One Man, Many Voices -- David Smith, Author

AS I WANDER THROUGH THE BOOK OF LIFE

Wandering through the book of life

 

I wander through the book of life

sweet different roads each traveled on

Those ones that took my crooked way

such passion in each foot step walked

 

While children look to me with hope

waiting for that softened stroke

to ease their horror, tomorrow’s wake

such passion in each foot step walked

 

For what am I but aged oak

with knot holes blackened opaque sight

Can beauty be as roughened edge

or must it slide as perfect hide?

 

If either or an answer is

then answers are but different strokes

Of those that paint with callow heart

or numbers be as perfect art I wander through the book of life

sweet different roads each traveled on

Those ones that took my crooked way

such passion in each foot step walked

 

While children look to me with hope

waiting for that softened stroke

to ease their horror, tomorrow’s wake

such passion in each foot step walked

 

For what am I but aged oak

with knot holes blackened opaque sight

Can beauty be as roughened edge

or must it slide as perfect hide?

 

If either or an answer is

then answers are but different strokes

Of those that paint with callow heart

or numbers be as perfect art


Unlock the Doors

 

The scribe that sits, veritable splendor

nothing to do but candor’s pique

inevitable time will tell the word

faith unheard is a trial of first

 

Faith so slight in light

words that fill the trollop’s heart

in splendor sitting scribe’s vain fight

for moral pluralistic tripe

 

Dawn a new day stops the scribe

of lust he does no more describe

such folk that sit within himself

yet fail to fight yet softened bell

 

So ring that copper dullard’s chime

let him crack the first wave’s time

standing to the frock of life

that whimsicaled, trident, spear of death


The Grapes of Wrath

 

The grapes of wrath

Like raisins in the sun

Or a young pompadour set stiff

Atop the head of a short sleeved punk

 

Barstool proclivities

The snot of alcohol

Makes a man a man

And women retort

 

Stand and be counted

Booze will do the trick

Svengali’s eyes a prize

For those that have no time to please

 

Themselves they stand

As man proclaims

Write’s the fetid wrong

And women retort

 

Mazzeyelltough the Jew proclaimed

Through haloed eyes of truth and write

What chance does he who sits not atop

That barstool high in god’s sweet eye?

 

The Bible told me so!

 


Life taxes the death of boys

 

Life taxes the death of boys.

Which boys one often asks?

They the ones who sit and starve

and wonder where and when

 

Now gettin’ me wrong may be some claim

to fame as known in circular squares

Truth of matter

I cannot tatter

or totter to war with aplomb

 

Those boys I referred to,

the one’s so few know?

They be sittin’, waitin’,

where the hell is our stew?

 

Still they sit, starve and wait

for history’s cumulative crew,

 

to serve up that stew

of patriot cream

albeit in hell

 

where we don’t hear their screams.

 

Where mamma don’t sit

No crib for a bed.


A simple paid for whore

 

I have broken the chain

of earthly gain.

Have flung myself

on highways lost

 

Flat I lay

without a care,

please ride your car

upon my back.

 

For Heaven’s flack

I have no suit

of armor shinning bright

to flick away the naughty nights,
amusement dims my thoughts.

 

Tightened thighs around my back

girding swift black flow.

Spurious, evil, lovely thoughts

keep my heart aglow.

 

Sit with me, gentle dame,

my money on your back.

Cigarettes, neon lights

to stub out on your back.

 

As I am, I’ll lick them clean,

wounds caress my tongue.

To mend your thoughts,

cease such woes

whores may have to cry.

 

For what is life without the whores,

who sweet delight my loins

in simple, cherished, love for gain.

 

So it is I must remain

a simple, paid for, whore.


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