Poems written by B. Andrew Kelly

i hope you enjoy

Trophy

I had a staring contest with the stag on the wall
He gave me a dirty look with that funny face
After losing, I couldn’t stand the sight of him
But at the end of the day, he can't stand at all.

Blank Slate Man

A room's whites cry loud
Still sound fills it with endless echo
No thought, no audible breath, no
Perspective
This view too is
Outside perceivable depth
Only a snowy canvas
Full of emptiness to reveal
The plan
Grab a roller
Pour the can, and 
Paint myself eggshell
Now I am the blank slate 
Man

Delivery

under sterile light
atop sheets beyond stained
a certain wail of an almost mother
of a new hollow husk
this birthed a pain that is
unlike any other
what she held was fleeting warm
but he is no longer there
and all i did was stand there
"I could not know this despair."

Picking At

Keratin cutters slice, directionless
a lone zipper. Unforgiving and
remorseless
digging, scraping at burgeoning boils
aborting healing scabs
there will be no comfort in this state
in this suit that no longer fits.

Sugar

Watermelon juice cascades
from your tear ducts. It hard
to squeeze some love out of
you.
Your champagne colored soul
covers that black hole that sucks
the life out of everyone.
It gets hard to breathe in the
powdered sugar clouds of mustard
gas that you call perfume.
I sense a deluge of delusion washing
over me,
I can make this work with empathy
I can cure someone’s sweet apathy.

Cliff Jumping

Summer soil melded between bloodied feet. There is

gravel stuck between bone and soul in their arch. A

curve, a signature that belongs to an individual, it is

yours and only yours. It leaves a mark on that cliff where

children beat the heat and feel gravity’s sobering

pull. Water is the safety net, we simply wish to go from

60 to 100 percent. Maybe then there is freedom.


I think I know how it felt when he left scuffed marks

and solemn remarks. There was only shoeprints and

concrete. But there was also a cracking of a shell,

and water flowed from it’s dam. 

Who am I to blame a man that wished to feel

freefall forever.

Which Direction Does a Balloon Float?

Easily deceived? No, I am an expert in the
science of self delusion. It takes a true savant
to see himself floating between the ceiling and
the mattress. Between the swaying sweating 
sack of flesh, like some sort of blossoming tree. 
It reeks of desperation here. 
I don’t know where to look in these situations,
sex. I would like to know what direction I
am headed. Towards pleasure that only
leads to where I was once before?
Where else will I go? I just wish
to be tethered. I am a man with
rubber organs, lungs full of nitrous.

In the Breeze

This bubble called the atmosphere always
seems so empty at first glance. The starkness
of landscape and sky. It ignores everything that
lies in between.
But then I see the snowfall in late January, and
leaves zig zag gracefully in the autumn. Spring
drizzles sprinkle the budding dandelions that
float away as a child blows a wish 
into the wind.
What once seemed so stark carries our
desires, and is full of our lifeline. Oxygen
and a lingering hope.

Atlas

You lot wove a thousand lies in the
fabric. Between the sweet sounds that
slithered between “sheep’s teeth” and
the cotton that was red before it was sewn.
The shining city on a hill was carried
on the backs of the ugliest ink spills of history.

To Prime a Generation

1959, Rio Bravo. 

Spittoons, saloons,

saddle up and ride into town. Blow some

dynamite and get the girl. 

A happy ending for all.


1975, Jaws.

A bloodthirsty beast, a money hungry

man in a tacky anchor patterned suit

Who is the real enemy? I guess all

that matters is the heroes swim to shore.


1981, Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Indie is a whip thrashing, wise cracking

archaeologist wet dream. He punches

Nazis. Clear cut, no ifs or buts.

Goosestepping bad, no Ubermensch today bucko.


1993, The Super Mario Bros Movie.

Dennis Hopper plays King Koopa, who

lives in a tower, has a ridiculous haircut,

displays predatory behavior towards women.

A clear cut antagonist. I am sure that

this isn’t based off of anyone in particular.


1991-1994, Jim Henson’s Dinosaurs.

Earl is a working man making ends meet,

working for B.P. Richfield CEO of “WeSaySo”

under Richfield’s behest Earl poisons all

plant life, and brings extinction to his species.

Weird, B.P. likes to say “You’re fired” and

hates regulation on corporations.

I'm sure this isn’t about someone in particular.


2012. The movie and the year.

The world is ending. It's a cinematic shitshow.

Water levels rising, wildfires and earthquakes

everywhere.

If only this could have been prevented somehow.


2015. Mockingjay Part 2.

Dystopian films are all the rage these days,

Old white man named Snow bad, his rival

President Coin is less bad. But she still

likes the Hunger Games. She dislikes the

young revolutionary that wants real change.


We have been primed from a young age

to desire change, but to also relish in

the fetishization of the world ending.

Too late for anything to change until the

damage is done. Well with things the way they are,

can we even do anything?

Yes, our lives are not movies.

Tear apart the script and take action.

Shelf Stocker

Charli worked down at the small town grocery.
She sold life, she sold liquid stolen rights, she
granted keys to personal opium dens. A box of cereal
for every brawl in the nearby alley, a failing marriage
for every squeaky shopping cart wheel. 
There’s a waterfall in the breakroom made of tears
and it rains oxidized pennies. Storm clouds of pity
rain in this animal cracker kingdom.
One of Charli’s greatest fears, the dreaded utterances of,
“Hey.. do you work here?”

Kissing Dragonflies

The newborn dawn caresses
outstretched arms of cattails
surrounding the circumference
of a tranquil pond. Before breakfast
the reed maces say grace, and
beckon for warmth on an April day.
The spring peepers sing their
morning melodies, to serenade the
incoming day. Tiny ripples disrupt
the water’s peace. Above those tiny
waves two shining dragonflies kissed,
erratically swayed, and kissed again
before their golden flakes fell,
and gave the reflecting sun
a blushing face.

A Tunnel Called Dusk

fascinated by the things

hovering in the punishing

sky. both the wicked and winged,

or the bare and featureless. pulled

along in a conveyor belt parade,

a silent march in the stratosphere.

floating forward to the place called

Limbo.


jagged horns pop the

clouds like balloons, withering skin

grazes the twilight. the softest

sky being cut into ribbons as

if it was a present that was

meant to be ripped open all along.

those foggy phantoms following

along. reaping the seeds they

sowed when they were more than

souls.

what a wonderful gift it must be

to hover over this hollow place.

String

Do you feel the chaotic concerto?
The cloaked and clandestine composer
Plucking at the ivory keys, exactly eighty eight
With even more ways to tangle those
Countless red strings of taut linear fate.
To be a being, we first must begin
To begin, we must be born, then torn
From the lively, slick, loud, and slimy link
Of mother’s umbilical cord, now
Cut.
Cartwheel your baby body from the delivery room
To sitting criss cross applesauce atop a cedar stool
It’s snack time at age four,
Celery sticks, peanut butter, milk in a plastic cup
Chug whatever lies before your youthful eyes-
Slam the glass down, now look at you, twenty two
Disillusioned with the notes you hear, but cannot play
Plucking the strings, now we all sing to the song
Of a puppet on a string dancing, dancing
To the melody that is tied to us as we trudge along.
“And now here we are at eighty eight,
Did you think you would make it to the retirement home?
The fuzzy television screens, the dementia, the barely palatable
Food that nearly slides itself off your plate, look at you
Still slimy, still newly born.
Let me cut your cord
You made it, this is your reward.
Is this all that you have hoped for?
Well it better be, for this is the sound
Of your string’s final, echoing chord”
Snap.
Break your celery stick betwixt
The anger you feel, your fear,
And the peanut buttery memories
That stick to the roof of your mouth,
The ones you hold so dear.

Oh Dear Hoodlumry

Over there the

people’s fun that is

never really lost, quite

rarely forgot. Kicking and

splashing puddles that 

hug against the pissy pub.

Lots of sloshing and bottles

clocking heads of dim 

dullards. A symphony strange

enough that we are all

too familiar of it. Or…


have you not heard

all the sounds

that could be sung?

Ah, that crushing

gushing percussion

blow. Enough to make your

broken brain smash against

your skull. Like frantic

double bass blast beats!


Memories of… of throwing

bricks at passers by! Bashing

bloodied bones into

bloodier biters. 

Oh how it was, how

it used to be.


Now we clack our

heels to the bubbles

rumbling in the cooler,

and discuss hollow pleasantries.

Balloon Animal

I blow my ego

from bubble gum

to balloon. It

floats up and up

shattering the rock

solid stratosphere.

Ant colonies,

other authors,

sommeliers,

metaphysics

It rise above

them all.

My ego will

never pop,

I will never

fall.

Toxic Grace

I shot the swan
that swam atop
that rancid pond of
oil, and nuclear waste.
Just before I pulled
the twelve gauge trigger,
its fifth eye stared me
dead in the face.
What beautiful plumage,
it fell like bloodied snow.

processing

grief is
sticky like
sap, clinging
to what light
we have left,
suffocating it.
let it harden
in the summer
solstice wind.
it becomes a
door we have
to walk through

Breakitdownow!

I think I am going to

smash my knuckles

into a jam,

or gelatin.

Horse bones, human bones

does it really matter?

There is a funky flesh

rhythm splashing against

the smooth wooden grain.


Yea baby, jam to 

that thump thump crack

'n crash melody!

The bassline is smooth like slime

its hard enough to stay on

two feet, to tap, to keep time.


Time to dance!

Swing to the slip ups,

your puddle of muck!

Maybe you will crack

your neck, and finally

sit still.

I Need To Take More Pictures

There are few photos of me

you see, I have uncertain hands.

Memories are my most

cherished of entities.


Entering and exiting existence

for did it truly happen

if we cannot remember?

Waves subjected to many a

moon's malicious tides.

I fear of growing old,

to risk of dementia.

Yet I am addicted to wading

in a pool of nostalgia.

What unforeseen actions await

at that riptide? at

that tributary?

Only time shall truthfully tell.

I Took My Lamictal Late Today

Theres a gong

ringing.

Rippling in a pool of

cerebrospinal fluid.

Waves widen like smokey O's

cereal ringing in

a porcelain bowl,

milk swirls like a cyclone,

or spiraling shoe-prints

in the acidic snow.


GONG

GOng

Goongd..

Goond mo-

good mornin'

Day 2 Without Nicotine

It's hard y'know? To
kick the consistent comfort.
One day
you're playing catch with paw
the next
you kick a soccer ball
born of barbed wire.
Wet red laces
rosy red cheeks
crimson red flags.
Coughing- no more like dry heaving
at this point, this precipice.

Glass Coffin

Another day, another ghostly glitch

The catholic church stained glass

shouldn’t be as grey as it was today.

More and more the molding frays

I can hear the coffins softy coughing

There are more and more mourning days


Whether or not there was better days,

“Back when there was no such a glitch”

there were still plagues, there was still coughing,

common enough, blood from esophagus glass

Our flesh still frays, it decays over time, 

especially today.


I forgot to take my Lamictal today,

It is my second time forgetting, third day

without taking it. A ball of yarn beginning to fray,

my brain begins to glare and glitch.

Is there a hemorrhage born of broken glass?

Maybe I inhaled it in mass? I did a lot of coughing.


The psalms usually calming, all I heard was coughing

this morning. Something seems off today…

I stared at my reflection for too long, the looking glass

has sassed me back for many mourning days.

It’s not a glitch,

the flesh is flayed, the noose is frayed.


Always unsuccessful, its stressful, hair is frayed

into my hands. The same hands that caught me coughing 

blood in the hospital in Philadelphia. It can’t be a glitch,

this has always been my reality, suffering is my software today.

It's a countdown, it's a matter of days

Until I am immortalized in pink and yellow glass.


It will say, “Here lies the Saint of Smoking Glass”,

I have tried to recover, but my brain stem was frayed,

and it snapped under pressure. No more mourning days!

No more pre funeral cigarettes! Interrupting eulogies, coughing

like it was some sort of awkward option! It’s not your time today!

You will feel it when you can feel the glitch.


Eye twitch, there's the glitch! I smoked too much glass…

It’s my last day today and I lived partially flayed

I can finally stop coughing. I’ll see you on my mourning day.

The Haunting Ghost of Mr. Jon Jameson

Woolen clouds, giant sheep float around
where the echelon fray.
Its like tv static, the VHS kind, where the
ghostly hand socks your fingers.
Shake his hand, maybe he's
the ghost of some salesman
stuck inside a Sisyphean snow-globe,
a gargantuan glass house,
an office, a
daily commute, his
golden travel mug,
(coffee, cream, makers mark).
The glitching gale killed his reception
he died in his favorite chair.

my roomate, the fucking slob

he piles up trash
he hordes dirty dishes
his critters smell
he doesn't change their bedding
i know he must be trying
as best as he can
but if he refuses
to clean up his act
i'll broil his guinea pigs
and refuse to scrub the pan

Shriveling (the tongue surfer)

Sliding upon winding waves,

sledding with my tongue, the size

of stretched out bubblegum

grazing the rising crest's precipice.

the salt splits it pieces disproportionate

and stains the ocean red.

All my blood that runs from heart to brain

leaks to the sun dried tomato that is

my rusted silver tongue

For all the things that I have said,

the few simple truths to

the tenacious, treacherous lies

will spill into an ocean. Staining

the brine the grimiest crimson.

More permanent ink for those

who wish to bleed you dry,

to no longer hear you lie.

Crunch

Soiled shoes crushing spines,

shattering stems. Brittle blades

break apart, another annual end.

Nature's clock strikes ten,

bell chimes breeze between

confetti leaves.

Summer's skin is flayed,

it bleeds,

it rots

and finally fades.

We walk atop withered bones

to welcome autumn home.

Tiny Leather Guitar

I hear bustling cries

"City market souvenirs!"

"The best prices around!"

They are drowned by rattling keys

Surrounding the instrument's soul


No strings shall ever echo

in the city of Durango where

the scorpion lies

dead.

Neatly placed between

scratched plastic

sun faded hide

with a name inscribed.

My name

burned on its back.

The only note it could ever cry.

Trip to the Candystore

The chain, a symbol of bondage.

Not for me! Not for me!

For I see a childhood homage

Wind brisk between flowing folds

of novelty clothes


Gears click and clack

rubber grinds on gravel

sugar maples sway

stoney streams babble away.

Through an alameda,

the cresting pathway

You may hear faint echoes,

"What do we do later today?"

"Who cares, it's Saturday!"

Canaknas

Selected by the swift sound of hand to shoulder blade,

The bells upon their ankles sounded like seven trumpets

to me. I had been a chosen sheep among the Shepherd’s flock.

Lead me my Pharisees, I wish to see feel the glee in following

the Lamb within me.


The weight of my new necklace, crudely crafted of twine and timber,

swayed in a schism'd rhythm between my shins

bruises born from my steadfast faith. For I have never fasted

Before, all there was in my Ziploc bag was a single raw egg,

Two slices of wonderbread, three matches with no book.

I heard fireflies bounce in the air between my ears,

I could not see, you see I was blindfolded, but I felt no fear.

The marching sounds stopped, balsam trees surrounded me

and the rest of the chosen tribe.


Night befell the evening, the stars jumped and danced for me

For the Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty, His strength

flowed like the river Jordan in my veins. I had no chains.

Never had I felt grace like this before.


We awoke with gnats in our nose, centipedes between our toes

We arose, and our trials we must undergo.

Silence is the sound of our worship, broken by the

wood bashing between our bitten legs.

The kindling was wet, the bread was stale,

forging for food in the raspberry bushes, hunger flashed

in front of my eager eyes.


Memorize second Corinthians, some stories

I no longer care to remember. I felt the splinters

in my shins, the twine singed the hairs of my neck.

The breeze swung between the leaves and sung chants

that worshipped the King among kings.


The counselor crept out of the brush, and with

immense embarrassment I flushed

any of the chances of becoming one of the chosen few.

I could not immerse myself within the verses.

His eyes struck disappointment deep into my gut,

his knife drawn I knew I was cut.


The log crashed to the ground like lightning, the

twine left my skin red and raw. It felt like the 

sting of a thousand roses thrust upon my nape.

My cross was no longer mine to bear, it was the end

I didn’t care.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t care.


I descended from the shining hill, back to

the cabins and basketball nets. I had failed.

There is a creek I will never wade, never cross,

I drowned in my disdain, my faith may be lost.

Another camper, another kid, lost in the flock

of the Shepherd’s failed kin.

The Process of Introspection

I found envy

in the windswept field

filled with bright buttercups

and pollen laced gusts

Tall grass thrashed

where the angels flashed

and flaunted silver wings

Made of faith,

Exuding grade.

I found rage.

Eyes tied to weights, awake

laying next to carrion

a convulsing vulture ripped away.

Her white dress, caked in gore

The bald bird always needed more

I sat silent in the grass,

moping. Hoping it would pass.

Needing something to be the bolt

To shock some sense into me.

Lone atop the hill,

it was just my luck.

Lightning struck.

An Ode to Shiki

The cuckoo coughed blood
Fluttering in wintered wind
He lost his way home

Drone

Hedge trimmer engines

Rumble and degrade,

Spinning its grinding teeth

Akin to a hornet's nest rage

Dear God get me off this treadmill,

This all encompassing cage.

There's nothing to say

There's nothing to say

The boss-man's limp handshake,

An eternal uncaring embrace...

You'll get paid

You'll get paid

In exchange for your precious time,

In exchange for your able bodied age...

I Want to Wrestle the Sun

Twilight waltzes through the silken willow hair

Cicadas, spring peepers, song sparrows 

Carol summer’s tranquil chorus

And the lightest, bravest pollen breeze

Whisps by my ears, and whispers to me


“In time this beautiful tree

Will wither to an ashen infinity

For nothing can run from the roast

We are all browning bread turning toast

For everything will wilt in the heat”


Could I manifest into a cosmic combatant,

And wield the stars as nuclear knuckles?

To wrestle the sun to stay in its place

"Say uncle! Say uncle! Forsake your biding dawn!"

So I can stop time to feel its warmth on my face

And float in the forever flowing eventide.

Yuki no Ite

Hark to winter’s withered bow
Frostbitten hands clench the fate
Of the frigid razor blade snow
Once its loose, it falls slow, like leaves
Dancing in the fluttering decay.

This Empty Tree

I can kick thoughts around, like an empty tin can

Rolling, spinning, more rolling

Until its empty echoes fill my hollowed head

The sounds of dying bark, it cracks and creaks

Under the slightest of pressures.

And yet it is still plenty bountiful

Cropping an abundance of snake shaped fruit

An Ouroboros is what the farmers call them

So delicious they cannot help but eat themselves

What a strange fruit, to hang off a dying tree

Pluck it if you wish, but its best to be wary

It will chase you down the hill you once called home

A tiny tin can, a hollowed tree, the infinite impotent thoughts

That flops around in my concave cromagnon dome

Earworm

Are you comfortable

In the space you made your claim?

It is an arching portal, a gateway

Between all the hearsay and my brain.

Within your gentle whispers

My head begins to sway,

To the song I hope to wake up to

Every single day.

The Lonely Behemoth

A room, a cube isolated in space

It free falls nowhere, suspended in place.

Limbo is the roost of some beast that

Isolation likes to occasionally unleash.

Sound cannot travel without the aid of air

Yet I can still hear its thundering blare.


I know it is near, Behemoth is prowling

Nebulas quake at the grotesque growling.

The ceiling crashed and I saw its face

Regal, contorted, ugly, and echoing grace

This entity was ancient, time had no claim

To its existence, laws no place in its domain

Calloused, gnarled fingers grasped what was once my home

And it began to collapse under its horrific, ambient drone.

Musty grey fur donned this mammalian cur

Bipedal and hunched, its head lunged in a blur

Remnants of the invasion made my cosmic speck a wreck

As I felt blood trickle down my neck

It had slammed its once gaping maw 

Into my favorite artery, placed right beneath my jaw

I became enveloped by a warm crimson quilt

And then rushed a sudden frigid wave of guilt

I had embraced this beast, whatever it may be

Into to my home and I must confess,

Its fur gave me comfort, and kept me warm

In the vacuous space I float in eternally

Beyond the Glass

I gazed across the bedroom

Towards the chestnut desk where

I kept my childhood broods

Easily assembled,

Constantly disheveled.

Among the mess you will find

An orange bottle

Filled with many little white pills

All wilted like trees on wintered hills

That rolled into the hourglass dunes

The sands of time are apathetic

To whatever wanders through

What will it take to erase the footsteps

Made wandering through this perennial Hell?

The glass encases me, like a snow globe

I want to go,

I want to go bottle myself

Where the pills won't wilt

Where the dust drifts in the wind

Baby Carrot

You carried my column in your mouth
Like a dog and its favorite chew toy
From the nape of my neck, you liberated
All of my discs and vertebrae.
Your molars clamped down, a judge's gavel
And snapped my spine like a baby carrot.
Chew on my nerves like toddlers chomp on gravel.

A Tragically Minor Inconvenience

The dishwasher hums at night
Soapy tsunamis rip and roar
Within the stainless steel corridor
As I awoke I was greeted with the horrific sight,
A sud infested puddle sprawled out on the floor

sunbeams, ice cream

in the barn turned snack bar,

i scraped the face of my big toe

ascending the stairs. i didn’t care.

sucrose sweets, summertime treats

belonged between my loosening teeth


rotting wood, bumblebees

yellow plastic baseball bats

rolling hills flowed in the break of trees

God was shaking the dust out of his mats


at the time He appealed to me, ‘cause

sunbeams were his means to call us home,

his warm tender tractor beam

pulling souls wherever they shone


so encapsulating

so intoxicating

so alienating


harpoon me my Lord, God of Light

pull me in, im a prize of a catch

every day that i stay here, a chipwich

becomes a less appealing snack

Manipulation

my face is an arid field of fears
drown it with a hose 
from my childhood home
and cry
crocodile tears,
crocodile tears...