Two Poems by Jay Passer


in the back room of the old shingle factory
they draw furiously
and the model keeps running to the bathroom
to puke
and someone points out how poor the light is
someone else complains that the pose is too rigid
and yet another artiste resents that the model
is constantly running off to puke:
fuckin’ junky!

there in the dusty back room
of the old factory building
where every Thursday night
they draw furiously
as if invoking
the wrecking ball.


I always end up
stuck in some room
with the lights off
pondering the infinite
shades of darkness
cast in a skull.

the ease in which
prone on my back
I ignore the alarm
of simply being
is enough to blind
every bird alive.

daylight slinks
through drab curtains
as I clutch for reasons
to keep up the farce
the utter travail
and insidious yearning.

I always end up
waiting for the bus
on some dirty street
sun and clouds
like the rent
hanging over my head.


Old 333 said...

I liked the bit about blinding the birds quite rather. thanks for the poems sir!

Anonymous said...

Good poem.


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