no brass bands needed — no smoke, no bullshit.
HONESTY – a good dose.
we looked into the dark
and laughed; placed
men’s frailties into the spotlight
no pretensions.
two of us,
seeking those things we fear
and outing them,
exposing them with unfettered honesty.
– Chris George
March 1986
I am wondering what craziness is sitting in a room watching the clock digits change
smoking and coughing on my smoke as my eyes water from the clouds exhaled
thinking of food when I realize I’ve gotten too big for my own stature
delaying the work if front of me by doing every possible thing to avoid it
making animal noises from a barnyard hidden away in my closet
thinking of my past beauties being eaten by the present beasts
laying down and intently staring into the space between
the clock and me, wondering what has happened to the lost time and
the lost matter of the room — whether it exists outside the room and
if there is some connection or relation?
writing it all down and knowing that I have missed the point because
how do I know exactly whether I have my sanity – here
with the smoke, the space between, and the clock.
– Chris George
1986
flung, head over heels,
as if you’re catapulted by your own convictions
lights flash by you – memories
blurred afterthoughts;
there is no way you can concentrate at this speed
relax: you’re in this for the ride now
no choice in the matter
no way to get off;
there is anticipation of when you’ll skid to a stop
focus on a street light
feeling comfortable on your back
staring into the night, the shadows, and the light;
ghosts dance overhead
a ritual step to annoy you
to prick your consciousness and
stir your soul to crystalize
(this is a cold world
and you’re part of it.);
shake the aches out and get up,
pick yourself off the pavement and walk
take the steps necessary to stride again
if there is the will you can find a way.
– Chris George
1990
In Memory of Frank Day
friend, decent human being
time dies; flesh rots
memories are the life
everlasting
“to pass away”
from sight? from the senses?
time will deny us this
but cannot transcend the grey cells
that turn back the hands of the clock and
given people, places, things an immortality.
as time ages, so do we all.
as time passes away…
– Chris George
March 5, 1990
he must succeed
yet he takes his stand
as a Quixote readying
for a giant windmill
and smiles because he knows
that if he waits long enough
time will outlast him.
– Chris George
January 1989
Political hot potatoes cannot feed the populous
Watching our legislatures steam and over-boil
They do nothing for the Main Street or our kitchen table
Today’s political headlines are so far removed from the daily household routine that
there is small wonder people tune out, turn off, and cynically choose to ignore politics
In the real world, there is no grace in failing to answer the call
So how can politicians expect sympathy for flaunting their entitlements
For dancing, bobbing and weaving, to avoid addressing reality and facts
For kicking all those who have trusted them
– Chris George
I’ve awaken beside my world today
oceans swelled in her eyes
and I imagine two lovers
on a hill running through
hellish pleasure / pleasureful hell.
and then the egg cracked
as the hawk swooped
to eat the last remains
of the broekn hearts:
buzzards began to circle
above the resting lovers
unaware of death’s intent.
but then again, death’s
at no loss for occasions.
– Chris George
March 1982
one night you’re there
there is no answer to where you came from
hiding in my mind so long and then like
Athena bursting apon my head
you stretch, sigh — and change the sheets
you had given all your love as you sank
onto the mattress — the body heat buring
the stale air of the room
can I breathe?
what are you doing
hiding away in those covers when
I am annoyed?
do you think you can live that way?
I am less than… what I am… to you
so turn, squirm, and groan for the one
who is not beside you, for there was no
name left by that creature that just
crawled out from under moments ago.
and in the dark of the night
when my side of the bed is cold
can you deny that you will find somebody
to fill that space?
– Chris George
March 1982
and you will find somebody else
see the open coffin
ready for you.
It remains the last element
in the relationship
hit the wall:
wake in a cold sweat!
let the music blare!
because the grave
will remain for you
until the end
and everyone will need to be comforted
when you find someone else
– Chris George
March 1982
– Chris George
February 1981
I simply want to live again
To feel my life, feel my breaths
Feel the aches and pains
The draws of my breath
Every fiber of my being
Of the space I occupy and
All the space that is around me
In this overbearing world.
This large, unfathomable, hungry world
In which I am but one being
Scrapping, crawling from day to day
To make something of my existence
I want to make something of my existence
I want to crawl, walk and live again
To step forward as if the stride matters
And again play the role as I had learned it.
– Chris George
where has my horse gone?
that carried me into the fog of the downs
where swords rang and cries of anguish
could be heard and prayed for.
where are those beasts of ambitions
which rode the reins of time?
mine has fallen from underneath me
and I feel so vulnerable on my own two feet.
– Chris George
was it my father’s son
who threw in the towel?
was it he who cried
lonely, naked, stripped of
courage, his strength
his pride, his principles, his name?
seriously, hang it up.
if it is always
on your mind.
It’s doing no one
else any good
to watch you suffer.
– Chris George
1980
She hung onto my sleeve
allowing her tears to fall onto my jacket
(I suppose it is a small price to pay for this cruel reality)
I could sense she knew the ways of lovers
and the way lovers smile
and how they say hello and how they will whisper goodbye.
As she struggled to find some comfort
her lips rested on my wet shoulder
and there were a few mumbled words
a tug of my arm and her hand on mine
and I allowed her fingers to find my palm.
(It was a simple gesture of kindness)
I consciously stiffened as I began to clear my throat.
– Chris George
August 1981
my ribs ring as your truths pound and then sear
like hot irons on open flesh wounds;
your words drive me back against the wall
hopelessly grabbing at my entrails, that you have
so nicely carved up for our consumption.
And no doubt you will find me from
the trail of vomit that reveals I was
unable to keep my secrets down.
Now, as I kneel in my own bile
I can’t help thinking that
this is what I deserved; and
I make a note to remember to thank you
once I gather up what’s left of me.
– Chris George
April 1981
aren’t you melodramatic
a shish kebab meant for royalty
sausages for the public
one man’s meat…
and then the convenient martyred victim searching for pathos in a world made for Oedipus as the essence of your life slips from your control and time slides pass the allotment of chance
allowing the impetus to drain, the dreams to fade and the self pity to devour the ill fortunes of your half-baked hell, like a buzzard tears at a skunk that has been hit by mankind some two hours earlier while crossing the yellow line of his life
self inflicted pain
escorting experiences
just a numbing sensation
in a cool breeze
– Chris George
January 1981
can anyone anywhere reveal the dream of a writer
he who is endlessly searching
relentlessly attempting, inevitably failing
better to ask whether you could capture the light of providence
and project that ray so that others
may bask in its glorious reflections
– Chris George
October 1979
the music could be heard
the solemn count of the funeral procession
as it winds down the corridors of my mind
and halts
the methodic downbeat comes to a rest
when the coffin appears — lid raised
white, stone cold you look into her eyes
and exchange the stares of her past
and your future amongst the white roses
the march continues with all eyes
piercing your moulded form
as it is being carried away —
she remains all smiles beneath the tears
that have so innocently wet her cheeks.
She is all that remains of the parade;
a Cleopatra, Deliah, Lady Macbeth.
… the tears of joy which fllod the anxiety
the curve of her lips which released the sorrow
and not it has ended with this march and
me knowing that someone is glad that I am dead.
– Chris George
1981
the whirlwind of life is all around yet many find life cannot be found
– Chris George
October 1979
Every man must eventually run up against an Uncumber
Whether he lives to love or loves to live.
Only let him prey to the saints
that his beard be longer and whiter
(so that he is able to see pass the hair).
Say it’s so Robertson…
– Chris George
January 1981