Sunday, July 5, 2009

Three poems by John Grey

by John Grey


In Frank's painting, the naked witch
is biting off the head of a greyhound.
It's a tribute in form of a diatribe
against some woman or other.
She ate his heart out but he's already
painted that scene a thousand times.
So the dog gets it in the neck,
his way of saying, "I still love you"
And blood spurts everywhere,
even over his scribbled signature.
Dear diary, today I sat in a movie house
for six hours watching a movie I disliked twice.
And then it was three hours in the bar,
drinking two to everybody else's one.
Later, I stumbled up the stairs to Frank's garret
and asked to see whatever he was working on.
He showed me his stock in trade...
a portrait of a lovely woman
in the simple act of smiling back at her creator.
It made me sick. Made me want to
recover my head and chase the rabbit home.



One string plucked
and the others reverberate.

All strings strummed
and reverberations come

Put the guitar back
in its case
and reverberations
hum back to silent strings
until the next time.

If the next time's
the next tune
at least.



if i am not a
i am nothing

if i am just
another tourist
stuffing roll after roll
of film with the same
old landmarks
i may as well put
a pistol up against
my temple
and pull the trigger

i've got to find france
in places other
than these eiffel towers
and champs elysees

but there’s the louvre
here’s where
I come in

Author bio:

John Grey is an Australian-born poet, but has been a US resident since the late seventies. He works as financial systems analyst. He was recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.

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