Three poems by Justin Wade Thompson

Three poems
by Justin Wade Thompson

Standing Still

the smell
metallic like blood
lingers among
the paint fumes

left like
a soul trapped
between these walls

listening
to the late
rowland s howard

how did this happen?

how did death surround
me in my
home
in my safe corner
wrapped like

a fly in a spider's web
dried navajo mummy
under sand and plaster

under the shroud
of dead
and D-Y-I-N-G

without endorsement
or simulacra

creeping from Poe's
grave to
the pub crawl

trapped in
these walls

larger than an elephant
bloated
as a carrion dog
in the streets

did my bones
twang
muscles
pop

my mind occupied
by six legged nazis

cramming Django
past the wax of my ears
while
the carpet mites
eat my wooden
soul

out from empty
coffee cans
and beds of broken glass.

++++++++++++++++++++

My Death.

death comes
like a puppet picture
of Verlaine
on postcards
yellowed by time

and kids burning
in flipped cars
smashed against trees.

i try to imagine death hugging them/embrace

not steel and glass
but something warm.

my stomach burns
like cancer

like drunk sweats and vomit.

i've nothing against the living,
save everything about
humanity.

and the dead
are given too much credit. stones left around
for centuries to remind us of something

that maybe we should forget.

maybe should've forgotten
a long time ago.

the skies
are filled
with empty promises
like the altar and the bread
and the sour grape juice
that they say is wine.

death,
bloated bodies
and laughing cherubs spill ashtrays
into my tears.

i've nothing to save,
nothing to give, and nothing to
take with me.

so don't bury me
next to anyone.

=====================

Books about the Apocalypse

reading books about the apocalypse
eating brains
in a fry pan.

some scary things we dream
but mostly silly things like screwing in school houses
and kids wiping haikus on their asses

because there's not enough paper to go around.

they burn books too.

and I wake up with a screaming smiling beauty
now a stiff white corpse
running teeth first toward my throat
and
I
can't
run

or move.
and I can't seem to keep the scissors from
snipping at the tender flesh around my balls.

running
with a bleeding crotch to match my bleeding feet.
holding the mangled mess
and hoping that the rest of me

will hold its shape.

Author bio:

Justin Wade Thompson was born in New Braunfels Texas and currently lives in a trailer park in east Austin. he has never had a full time job or pursued a career or higher education. his poems have been published by various magazines including My Favorite Bullet, Underground Voices, & Zygote In My Coffee.