Sunday, March 18, 2018

Political Poem by Christian Gould

Made in God’s image?
We are comedy gold.
Toy trinkets playing with our toys.
Baby has his nuclear artillery,
At the gate.
Babies have their guns ready;
Babies: there’s a man in the house!
Suited in pretend apparel.
Pretend this is serious!
Give away baby America’s secret.
She’ll look the other way,
And blubber incoherent chatter,
About how the suit works wonders!
And they’ll sweep baby Russia,
Under the rug.
The small chatter of intel;
And the nuclear pretenses,
For pretend professionals!
It’s all very fun – O, what fun!
Kids, with their toys left out,
And their messes on the floor.
Crackers smashed across the dials,
Of transmitting signals.
The babies blame the last leader.
President of his class:
He gave band-aids to patch salt-wounds,
And fundraised the whole thing.
And each kid got a sticker of life.
But the next leader says:
“Do away with band-aids!
Do away with health-kits and fundraisers!
I have my own fundraiser! A better fundraiser!” –
Loss of band-aids,
And health-kits, and care.
The funny kid in a suit pretending to care.
He laughs, a little nervous.
He begins to insult the kids, pressuring them.
He begins to promise,
To make everything better.
That the last president’s fundraiser has never worked.
Some of the kids begin to believe this.
They forgot the holes in the argument.
They forgot the wounds they used to have,
And how hard life used to be for them.
They forgot the past repeats itself.
They forgot everything.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

A better year this time by Christian Gould

2015, 2016:

Split ends, burnt edges.

A transition of fire,

The slice of a knife to draw my way,

And no other.

And consequences are sequences,

Of explosive factions,

Set off in motion –

I am cleaning my plate of charred ash,

Of reality,

Of fresh trauma, created by me.

My decision to fail, to derail my self-esteem.

To set myself up on the same loop,

Winding and rotating like an aimless axis,

Without anyone but me to inhabit the outcome.

And come out: broken, burnt –

Yet better than ever.

Saturday, December 23, 2017

O Tree by Christian Gould

O tree.

Point your cheer,

Through the black mass of perspective.

Through the deep, dark

Of the present,

Where the off switch is pressed,

And the screen goes black.

And we sit from a couch, staring into the void,

Steering far from our goals.

Venturing off into nothing.

The Parties by Christian Gould

One head cannot

Fathom the lesson of the next.
Both past-tense.
Tensed into XL limbs, like rustic America.
Shattered between terse,
Planks of land, that we say benefit our hands.
Oh god, they are mud-glazed.
I fear their hollows and tumult.
Spaced memory finished. Another forgotten.
No helping two mud-slats,
Already marked as broken.

Monday, December 4, 2017

Single by CG(me)

My poem

Single by Christian Gould

Single, single.

We cannot break the eyes,

Into sharp shards,

And poke at others with blind sighted,

Disguises and compromises,

That we cannot actually believe.

Believing that one day someone,

Somewhere, in a land far off,

Will strip us of our darkness,

And detonate the immense happiness,

That always lingered inside.

No, instead I see a future of knives,

Raised with accusations,

When the cloaks of light fall off.

I see the darkness inside, finally,

Waiting like a lost lover.

Another entity, but is it meant for me?

                                                            Single by Christian Gould