The Works of Lester Allen

Postal dude by day, beer-drunk, pen-wielding madman by night. Lester has scattered his poems across the small presses with poems recently appearing in Up the Staircase, Debris Magazine, and decomP. He has two books forthcoming from d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press of California.


All Poems ¬© Lester Allen

Cabbage Patch Kid in the Mouth of a Lion


crawling the cave of yourself
pitiful hands
and bruised knees, stomach
soul

looking up at the sparrow in the trees
and wondering:

how did you get
so high?



Dungeon Crawl


I bathe my thoughts in
the stomachs of frogs
happy for your smile
the bright wind cannot touch me
the fly  I am ice-cream cool
in the many eyes of Christ
the bridges I have crossed now
down   fingers ribboned with flame

it is the same for all of us, I'd
imagine
  we find our voices in the
               rings of trees
in the reflections of
ancient armor while searching carefully
for point of entry   with one
thrust
through flesh
  and bone
then finally the victory of blood  the sound
of joints
resigning
as the beast collapses at your feet
twitching just a little
then       still

at this point two words of advice:

expose only enough weakness
to lure them in and never
lower your sword

with any luck at all

they will never quit coming



Porchlights of August


like little suns
       strung up  on systems of pulleys
the slow bluing of an evening
and frayed cord of the
                  last good fan

I am confused by everything
confused by you
confused by the taxi driver,
the garbage man, the bum
all with breaths of purpose
but the poet,  the
poet I am not so sure of
vacuum packed in burlap curtains
stinking of vomit of booze and
miscalculations
waking at noon and wasting the rest
but you know
you know
neither desiring life nor accepting it
and always the questions  - what good is
any of this when the disease of the dream
                                               is free?
why are the fingernails so long? why is
the good liquor ALWAYS 2 dollars more
than what's in the pocket?

while all around    machines grind at the days
like maggots in millions on
dead bone or houses   quietly slipping into
the sea

the night is warm
the crickets the
crickets the
crickets sing

while the chariots of Ben Hur beat dust of
mind  my free hand moves
towards the head of the cat   Russian tanks
roll through Georgia as the dog's tail wags
you press desire  like dried flowers into
                                                              my chest
    and  if nothing else


      it's a dream worth remembering