tongues
Court and musk
Mother's moist application.

end    poetry


It hurts to be a teddy bear
To sit alone, unused
No longer wanted anywhere
Just left alone, confused

I'm tossed aside to lie in here
This dank and musty chest
The dampness serves to hide my tear
The dark to mock my past

Not always thus, this has been no
I was her fair haired toy
She loved me once, I pleased her so
I shone, her chosen joy

Yet here I lie in darkest net
Her love for me did end
My love for her she deemed forget
She found a stranger friend

And now the stranger she does mold
And twists him through the air
While in this chest my heart grows cold
Alone and frightened, bare

end    poetry

New Year 97, Amsterdam

Dad would turn in his grave
If he had a grave

Mom lost him some place in the river.

end    poetry

The Validity of Relationships

Full moon

Moonlight drips
Drips down
Dead realities
Dead reality
Dripping down
Dread realty

The moon is moist in Autumn
Great, rotund.

· Excerpts from Smith's interview with Mark Weber
·A smattering of Visitor Comments
· Free Times Magazine Article
· Poetry reading room #6
·Check out Artcrimes


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