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Three Poems
by Peter Stuhlmann

metro song #7
an open letter to a favourite fascist

hey you     self-appointed father
to the unwashed masses
great moralist & sterile buddha
youre as tasteless
as wonder bread
as kraft dinner
as the holes in swiss cheese
when you witness an angel
in the throes
of her death-orgasm
your heart opens like a gas oven
& while you squat
& flood your flaccid pol pot
belly to blistering
with the blood
of virgins     your dogma howls
through the gardens of the world
shitting into the mouths
of those who might form the word
beauty

heres another for your list
of things verboten
love

daddy you bastard im through
let your gestapo fingers beat
a confession
from your own cancerous balls
the world is my bunker adolf
fuck off

 

The Story Years

These are the story years,
you'd said, none too casually,
only days before.

How to read then, your mouth pressed
so finally to the linoleum,
the soft,
charred hole worrying the hollow
at your temple.

And what to paraphrase, if
anything, from the I
was here, wasn't I?
of bone, gristle and hair
in the sweetly drying blood.

This, too, shall wash

 

Some Gist for the Mill

I've seen runaway baby carriages
excise more control
than she's ever shown any of us, Cliff.

Three days,
untrained, in a lotus positon, avoiding your salad
of regret. Did she mean to say excise
or exercise?

I am reminded of a commercial extolling
a prescription sleep aid. Glowing,
golden threads
tie various bedroom windows to a sickle
moon. I am damned if I know
whether the person behind each window is cheerily dreaming
or has hanged himself.

I am reminded of the movie Hamburger Hill,
the term Round-eye. Not one
of the actors could remember the line
If I were you, I'd will the beauty of a worm-hole
through your patrician habitat
.

My acrobatic darling, a headlock is no way
to demonstrate
your love of freedom. And who is Cliff?
 
 

Email: pstuhlmann@yahoo.com

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