Wednesday, February 27, 2008

The Compete Ten-Poems "Drooled & Slobbering"

Ten- The Drooled and Slobbering
Poems of: Dennis L. Siluk


The Siluk’s Lament
(for: Hemingway)

I know E. Hemingway masturbated
in the mornings…;
that his pet cat screwed the dog
that some bulls kick and fart
and yet
what can I do…
it all seems so crappy normal?

#2287 ((2-27-2008)(written at Starbucks, in Circle, Lima, Peru))


Hemingway’s Best

He tried to spit out the truth,
from a salivating mouth—;
in the end, he drooled
and slobbered,
lies: from feet to chin.

#2288 (2-27-27)


In My Times

In my times, it demanded we protest, cut away sin.
In my times, it demanded we go with the flow, it was
hammered into us!
In my times, we invented free sex, with no regrets.
And in the end, my era, that demanded all this,
got shitty, and nasty kids.

#2289 (2-17-2008)


Last words
(Of the imprisoned Islamic Terrorists)

Islamic Terrorists never die well, they twitch
and cough, roar red and black words,
about everyone but themselves, going to hell;
even to the last breathe, before being thrown
into a ditch, they choke out those last words
saying, “Death to you all, by Allah!”

#2292 (2-27-2008)



Man is like a ship, on the sea—
throbbing with envy of it
(undulated envy),
for its long time existence…!

#2295 (2-27-2008)

In Haiti

In Haiti—they serve one master in the day, and
another one in the night,
in-between, at twilight, they stand still, waiting
for the sounds of the voodoo drums.

#2296 (2-27-2008)(the author spent two weeks in Haiti, ten-days in the
mountains and four days in the city of Port de Prince, in the winter of 1986,
and recalls the voodoo drums in the small villages, and in the forests..


Augsburg’s Pig Alley

In Augsburg, West Germany, in 1970—
I went to Pig Alley, to visit the whorehouse
(more like a four story building, with a fence
at the end of the alley, to a dead-end).
Bristly faces, and youthful naked bodies
all about… on the second floor me and
my Army friends, scored…dirty hides, raw:
gray, cold, ready to ride, or be ridden.

#2293/ 2-27-2008


Arabs: in Cuba’s Prison

Many came in chains, unrepentant for their sins.
Too arrogant to stumble; thinking the Americans
will give them TV’s, radios, and chicken
dinners, while they wait, in jails and prisons.
Now they want their human rights, it’s been a long
ordeal, a fight, in Afghanistan and Iraq, killing
Americans, filling their bodies with bullet holes
from day to night (where human rights groups
dare not enter)?

#2291 (2-27-2008)


No Stomachs (Suicides)

Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, George Sterling,
dead very dead, all successful suicides, wild eyed.
They lived in a dead world, and went back to one,
one where they needed no stomachs…; one
where there was no rescue; but they do have
a special rock, they can sit on and talk—ponder,
(and they do) on how it might have been?

#2294 (2-27-2008)


The Bulls of Hemingway

Roses are not always red, especially, if you have someone
else paint them blue. And sometimes it is better left un-
said: who is the hero of the bullring!

O yes my friend, bulls and bullfighters, are not always art-
less, especially when you celebrate them, with brass bands
and balloons.

Bulls and balloons, bulls and balloons, and Hemingway,
whom is for the bull or the matador, how much bull can he
feed us? I’m for the hero, whoever it may be, who puts
on the best show, man or beast, or neither.

The bull stands ready to charge, and the matador is saying:
go, go go, I’m ready. Hence, the bull gives him his horn in
his rib, and he flies in the air, falls on his butt, and the matador
goes: shit, shit, shit…I missed. And then someone comes and
takes his place, the bull is now tired, thought he had a chance,
and the bull goes: shit, shit, shit, and gets stuck with the sword
several times through his hump (between his neck and spine)
and whose the hero?

In such cases like this, there are no heroes, and thus, I’d prefer
the painted blue rose, instead—why waste my time.

#2289 (2-27-2008)

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