Poem #8

The Hammer and the Anvil


It's not the measure of the man
how he acts when times are good
and he should not be held in judgement
if he's weak when times are bad
sometimes you're the hammer
and sometimes you're the anvil
sometimes you're the iron fist
and sometimes you're the sheet of glass
I am growing weary of a world that's weary of me
and I will turn my back on it
like a girl that doesn't suit me
and if she cries I'll bid her
wipe her tears upon my boot heels
for I have made her burn as fire
and I can leave her cold as March
I can leave her winter-stark
and I can stand behind her
when she thought that I was cornered
sometimes you're the hungry guy
and sometimes you're the flapjacks
sometimes you're the switchblade knife
and sometimes you're the doormat
I will spite and thwart a world that thinks it knows my limits
and I will rain my fury down
on everything that's in it
and if it dies I'll walk away
and if it lives I'll walk away
I can always walk away
and find myself a new world.

Christmas Memories

My first real Christmas memory was in 1978, when I was four years old. I looked in box which was sitting inexplicably in the middle of the living room floor of our Princeton, WV home, and saw two Star Wars action figures--a jawa and a tusken raider (it also said "sandpeople" on the box, which even then I remember thinking was odd that you'd call a solitary figure "people"). They weren't wrapped. I don't know why.

I've always loved Christmas, probably just because I had great memories of snow and CBS holiday specials from my younger days. I was as greedy as the next spoiled kid, but I loved the magical air of it all. That, in a way, is actually sad and ironic, because Christmas was originally a celebration of Christ's birthday, whatever the actual birthdate was. I don't want to debate on the existence of Christ, either--for me, there's no debate. However strange it may seem, it happened. In the deepest chambers of my soul I know the truth. But throughout time there is the pagan side of the holiday--the tree in the house, all that shit. I don't really look at it that way. I enjoy the holiday season because you can do different things, even FEEL different things, than you feel the rest of the year. My mom and stepdad, Archie, used to string popcorn and put it on the tree. Our Christmas tree was always a thing of immense beauty, healthy and robust. It sat in front of our living room picture window (this is after I moved to the Beckley area), and anyone from the road would look across the pond in the front field and see that tarted-up pine tree staring them proudly in the face.

Too many memories. Too many. December 1978, the same year of the jawa discovery, was a defining moment. On December 17th, Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas debuted on HBO. It stands out as the best of all Jim Henson's muppet productions because of Paul Williams' (little Enos on Smokey and the Bandit) great songs and the unique flavor of the show. Emmett and his mother, Alice, are poor. Pa has been dead for a while and they have no money to afford a nice present for each other. I'm not going to rehash the story (especially since I'm writing this for myself and I already KNOW the story), but when my stepfather died in 1991 the show, which has always been special to me, took on more poignancy. Why do I remember the show's debut date? My grandmother called during the show to tell my mother that my Grandpa Tom had died. So maybe Emmett Otter is my grim reaper. Whatever. He died in his bedroom. (My grandpa, not Emmett Otter.)In 1989, my family moved into that house. That same room is where my stepfather died. If my mom dies in there I'm going to set the son of a bitch on fire. But I digress.

A Christmas Story. Everybody loves A Christmas Story. I have to mention it. Also, for some reason, I associate the movies Annie (with Albert Finney, Carol Burnett, Tim Curry, and Aileen Quinn) and Johnny Dangerously (w/Michael Keaton, Griffin Dunne, and Joe Piscopo) with Christmas. Yes, I saw them both around Christmas, but I saw a lot of movies at that time. Those just stand out.

Toys. You know what? My life has been filled with Star Wars stuff. I still have some of my stuff from those days, albeit stored away. I don't decorate with it or play with it (prostitutes are much better for that these days--only kidding. Maybe.), but I sure played with that stuff a lot when I was younger. I had a shitload of it. Maybe I'll go into it later, as a matter of inventory.
Also, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I had a great deal of that, and my first MOTU toy was Ram-Man, which I received in Christmas 1982. The same night I saw Annie on HBO, as it turns out. I got a lot of swag for Christmas when I was little, and because of my great imagination, I was endlessly entertained with all of my stuff. I also took very good care of my things.

I used to visit my dad in nearby Holly Hills every Friday after my parents got divorced, and I remember one Christmas (I think it was either '81 or '82) he got me an Atlanta Falcons vest, which has always been in my mind for some reason. He also got me a little fuzzy dartboard with balls instead of darts that just stuck to the board. One of my best memories is when he brought me home with that stuff. As I came through the front door I was spellbound by the house. Our house was humble, but still nice. It was shingled with cedar or some similar kind of siding. There was a healthy, smooth blanket of snow outside and we had big Christmas bulbs around the front of the house. Basic colors--blue, orange, red, green. The look of those colors on the snow has never left me. I feel like I could have died right there and everything would be okay. The wonders of the world mean far less to me than that serene sight when I got out of his truck and crunched my way through the front yard. The pond was fairly frozen and regal. There was that unique winter wind, which I suppose has a particular sound when it's blowing over snowy terrain. I wish you could have been there, whoever might accidentally read this. I can still see it, and it is still Beauty without peer. Inside the house, most of the lights were off except for the Christmas tree lights and candles and Christmasy lights like that. A special evening. I believe that was Christmas eve, somewhere between '81 and '83. I felt like a lucky apparition in some wonderland.

Finally, I am perhaps most fond of all of December 23, 1988. That was a day I spent with my best friend, Mike Bailey. To try and describe him is a waste of time. He always reminded me of Jeff Bridges, for some reason. On December 22 we were in a play at Akers Baptist Church, over which his father, Ardeth Bailey was and still is the pastor. That night we headed back to his house, armed with the brown paper goody-bags that the church handed out that night at the end of the program. The next morning, Mike and I went Christmas shopping with his older brother, Heath. What a great, great day. I bought Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys, Part II" and a couple of comic books (I think some X-Men stuff). We were out all day. That evening, on a whim, we popped over to the Raleigh Mall (this all occurring in Beckley, of course) and watched Hellbound: Hellraiser II (a wonderful movie for the Christmas spirit). I bought a large, gaudy bat ring at a kiosk in the mall and Heath dropped us off at my house. That night, right before midnight, we walked across the road and up just a bit to the parking lot where the post office and a convenience store were located. It was drizzling sleet, we were bored and should have been in bed, and we walked about talking. I looked at my watch after a spell and saw that it was past midnight. Merry Christmas Eve, I told Mike. He wished me the same.

Poem #7

FTW



Out in the night, beneath the watchful scope
of the icy winter moon
the sanctum sanctorum, the oasis of fun,
had been crankin' in the red since noon.
The gyp-joint was jumpin' from wall to wall
with jackals that had braved the storm
just to get a brief glimpse of the Tickle-Me-Gimps
that had arrived that very morn.
They were shouting "Mine! Mine!" somewhere down
in Aisle 9
and someone lost his teeth in Aisle 6
when he tried to snatch the very last batch
of Hiccup Pick-Up sticks.

Meanwhile, creeping through the store like bloated rattlesnakes
the dealers beat up little kids and steal their piggy banks
they lick their greasy lips and flap their pimple-studded jaws--
the syphilitic, drug-addicted foes of Santa Claus.

And what can we, the keepers of the sacred trust, attempt
that will not leave some customer to view us with contempt?
It's hard to please a pack of wolves or sate a school of sharks
and the ones that say they'll lead us often leave us in the dark.

Out in the black, within the grasp
of the watchful winter night,
when each and every one of us must to our cars take flight,
we try to set our pains behind, our problems all on hold...
but like the ice-encrusted streets, our hearts have all grown cold.

Poem #6

THE THINGS I SAID AND DID



Like a spear in the breast or a cancerous kid
there's nothing good in what I did
Like a snake in your spaghetti
or barbed wire fence confetti
you must have been unready
for the things I said and did.

No one could be sorrier
or care less than I do
with the way I left one restless night
with a girl that wasn't you.

Like tin foil on a metal filling
or a razor-opened vein that's spilling
I doubt you found it very thrilling
the grief I put you through.

Dilemmas, they are sometimes easy
like an acid reflux when you're queasy
Like biting the head off a chocolate bunny
I can't feel bad when I think it's funny.

Like a bull hanging up in a slaughterhouse
or the snap of the trap on a careless mouse
it can't be pleasant to sit alone
in a spouseless house with a silent phone.

Like a mime at an auction, there are things unsaid
like the bitterness you feel in your empty bed
and both of us are jesters in the Big Parade
but I'm the one who's laughing at the whole charade.

Poem #5

untitled



The world is a song
and the solo is blue
a weeping vibrato
of cornflower hue
and you're like a footlight
alone on the stage
or maybe a tiger
that paces its cage
and I'm like a blackbird
alone in a tree
I flap and I caw
but no one will see
and we are like feathers
adrift, but not free
and I float by you
and you float by me.

Poem #4

City Streets



Walking down the crowded street in night time's strangling summer heat, observing people that I meet.
Owl-Eyes draws attention first because he is a hoot;
those gaping, gawking blinking peepers give my soul the creeper-jeepers.
If I had a shotgun I am sure that I would shoot.
Owl-eyes' orbs are darting round and looking in my head--
he notes that I am noting him, he wishes I was dead.
I simply keep on walking through the streets I'm doomed to tread.
Slick-hair stands so proudly in the spotlight of his mind;
small talk is his language as he leaves the truth behind.
Red-lips listens to his words, thinking with her thighs--
she'll be seduced, and when she's spent, he'll tell a few more lies.
Upsetting as the idea is, it's hardly a surprise.
Drink-mouth lies in night's embrace, wrapped in shadow's cloak;
I do not stare, I would not dare--by chance I might provoke.
Walking fast I move on past but Drink-mouth doesn't care.
Drinking from his paper bag he meets no sound or stare.
I reciprocate the favor and maintain my solemn air.
Wolf-pack roams the city streets in search of thrills and fun;
Crazy-mind is right behind and kills them with a gun.
I listen to them scream, as much in pain as in surprise--
and secretly I wish that I could look into their eyes.
I never would confess that I had wanted them to die,
but people make me crazy--though I really don't know why.
Notwithstanding Crazy-mind I choose to keep my pace;
I'll walk and hope the streets can lead me from this lonely place.
A million people out to get me, none to call my friend;
I have no lovers on this block, there's none around the bend.
I hate the strangling summer heat, I hate the crowded city streets,
I hate the people that I meet.
I'll move on through the ghastly days and one day I'll be dead;
Until then I'll keep walking through the streets I'm doomed to tread.

Poem #3

LESBIAN KISS



A lesbian kiss would be quite amiss
'cause three, counting me, is a crowd
the bar scene is tough and a night storm more fun
when it comes to being dark and being loud.
A blindfolded girl tied up on a bed
seems great if she's paid by the hour
and somewhere out there is a suave debonaire
who is plucking some young maiden's flower.
The men's greedy eyes trace the hips and the thighs
of the unknowing girls as they pass
and the guy down the street doesn't realize the women
all study his bulge and his ass.
You've been an abuser and I've been a user
and we've both been as guilty as sin
but love ain't worth shit if you don't nurture it
and your life will be vain in the end.
So knock off the bathroom-and-magazine action
that tops off your loneliest days
and hey, all you flirts with your silk miniskirts,
don't you know there's an easier way?
You don't need that guile you call feminine wiles
and men, you don't need to tell lies
a life without romance is a life that has no chance
so go for the meaningful prize--
The name of the game isn't Fortune and Fame
and life's finest treasure's not Lust
'cause if you truly love someone you already know
that the greatest of all things is Trust.

Poem #2

BLACK CAT, MOONSHADOW, NIGHTSHADE SONG



Black Cat, Moonshadow, Nightshade Song
I'll give a little wisdom and it won't take long
I've been around the block before and you should know
I've seen a lot of pretty faces come and go.

Orange blossom dynamite, thrill-kill thighs
the kind that put the pennies on a dead man's eyes
midnight socialite, two o'clock tease
the pheremone chain gang's got the disease.

Swag miner, grift witch, bird of prey
I see you at the counter as you make your play
I watch them from the darkness as they drool and crave
you think you're such a pro; you're gonna be my slave.

White china, blue blood, sweet red wine
I've got a silver tongue and I'm looking fine
my lightning left hand reaching for your knee
you're laughing at my jokes and the drinks are on me.

Love transfusion, fit to be tied
pretty peach panties torn off at the sides
afterglow shackles, firebrand hiss
seduction is a lock and the key is a kiss.

Fish hook charms put your heart to the test
I hear you come from money, you could help me invest
we'll start a little diner and we'll get it on track
and when we make a fortune I can pay you right back.

Life savings, gold rings, platinum cards
I'm gonna wring you out, gonna squeeze you hard
pyrite happiness, tarantula trust
till the bottom drops out and the love turns to rust.

Blacktop, motorcourt, chalk outline
I've been a lot of places and I'm feeling fine
I've got a little secret out in Tennessee
it's in an open field by the willow tree.

Sandman, tryptophan, bedroom sweat
I'm gonna make you sleepy, gonna make you forget
that there's a black cloud coming with treacherous rain
it's going to bring you wisdom and a measure of pain.

Vampire, incubus, skeleton smile
supple young heiress of a posthumous trial
double-helix leaf piles caper and spin
windchimes clatter as they warn of the end.

A black cat crossed you on the road tonight
but the shadows of the moon hid it from your sight
I'm waiting in your kitchen with some nightshade tea
I'll have to force it on you, it's a grim recipe.

Black car, back seat, bag and a spade
we're gonna take a trip to the Everglades
I didn't love you long but I loved you best
and now I'll take your money and head out west.

California's nice, or so I hear
and the girls are ripe this time of year
soon I'll teach another one to sing along
to the Black Cat, Moonshadow, Nightshade Song.

Poem #1

Looking for a Girl


I'm looking for a girl with swimming pool eyes
a laser-beam smile and Dreamsicle thighs
a Powder Keg Romeo's rodeo prize--
ask me no questions and I'll heave you no sighs.

I'm looking for a girl with four on the floor
a two-way street and an open door
with a soft cotton candied apple cinnamon core--
if morals are money I'm incredibly poor.

I'm looking for a girl with machine gun hips
an easy double action and a custom grip
with trapdoor, tripwire cherry bomb lips--
I try to track her down but she gives me the slip.

I'm looking for a girl with a hot tub kiss
a lemon-slick tongue with a glycerine twist
and bubble bath cheerleader champagne bliss--
if Cupid shot an arrow he apparently missed.

I'm looking for a girl in spray-on denim,
leopard print fashions and a passion to skin 'em
a snake-charming wiggle with toe-curling venom--
I've played a lot of games but can't seem to win 'em.

I'm looking for a girl with a latex-snug,
sugar-covered, honey-smothered hot oil hug
with fuzzy pink cuffs and a bearskin rug--
I'm just a Cassanova but they call me a thug.

I'm looking for a girl with nothing to lose
who wants to take me home and show me all her tattoos
and stand up on my bed in her stiletto-heel shoes--
I'm looking for a girl but it's so hard to choose.

I'm looking for a girl, she's out there, I know
we're gonna let the music and the chardonnay flow,
turn each other on and turn the lights down low--
she's waiting on her man to come; I'm ready to go.

A Few Good Beers

Welcome to the first post (and, quite possibly, the last) of Sullen Thrills. Seeing as how you've probably ended up here by mistake I'm going to limit the big welcome to that.
Tom's the name. I live in West Virginia. I have a beard and I like junior bacon cheeseburgers. There, now we've met, we're friends (and may possibly marry), and I can tell you about a few good beers that I have drunk.

Beckley, West Virginia is a drab little town, but it is my home. We don't have a lot of the things that the large megalopolises have (or is that "megalopoli"? I never studied the Greek language. It's all Greek to me.), but we do have many eateries and lots of beer. Nope. No local microbreweries with Sweet Tart Beer, or Maple Syrup Pancake Stout. We buy our beer from Kroger's, or Food Lion (or my own future grocery store, Grocery Tiger), or from a gas station located somewhere in central Wherethefuckareweville. It is my lonely task to tell you which beers are good and which beers are pig's garbage. A friend of mine, who lives in Connecticut, has sailed all about the world and has gorged himself on many brews that I'll never have the privilege of drinking. Therefore I'm admitting right off the bat that I'm not the most informed beer drinker around, and I don't want to be. Everybody just HAS to be the bee's knees at everything. Everybody just has to be a fucking know-it-all. Well, I don't know it all, but I'll tell you what I DO know.

#1--Don't drink JW Dundee's Honey Brown Ale. It tastes like vomit. Yes, if you drink enough of any beer, they will eventually taste like vomit. But they shouldn't taste like it coming out of the bottle. It should taste like vomit when you are vomiting later that evening.

#2--The best-tasting beer in this world is Samuel Adams Boston Ale. NOT Boston Lager, which is also delicious. Ale. To quote (and slyly rip off) Alex DeLarge from "Clockwork Orange": "It's like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship." Actually, that was a paraphrase, but so what......

#3--If you are ever at Charley's Pub in Fayetteville, WV, please ask for a bottle of Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout. Yep, any beer whose name is Samuel is a good beer. If you find a beer whose name is Raoul Marquez, DO NOT drink it. You won't see another sunrise. Anway, Charley's Pub is only about two miles from the famed (if you live there) New River Gorge Bridge, the world's biggest single-arch bridge. You actually may have a close friend or relative who has jumped off of it. Anyhoo--the beer is really good. And (never start a sentence with "and") the last time I was there, Deep Purple's live version of Highway Star was one of the selections, and it's a great song--especially when most of the guys in the bar are lumberjacks or river guides and none of them like that kind of hippie shit. Also, when you've gotten a really good buzz from your Oatmeal Stout, you should play Stranglehold by Ted Nugent.

#4--Here are some excellent beers to quaff, my young stewards: Sam Adams Cream Stout, Scotch Ale, Hefeweizen, and the aformentioned; Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss; Guiness Stout (although a REAL Irishman will kick you in the wedding tackle for drinking it refrigerated); Grolsch lager; Dos Equis; Negra Modelo (it has its moments); Molsen Ice and Molsen Golden; let's just leave it at that for now. I've read these things before--too many items on a list is a sedative and nothing more.

#5--These beers suck. Any Budweiser (unless your only criteria is to get "fucked up"); Heineken (overrated); Beck's (the same); Oh hell, who cares? Also, don't drink any kind of draft cider. They all taste like shite. Woodchuck? Shit. Hornsby's? Shit. Also, one year on Christmas Eve I was drinking Ernest & Julio Gallo Burgundy wine whilst listening to the Carpenter's (this is, if anything ever is, a Sullen Thrill) and I wouldn't recommend that. The wine, anyway. Actually, the Carpenter's were pretty good, if you're in that sort of mood.

Well, that wraps up my very first B.inarily L.ogged O.riginal G.raffiti. I hope you found it to be a singular, orgasmic experience. Until next time, may all of your jumpers hit nothing but the bottom of the net.

T.O.M.