On 4/3/2011 11:09 PM, Christopher C Jones wrote:
> For a while now I have been playing with presenting poetry as spoken
> sound and non-connected image. (Like maybe facebook idea)
>
> The below is one text I am considering. (It's a critical poem about
> HIV/AIDS if that needs saying) but feedback, critical comment most
> welcome....
>
I hesitated about responding, Chris, because the poem seems to me either
intentionally written as a poor poem--sort of doggerel without
rhymes--or presented as one. To capture the the essence of the
redneck? I didn't find it condescending, though. It's a narratively
strong poem, as those sorts of poems can often be, but I couldn't make
out how to take it--that is, I haven't yet connected to why you're using
it.
It doesn't even seem a poem of criticism to me, but a conventional wail
of unhappiness--except queer rather than straight. Like "My
moonshine-makin' husband got kilt by the feds."
Sorry for the negativity.
--Bob
> THE HOG RIDERS
>
> The wind a torrent
> of ice on his face
> moonlight and ghost ships
> toss on a cloudy sea;
>
> The highway a ribbon
> hugging the purple coast
> as a bike rider comes
> riding, riding, riding.
>
> He's a full face helmet
> and black balaclava
> a black leather jacket
> with black leather gloves;
>
> His jeans fit tight and his
> boots go up to his knees
> as he sits astride
> that big twin piston hog.
>
> Over the gravel he rides
> into my dark camp site,
> he pulls tight on the reins
> bringing his hog to a halt.
>
> With a kick of his heel
> he throws the side stand down,
> with a twist of his hips
> he dismounts from the bike.
>
> His hair is bristle short
> his eyes are mad with lust;
> "Lick my boots, I'm taking
> your prized cherry tonight
>
> and we'll be making gold
> before the morning comes
> since you waited and watched
> for me under the stars."
>
> He comes to me by moonlight
> as Satan has planned;
> He tightens my bonds
> my arse burns with his brand;
>
> His golden casade
> tumbles over my chest;
> I hear the black waves
> of the moon light crash down.
>
> He lashes my flesh
> welt after welt after welt
> then cradles me up
> in his arms, carries me
>
> Holds my smarting flesh
> to the stinging salt spray
> and washes me under
> the ocean's pounding black waves.
>
> He puts me on a leash
> leads me back to the camp
> where he folds me over
> that big twin piston hog.
>
> He rolls on a rubber
> empties a tube of KY
> and takes my cherry
> 'til the golden sunrise.
>
> We pack up the camp site
> late that morning and ride
> the gipsy ribbon road
> along the coastline;
>
> Until the State troopers
> see us and their guns blaze,
> like dogs on the highway
> they shoot us down.
>
> Blood red we are left
> in the sweltering sun
> on that gipsy ribbon road
> riding a hog to hell;
>
> But our ghosts they return
> as civil war begins
> when governments shoot us
> like cowards, in the back.
>
>
> (italics follow)
>
> * * *
>
> And in the still of winter nights and winds in the trees
> moonlight and ghost ships are tossed on cloudy seas
> and a bike rider comes riding, riding, riding
> with a full faced helment and thick balaclava
> a black leather jacket with black leather gloves
> his jeans fit tight and his boots go up to his knees
> as he sits astride that big piston hog.
>
>
>
>
>
>
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