Sacred Whore

Just give me 5 minutes
to change the world
a dark loan
so I can pay all my bills
and leave a little
chicken fried steak
something in my gut
but more importantly
let me hold all the whores
on every boulevard
and brush their teeth
just once
and let them have
the finest whiskey in memory
trickling down the throat
that ain't evil
your heart won't ward off
the devil's handshake
unless you let go of his hand
so give me 5 minutes
to change the world
a dark loan
a long death trap healing
down interstate 5
a promise
I will make good
I will remove the demonic
boxer shorts of the pope
speak halos
and try not to rhyme
but I need those street girls
first
the sacred sufferers of men
all of them
on their knees
speaking in tongues
the true language of heaven
with more power
than Jesus to heal
each of them
willing to be sacrificed.


Rubber Room Autopsy

Poets
like to talk about madness
it's a theme
like drunkenness
or evil

but why is insanity so appealing?

Perhaps poets
understand the fractured brain
more than most

I mean
what is more crazy
than the poet that thinks he
or she is a genius?

Especially
in the first stages of monster making
poets believe they have struck
true lightning

They fasten their words inside a book
and present it to the world
and expect what?

Acknowledgement and awards
for half-baked first stutters?

It is this very real state of madness
that keeps the poet typing
relentlessly
furiously
obsessively
in spite
of friends and family
telling them they should go get "a real" job
despite
the endless deluge of rejection letters
and lost lovers
the poet types on
knowing
he or she has the original spark
even though
the voltage is a broken wire
short circuiting
somewhere
inside the brain.



Summer Rain

Once
I knew a young woman
could pee like a man
we'd be drinkin' beer
in the park
and when she had too much
or just the right amount
she'd unbuckle her blue jeans
pull 'em down
arch her hips forward
and let out
a crazy yellow stream
most of us
would cheer her on
like a circus freak attraction
but sometimes
when we wanted to be cool
we would just ignore her
as if her act
was just as common
as summer rain.


(c) Bradley Mason Hamlin 2003

Bradley Mason Hamlin

Born in Los Angeles, California. He served in the United States Navy from 1981-1984, altering his brain-waves enough to give him the writing virus. He began writing in 1988 with the conception of the metaphysical crime series: Alcoholman. He currently works as a publisher of limited edition books of poetry and prose at Mystery Island Publications. Hamlin now lives in Sacramento, California with his wife and tribe of wild children.