After performing both music and poetry around the Boston area for twenty years, Derek Richards shed his fear of rejection and began submitting his work this past August. So far his poetry has appeared in over fifty publications, including; Lung, Word Riot, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Opium 2.0, MediaVirus, Calliope Nerve, Right Hand Pointing, Breadcrumb Scabs, Tinfoildresses, Poets Ink, The Legendary, Sex and Murder and Dew on the Kudzu. He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. His dog, cat and two ferrets admire his attempts to be honest, direct, brilliant and lucrative. Also, he wants you to know that he has compiled over 50 fantasy sports championships. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA, cleaning windows for a living.
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Three Poems (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.)
old salem style
in old salem we hang witches
then sell t-shirts,
the harbor drifts alone,
isolated from telephone
poles and promises.
everytime you smile, my dear,
i see bullets and misled angels;
handguns and hallucigens
teach one manners.
the really pretty girls wait
for someone to make them ugly,
worthy and homesick, carefree
and degraded. like a daddy
wasn't poison enough.
wishing i was still young enough
to fake the blues, desperate to peruse
expectations. when did i get fat
on smooth leather and blonde hair?
there is always a plan, I’m a cannibalistic
poet, an intellectual eating his young.
you are comfortable, busy reading,
hidden behind a force field of alarm codes,
watching "gangland" on the history channel,
sucking down maple-walnut, complaining
about weight-loss commercials. dying bland.
and so here we are again, in old salem,
remembering witches and dollar draft nights.
tonight, it's all about me.
i am mad and drunk on kerouac,
vodka and hollow points.
you, my sweetheart, my aching love,
you must forget everything
and shut your mouth.
the glory days (originally published by Asphodel Madness)
jonas is poking holes in his winter jacket
with rusted scissors,
gonna skip into walgreens with stacy,
stealing sudafed for the new lab.
jackie and nellie are discussing
the abundance of dead babies
littering the parking lot.
they took half a sheet between them
old web-face tells me
between slurps of grey-shaded wine,
the abortion really fucked nellie up, you know?
jonas pauses for a moment,
points the scissors at the two girls,
nah, that's just acid being acid,
where the hell is stacy?
stacy arrives pushing a grocery cart
from harpers, loaded up with rotten fruit.
super cheap, just gotta peel the skin.
jonas slips in beside her,
slaps her ass,
what we gotta do, honey, is fill up this jacket.
quick. it's gotta be ninety out here.
old web-face offers to be the lookout,
confesses he is tired of listening to jackie and nellie
discussing dead babies.
later in the afternoon, we'll all huddle
up inside the new lab,
a shower stall at the vacant pride warehouse.
jonas and stacy mixing homegrown meth
as old web-face stares at the ceiling,
mumbling something about
gettin' back in touch with those cowboys
jackie and nellie will kiss and fight,
i'll check my pulse repeatedly, like always,
positive death is a short nap away.
meanwhile i look around and sneak a smile.
these are the best days of my life.
these are my friends.
housing project reunion
when we die
i don't care
honestly
i'm not them
i show in black
grimace
hands through my hair
but fuck them
the dead
i'm still high
still smoking cigarettes
still cool
they smell
wear lipstick
dumb blue suits
hairspray
her young blonde thighs
contemplating
physics
guitar strings to buy
and the dead
are useless
young or old
god or needle
simply dead
no more
singing
Table of Contents
Two Poems (September 21, 2009. Issue 9.)
N'Awlins Evening
drunk on five dollars worth
of blues and jazz
you sweat blood jasmine
eyes sting and focus
every ghost you've ever met
waits to pick your pocket
for the tenth time you think
this would be a good place
to die and spring roses
the devil simply winks
mama bree offers jambalaya
eyeballs replace shrimp
as you eat, you find yourself
humming a song about murder
sadness is a strong perfume
so is a smoking gun
no safe harbor
fish oil and sarcasm
hip flasks
and knuckle blood
we are
waiting
for the anorra-rose
due within the hour
she is pregnant
with mortgages
car-payments
debauchery
she'll arrive
as a prayer
of running lights
and night sweats
we share jokes about
each others' wives
grumble beneath
the weather
describe
in exquisite detail
the texture
of our next drink
and if we have dreams
we keep them quiet
thick with rain gear
orange and yellow
anonymous
impatience is a shuffle
expectation a curse
lives are mended
and broken
on the waterfront
then the sharp stutter
the vicious radio
hard men disguise
tears as rain
prayers
as inquiries
the anorra-rose
reminds us
again
fate has no concern
for paychecks
no mercy
for routine
the docks squeeze
into silence
soon, the phone calls
apologies and anger
empty plates
beds cold
on one side
fish oil and sarcasm
hip flasks
and knuckle blood
we are
waiting
for the diana marie |