hey lenin did you know it’s x-mas

Where all the lights

go down w/ a hot
fizz, like bulbs-flashing w/

promise & dying in the

cold dark:


the anti-poem

is written,

as an addendum-on a

maxim basis.


It’s playing backwards on

Lou Reed’s Sad Song.


It’s the empty belly

walking a silent

X-Mas Eve street-

w/ the smell of the holidays

in the air.


It’s pushing Family Dollar

shopping carts to a lonely

part of a

garbage-ridden tunnel-

or the run down

subway terminal

where businessmen

once rode to get home.


It’s rolling another sad habit;

another sad excuse

& flushing the dreams

down the drain

just before the cops

kick in

the front door.


It’s threatened by the word “wholesome”.


It walks on pins & needls-

collects cigarette butts

as loose tobacco

from street corners

in blatant view of

MS. DOWNTOWN,

permed-hair-

hides out behind the nail salon

w/ a switchblade knife

& 2 teeth.


It demands you empty

yr pockets

empty yr heart

empty yr purse

empty yr mind!

The anti-poem-

to steal what little

affinity you have for change,


because it replies

to astute questions

on philosophy & refuge.


Refusals come

straight from

a crooked PAPER*MATE-

when WRITER’S become Bros.

and plot a prosaic demise.


The anti-poem

sleeps w/ solidity & anguish

tonight.

In the arms

of one more

BEATnik lover;

a friend,

a fag,

a fairy..

& boasts that it lifts

more weight

than you ever

dreamed!

600 lbs!!-the anti-poem-

obese & ready

to speak of

cut-up methods &

spontaneous cerebral culminations.


Hell

Greased up

until the propaganda wheel

is properly lubed-

while we’re talking

real riots in the streets man!

L.A. living @ the other end of the transit system from the

U.K..

anarchaic one day trip and back-

non-stop & all

the

“ducks in a row”-

Bro. Valentine

hiding in the

bloody chest of the anti-poem

w/ sweaty hands & rickety knees

& ready for the reckoning…


for more Republic

for which it stands

to divide,

mutanous condesending-

arresting fascists

w/ no more Gestapo tactics

but real, braod daylight

entrapment!


We’re locking people

up for having no

homes & asking

for help or a

warm bottle’s reprieve!


But who’s going to ask

questions about such

topics whent the avenues

look respectable-

The clean shaven & all the while commerce

thriving?


Are you going to

read the anti-poem

for no one to hear?

even when it’s scribed in

blood, lost voices, lupous, malaria, stigmatization, hyper-tension & debilitated muscular tissue?


Fuck!

I don’t know

if I wanna stick

around for all that

anymore.


© 2011 Frankie Metro

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “hey lenin did you know it’s x-mas

  1. As always Mr. Metro you have your finger on the pulse of the jugular, counting out cadence. The rhythms as if a countdown to collision after the collusion. A powerful, powerful write my friend.–J

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