Whiskey Cunt & Hieroglyphics @ Deuce Coupe

by Alcoholman

Deuce Coupe

Punk Rock Poetry

PUNK ROCK POETRY

Fuck You (I Mean, All of You)

I hate poets
and I hate people
that write
poetry
and I hate myself
for writing
poetry
and I hate
the word
poetry
sounds like
something a fag
mutilates
and now I am
a bad man
for using
the word fag
in a way
that sounds like
being a fag
is a bad thing
but I do know
poets are weak
the best ones
cracked
fractured
mad
insane
the worst ones
soft
vague
needy
made of wet paper
and I feel like
a dumb
drug addict
getting over the cold chills
every time I lay down
another wasted line
but
at least you know
what
the junkie
gets out of it
the high
and the escape
and I can't
even tell you
that's what
poetry is about
because
I already have
an escape route
built by drinking
and so many
"poets"
do the monkey dance
sober
so what's the point?
outlaw the thing
make it illegal
then
maybe
poetry will find
the necessary
nerve
to come alive
and stop
slouching
there
with you
and the
zombie pecker
in your
hand.



ALCOHOLMAN

The Rain is Gone

Sometimes, regular old normal people
are criminals
as we lie to each other
pretending that the talking shit doesn’t exist,
like people don’t all do it to other people

A world I know that exists
underground
much
deeper than poets go
(poets get on my nerves
with few exceptions)
or the wanna-be alternatives who really just all look like
each other and sound like each other

There are some humans on this planet
that fucking catch a clue

The more I want this world to be the only world I know
the more I attempt to break free from the chains that bind me
to suburbia and mainstream culture
full of fear and insecurities.

I admit, though,
sometimes I don’t mind the chains
if Alcoholman holds the keys
to unlock them.

I meet enough pretty cool people
on a regular enough basis these days
that I don’t feel like slashing my wrists to escape it all
plus I have children. And a man.
that I love.
so I guess I’ll just fucking deal with reality
for now.

I wish people would just fucking speak up,
and say what’s on their minds,
and fucking be real with one another
and stop fucking lying all the time.

I know how to lie.
And I can do it well.


Lucy Hell

for Bo Diddley

a pint of
blackberry
brandy
a pack of
luckies
& a stolen
zippo.

i sat sipping
from
the
bottle &
smoking
one after
the other
LISTENING

soaking
it all
in
& everything
moving
inside &
outside of me

as i
propped
myself
up
against
the back of
an
outhouse.

your
pounding
rhythm
of life &
rebellion

blasting
from
the
open door
of
the
“colored”
roadhouse
across the gravel
highway.

me at
14
already a
renegade
already an
enemy
of the
state.

i owe
you
this
one
I owe
you
these
words

this
memory
of
pure
revolution.


Doug Draime

Surf Drunk by Alcoholman at Rusty Truck

SURF DRUNK

THINGS COULD GET WORSE

I was born poor
in Alabama
& because I was
so dark-skinned

it was suspected
my mom had slept
with a "colored" man

which was prob'ly true
since she'd sleep with
just about any man
who asked her to
spread her legs

when I turned eighteen
got the shit beat out of me
in a tavern
for havin' black blood
in my veins

I had just turned nineteen
& got the shit beat out of me
in a juke joint
for havin' white blood
in my veins

my dog since childhood
up & died on me
& my gal who
just turned thirteen
(my first cousin)
up and run away
& married my half-
brother who was
also a cousin of mine

(you figure that one out)

I was near murderin'
someone and tears both
when momma said to me,
"Smile, son things could
get worse."

I smiled & sure as shit
things got worse

I received a letter
from Uncle Sam
& now here I am in Nam

huffin' & puffin'
through the thick humidity
of a triple canopy jungle
getting my ass shot at

tell y'all one thing
I ain't never gonna
crack another smile again.


F.N. Wright