Christopher Kenneth Hanson

To My Chagrin

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Love let loss,

the future of kiss

I have trumpeted turns

that have mused the sacred

shaman of the Atlantis people

But have not, to my chagrin,

accepted their sacred

ceremony.

It starts as a jest

there are hoops as there

are players.

Cut a part of myself

to prove my sensation of feeling

and the rest, is just blood.

Wet Cuckoldry

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

He wanted to sell me

on the fact that his

significant other

dressed like an improper

school girl when they

made love.

As a temptress,

she never had me leaning

to his side-ever.

He desired to talk

dirty to her and lick her

tongue until it turned light pink.

I never thought of it as certain

cuckoldry, but all the details

were as juicy as a blood

red orange confection

in a late night gloaming.

Partners in Grime

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

We might as well

join forces here,

Us— et al,

as I pound back Knob Creek Rye,

on this dust-infested, blue corduroy pull-out—

Until the moonshine

dries up over these battered

green suede shades.

As I drool to the sound of moon-swept

caterwaul delirium—

formally and most notably pissed-out pedantically

by yours truly—

Now to the tune of

five and ten—as this could prove quite

dear for lady luck.

Speaking of which—I have no luck

none so far, but since everyone joined

this little jaunt—

I tend to feel things

are on the up-an-up.

Nth Bar Scene

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

I'd love that cadillac grin stare, pungent—

With that so-known hipster, languid

Hair—your purple bangs curdle—

like magenta chicks

up at the drunk hour

the last whole hour

before morning/dawn—

I'd love to sport that cadillac grin—

right then, and when the long island

iced tea is vigorously heaved

in my face and I take my tie

when no one looks, wipe natural

tears and bow to no presence, nowhere—

like some sort of demented, spring-heeled figurine.

To Grope For

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

It's not like shaking

a shot of 151 or rotgut

tequila down the hatch.

It's heavy metal hands darling—

grasping and leeching for more;

Turning a wisp of fear

into a rushing water slide of anguish.

These so-known meat hooks latch onto a recent reticent

Memory—tugging with all their might

pulling and wrenching till said grope has all but

seemingly faded—

until this known victim is seen as

blackout drunk, broke; bloodied—

still-cawing from oxidized

shackles.

Son of a Gun

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

My sister screams in darkness:

you son of a gun—

A cut finger and a shotgun headache lingers

somewhere still: the smoke wispy;

the powder fresh—

What’s left slips through the spaces

Of my fingers and my palm now—

She is not dead to me,

I am barely living though—

We've lied to each other often, you see,

I told her she should

get her so-called gun and bury it in the

backyard for good now

My sister screams in darkness,

like certain liquid courage— I would

drink her fleeting essence and pretend

I were she—but she too is gone now—

and I am not close to her anymore—

I am just the son of a gun who

hid away somewhere safe

and never looked back.

Stand-Up

by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

I reach out but I feel nothing—

no one is watching as I waver here,

dip there—on this stage— I dressed up like a clown

for this— It must be stand up comedy time—

someone shouts as I pretend to speak

half-Japanese and pour an ice cold lager

down my neck. I take hold of the stage microphone—

I casually explain to the gathering crowd that

this whatever it is, is a stunt of epic proportions

more or less— and that I am actually an escaped

patient from the clinic up the road. No Joke.

They began to laugh and banter wildly.

The lights become bright and I am sweating now

from head to toe, I can feel the sweat roll on the sides

of my love handles. All I can do is murmur about

conspiracies now and how I miss marijuana. I start to

cry. No one is watching as I waver here and stammer there.

I lay down on the stage and literally begin to sleep.

I am eventually told to get up and leave so the next act can entertain.

Greetings, how are you? Christopher is an interesting poet/artist/musician hailing from West Orange, NJ. Christopher is

also known as ckhanson81 and blogs as poetfreed online. Thank you for your time and concern.

Christopher Kenneth Hanson (ckhanson81)

ckhanson81@gmail.com

http://sites.google.com/site/ckhanson81

https://www.youtube.com/user/ckhanson81

https://poetfreed.wordpress.com/