A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray

A Thousand bullets Gone Astray explores the promises we make to ourselves, our lovers, and our faith, and how we break those promises under the weight of trying to find our place in the world. On one level, it’s a love story gone bad. On another, it’s a cry for redemption and a stronger faith to embrace to help us rebuild the shattered pieces of our broken dreams.

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Title: A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray
Publisher: 58 Kings Press
Release Date: 17 January 2009
Price: £2.02 ebook | £8.27 paperback
Genre: Poetry
Length: 115 pages

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Excerpt from A Thousand Bullets Gone Astray

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all the paths I could travel

All the paths I could
travel are pointing me
in 360 directions

Which path I choose
is hard for me
to imagine.

If I move in one direction
the circle collapses and
my path becomes fixed

I can’t help but wonder
what would happen if
I chose another path

Where would that one lead me
What would I be giving up
What would I become?

You can be or do anything
you want, so the words go
and that’s true.

The problem isn’t lack
of choice; it’s too much
choice that spends my head

Which path to choose I
cannot tell, so I stand still
keeping the circle in tact.

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her dreams have all gone to bed

The wind whispers between
raindrops of yesterday’s past
the memory of her last kiss
fades to black

She can see her happiness
stagger out the front door
into the arms of another
perfumed night

Her broken dreams have
all gone to bed haunted by
ghosts of lines left unsaid

In the morning she can see
the sun hanging wearily on the
horizon, casting empty shadows
on the pillow by her head

She can feel the emptiness
swim around inside her as
she drags herself out of bed

In the mirror she catches
her reflection, smeared mascara
underneath her brown eyes

She can spend another day
holding hands with the past
pretending everything is ok

She can hear the wind between
the raindrops and she wonders
how long can it last?

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a crack in the revolution

I imagine revolutions
start in coffee houses
like this one

Down a side street
in Pamplona, below ground
in a place that smells like history

No tourists or would be
writers here only
a merry band of brothers

Who vow to right
the social wrongs of society
through force of arms

A revolutionary makes
revolutions his highest
order of duty

Their fight is for the people
to redeem themselves against
the tyranny of evil men

Who are drunk with the
lust for power and control
and build them Selves up
on the backs of humble men

The guerrilla fighter travels
light for social reform

While I sit and stare
at the ass crack of the girl
who just sat down in front of me

Obscuring my view of the
revolution with a full on assault
against my modesty

And now…

Between sips of coffee and
revolution my eyes fall prey
to the horror of her ass crack
creeping out of her blue jeans

And I wonder…

Will this be the ass crack
that launched a thousand poets
to burn the topless towers of the oppressor?

The revolution awaits
I hear my call to arms
but first girl put a belt on
save the repressed!

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dead poets

I had promise you know
I learned to love the literature
of men whose words had power
who could sing to a Grecian Urn
or make Ozymandias’ broken stones immortal

Yes my heart leapt up
when I first read
the rainbow in the sky
and the lady who walks
in the beauty of the night
where truth is beauty
and beauty truth

Their voices, now, quiet and dim
drowned by the din of little men
little men who traded:
courage for contentment
passion for passiveness
surprise for sensibility

In the din they screamed,
dare to dream, but don’t dream too far
stay on par with the crowd,
with the hive of little men

And the dead poets go:
Rage, rage against the smothering of your light

The time of the poet is past
haven’t you read, the form is dead
drowned out by the drumbeats
of modern feats the square box
filled with straw fills the head of the
walking dead, who, tired and uninspired
drag themselves from space to space
killing time between the dashes
until their bodies are laid to rest in ashes

I wiggle with Sweeny among the nightingales
my tales held close inside
they (that is the mythical they)
took me aside and in their wrath
taught me the ways of wine, women and war

I counted the days to my release
but soon found to my dismay
the outside is the same as the inside
only no one to salute and the mantra
duty, honor, country dubbed over with
increase profits and shareholder value

And the dead poets go:
Rage, rage against the smothering of your light

Years pass, the idealism of my youth trodden
under muddy boots and pinstriped suits
the labour of my work fruit-less, or so it seemed

until I came upon a woods,
a place I had known before
a path, two choices, which way to go
I heard the dead poets laugh
The choices we chose are half chance
it is all but a dream within a dream
from which we wake and lie drowning

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