Monday, April 29, 2013

John Grey



Alien craft over Washington DC
or was that a Mexican truck
heading north toward the border.

Four-eyed monsters,
says the supermarket weekly.
Illegal monsters,
declares talk radio.

They’re armed with ray guns,
their technology is so advanced,
they intend us great harm...

They’re squeezed into
the truck’s secret compartment,
sweaty and starved of breath,
one or two already dead,
and yes, they intend us great harm...

Their planet’s dying.
They want ours.
Their country’s a basket case.
They’re looking for work.


A tattoo is nothing more than a look back
at the night you had it done.
Were you drunk? Did some guy dare you?
It’s a lovely red rose but it’s a flower from seven years ago.
Today it would be a heart saying “Michael”
or maybe the devil or a diamond or a star.
A man rubs your back, thinks what luscious petals,
but that’s not what you’re giving him.
He gets Michael, the guy you’d rather be with.
Or the devil, the imp that sleeps with all comers.
Or a diamond, the moneyed dream that pretends
to make this worth it.
Or that star, the ultimate in elevations,
the coldest for all its bright light.
So let him have sex with his nose in yesterday’s budding.
It’s wilted. It’s dead.
You’re wilted. You’re dead.
It’s a skin to tell a lie.


It's 2046,
the oldest living Deadhead
is on his deathbed ...
the marijuana's medicinal,
the music's immaterial
because he can't hear it anyway.
Over and over,
he mutters the word 'Truckin"
to the great-grandchild
seated faithfully at his side.
Soon, he'll join Jerry Garcia
in that great outdoor concert
in the sky.
It's as he's always said:
Life sucks,
then you tie-die,
then you die.

© John Grey 2013

John Grey is an Australian-born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.

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