[Ethan Leon]: 613.The Outcasts, Other poems of 2007

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THE OUTCASTS, POEMS OF 2007

By

Ethan Leon












Note: Since I did a lot of work in 2007, many did not make it into my little collection called “Erotica Exotica”.
Some of these are incomplete, or just stanzas, or just little nonsense things I wrote to pass the time, or just to gain inspiration.
In my opinion, most of these are terrible, so don't even bother reading unless you feel that you can't live without reading it.


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INDEX

1 Child
2 Death Twice
3 The Devil, but only Onstage
4 I slept because I didn't care
5 Insanity Bell
6 Live life for the Moment
7 Marie, did I ever not love you
8 Mute
9 My Confession
10 My Dissection
11 My Dream of God
12 My Epitaph
13 My Opus, My Craving
14 My Soul craves the Ocean
15 New Year's Day
16 Oh, You Found my arm
17 On Ourselves
18 Our Life
19 Paint It, Black
20 Quote
21 Quote about Thought
22 Some Slave
23 The Artist in God's Repose
24 The Dolls
25 The Drowning Womb
26 The End
27 The Harpies
28 The Family Poem
29 The Journey Man
30 The Prophet
31 The Rue Rhyme
32 The Sleeping Mistress
33 The Sinful Color
34 Those That see the Rain
35 To Mend This Man
36 What the Aftelife must be
37


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THE POEMS
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1
CHILD


If you should ever have need—
Don’t write to me—your father—
I will not respond out of faithful conviction,
I will not respond out of love for your mother—

This—this is my plea to thee—
I am not the affectionate craftsman you probably imagine,
I am not the man you would admire son—
I am the lustful poet—the artist—your mirror image—

I have often studied you from afar in my insomniac dreams—
On that dock—shoving my hand in the air open to interpretation—
A gesture meant to be received by your mother—
As she moves many knots away on the ferry—

I will admit to you I have willingly and still do love her—but,
I loved her as one did some object—a sculpture—
She was my most beautiful muse—
Often posing naked for me in the afternoon on the couch—

If only you had seen the sketches child—the drawings—
Her skin outlined in a soft brown pastel hue—so lovely—
But then—I could not care for her presence as dutifully,
And we parted as does the ocean from the shore at morning-time—

If you ever have need—
Don’t write to me—you’re most regretful father—
I will not respond out of my silent and steady conviction,
I will not respond out of love for your intact naiveté and innocence—
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2
DEATH TWICE


I think I died twice before I died—
Once for my body, once for my mind,

I think I died twice before I died—
One to release the soul, the other to bind—
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3
THE DEVIL, BUT ONLY ONSTAGE


Soulless dearest—what ever could you mean—?
As soon as I could speak I sold that pitiful thing—my soul,
Scribbled my signature down on a bleak line, next to some oath or promise I suppose—
Whatever it was I did then—the Devil has my soul as of now,

I am sure it must amuse him, to be the collector of such an item—
I know he must sit in some cavernous room collecting and counting,
Knocking the heads of demons together, weighing the just and devout—
If I were he I am sure I would do such, except that I would become so greedy—

Plowing around on some possessed horse—stirring and raking in the heathen spirits—
As if I were some sort of farmer to the afterlife—and just as pious and bold—
The people underfoot of me, slaughtered—who have yet to receive the killing blow,
Together we are almost a complete cast of thespians on a Venetian stage—

I the leading man—screaming like a bedazzled harlequin—just as cunning—
Perhaps in the end it would be a tragedy, much more dramatic than could ever be life,
And perhaps in the end all will die save I—my head throbbing from the pressure—
—of being such a slave—a kind of caretaker to the will of my dominant insanity—
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4
I SLEPT BECAUSE I DIDN'T CARE


Death came knocking—on all my doors and windows,
Chanting verses of the written word—
Murmuring my name in chorus with the entities—

He was naked save for a woolen skirt—
His skin the pale color of the seaweed—
Wide eyed he searched like a madman for me,

‘Come to me empty’ he screamed—
‘Come to me you sinner’—he cried—
‘Come to me and let it sleep’—of my deed he spoke—

‘I love you for your crime’ and he fell silent—
My closed eyes looked down on him—I was off in some nirvana,
From the shadows of my bed—he saw my body—in slumber—

I slept because I knew his cause,
I slept because I didn’t care—if he came to carry me away—
In the morning—or in the night instead—
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5
INSANITY BELL


God’s vengeful grasp is round the handle—
Of the bell he’s hitting me with,
Forcing me to my knees—to cower like a child—
Making a show of me—as if I were his plaything—

Ive never truly been happy with life—
And it’s my spiteful deity I have to blame,
He’s thrown me in a scorching vat of madness—
From which I cannot escape in desperation—

The nights have become a wave of worry—
God has thrust his bell inside my head—
And I can’t get it out—the bell—it’s his irony—
—that I bring about my own pain in my movement—

I can’t think or move my head—
Lest I hear the ringing—
I must be the subject of common pity—
For eternally at his merciless hands I must exist—
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6
LIVE LIFE FOR THE MOMENT


Live life for the moment--
Only to die within the hour,
Ly out in the sun,
Pass out from dehydration--
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7
MARIE, DID I EVER NOT LOVE YOU


Marie, did I ever not lover you?—
As one should never come to love thy Goddess?—
As one should never come to be witness to temptation—

Like that glint of aspiring light below the window—
Is the color of your silver strung hair


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8
MUTE


Your eyes are carefully watching me—just as they have before,
Many times they watched me sleeping—or speaking—
Speaking to you of my life, and of my memories—

ALWAYS, have your eyes been watching me,
And told me what you could not—for God has your tongue—
And keeps it somewhere as punishment—for what we have done—

YOUR eyes are the only thing—that I take with me as I leave,
But then again I get the feeling—that your eyes are my own—
ALWAYS, Will I be seeing them—seem them in my own—always—
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9
MY CONFESSION


I have another confession—dearest Jesus—
I haven’t prayed in some time—but—
—not because I haven’t sinned—
But because I was ashamed; I lied—

I lied to the heretic—
I told him he was saved,
His hands shook and he smiled—
He even cried from happiness—from relief—

He left my home telling me—
‘God protect you’ and then I was alone—
Im not sure if you have now forgiven me—
On that I can only pray; that you have—dear father—
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10
MY DISSECTION


My body is not unlike a labyrinth or building,
The bunched mass of nerves and veins not unlike hallways--
The fetish of some scattered architectural orientation--

To get lost in my body--to examine and categorize--
Every fanatical nude yard of it,
Is the erotic notion taking hold of me--

Oh--the pencil and scalpel scratching and etching--
And digging into my laminate chest,
As if to drag from me--the radical bacteria--

The blade licking down my ribcage,
Gliding through and past the layers of skin--
Thrusting deeper into the depth as if to gouge my lungs--

Such a terrible malady is this one I have contracted--
To battle it from birth till’ death hand me over--
Crawling always on strangled tissue to the canal, twisting my ankles--

To reach the water of a multitude of pale reflections--
Down into the we cradle, the fault line of sexuality--
Past all the silken shadows and phallic pillars,

Down on the sticky freezing bottom--
I can see the bland streaks of sunlight like scarves,
The murky palaces of coral and skeletal vestige glaring--

In the lesser lighting, I see a line of crusading figures--
I count them off as my sins; I count them as my pleasures--
One head count of Masturbation, and one of, Lust, Envy, Pride--

Ive become such a voyuer of sorts--playing with the Cardinal Vices--
Like a cannibal in a room of mental patients,
I take my stand as the orator, the pastor, yet again the spiritual prostitute--

A farce of life this seems, to be stuck in a warp of suicidal intentions,
If I weren’t dying it would be hilarious--
But as I begin to remember why this all comes naturally--

I must remember, the velvet womb broken in pregnancy--
To me they body has been a temple of temptation and sloth,
So let it rot in a the channel, let it stand without me--
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11
MY DREAM OF GOD


I believe myself in the hands—
Of that ageing artist you call God,
He cradles me like father—
In his stately arms—

He calls me child of heaven—
To which I don’t respond,
I know he means to be kind to me—
I should think this is a dream—

If it were a dream I can’t explain,
The ecstasy I am feeling—
And the mark of his holy wonder—
On my reborn forehead—my faith—
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12
MY EPITAPH


If I rise not in the morning—
Let me not forget these years,
Years spent under the sand colored sun—
And beside everlasting fields of grass and trees—
The sea a streak of indigo on the horizon—

If I rise not in the morning—
Grieve neither for me nor fear,
Deep in your soul be docile and poetic—
For always shall I have my sight, hearing, and voice—
And even though I am departed—I shall use them still—
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13
MY OPUS, MY CRAVING


Won’t you acknowledge how long I have loved you?--
And chanted your name to the mirror,
You’ve always the been the Opus, the craving over me--
But alas it seems you have never known it--

If it were not for the skin, the complexion,
Perhaps my obsession with you would not be vulgar--
But the thought of having you as my own--
Rings, rings so loud in my head--

The pressure I feel is permanent,
And all of the pills I have shoved in my moth--
Have not even come close to relieving it--
Im almost desperate to calm it,

I know you have never thought of me--
Of me the way I have thought of you--
But if you had ever dreamt that I was sufficient to you--
I would surely act as if I cared not for you--
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14
MY SOUL CRAVES THE OCEAN


My soul craves the ocean--
As does my skin,
I can remember the last time I bathed in it--
The film of salt around my torso--
I can almost still taste it--
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15
NEW YEAR'S DAY


Im on the floor again God—
I seem to have passed out,
Im not sure why I blacked out this time—
But the pill canister on the counter is empty—

Its New Years day today Lord—
But im not sure why im telling you,
I see your halo of painted rocks—
In the mosaic on my wall—

Your eyes seem to be staring out—
Blankly as if you’ve been stoned by the angels,
That cry out in agony to you—
Why is it that I speak to you—?

When I know you will not answer—?
I think I have been like this for some time,
Just dry ink belt coughing meekly on your typewriter—
Please tell me why I see this—reflection—

—on my wall—it looks so much like me—
That I almost forgot it was your image.
Tell me why I fear it—the window—
To look outside at the fireworks—

Do they remind me of your wrath Master—?
Do they spark my interest the disease of knowledge—?
Or is it that they show me—in such shocking detail—
The frenzied pattern of my anti-social zodiac—
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16
OH, YOU FOUND MY ARM


Oh you found my arm—right as I left it—
On the step outside the door, fingers clenching—
Im surprised that I could part with it—

Somewhere near must be my leg,
Writhing or trying to walk somewhere—
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17
ON OURSELVES


I have found so far in this life that we often hate ourselves more often than we do other people. We also speculate over ways to change our lives, to prevent ourselves from drifting back into self-hate. This is also often not the outcome.
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18
OUR LIFE


How did you not rejoice on the day the Doves fled?—
The blinding mask of ignorance prevented me from watching,
Was it like some majestic migration over the sea?—
Was it like some great parade over the land casting shadows?—

I understand why they left, for life here is devoid of reason,
The caged flocks of herons hum a hymn they only just wrote—
A hymn for the passing of the Doves—it is, it was—
They wrote it for they knew the Doves would leave—it is, it was—

How did the faces change, did the wrinkles deepen with age?—
Did youth really fade as our Mothers said it would?—
Or did it just grow deeper within?—and lead us to become scarred—
How did you not rejoice on the day the Doves fled?—

I can’t see the forest for the trees— or the Sun for the clouds—
In that way I suppose I am blessed, never having to watch my own life fade,
For rather than watch my dignity waste away slowly —
I am granted a thick veil of night to cover me—it is, it was—our life—
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19
PAINT IT, BLACK


Paint it, black--Mick, Janet--
Take the pail, steady the brush,
And the ink,
Blot out the color--

Stain the linen, bury the Bible--
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20
QUOTE
It seems as if we never accept ourselves for what we are inside, instead we accept ourselves as what we would have been had we accepted ourselves in the first place
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21
QUOTE ABOUT THOUGHT
I have just speculated that I would like to think, that is If I wanted to think I would stop speculating. And I suppose human thinking is something like that, wondering whether or not one should think, that or whether or not one should stop speculating and begin serious thought. One can always think about that.

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22
SOME SLAVE


By the hand some spirit has caught me,
By the ankles am I help aloft; a wretch of some god—
I can’t escape the power of faith—
It has finally got its finger in my mouth,
And shoved my creativity in a locket of iron—

I scratch and pull at my captor—an angel—
Grimacing is this creature at me—I can only smile back,
I know that my jailer must have some naïve confidence—
His soul some blot on a piece of paper in some golden book,
But I know; he just a slave like me—
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23
THE ARTIST IN GOD'S REPOSE


The artist in God’s repose,
Is a man worth all the woe--
That is taken in with the diversion of his love--
Between the world and his work.
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24
THE DOLLS


“If you weren’t pristine before you arrived-
-you will be when you leave” says the
Woman behind the counter of-
The store on the corner of sixth,
And thirteen.

The faces behind the glass,
The blush on the cheeks--
“You look just like a doll--
Do you think that you’re one too?”--
She asks.
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25
THE DROWNING WOMB


I can still hear the heartbeat,
And I can still hear the chanting--
I muttered in the womb,
I called out in birth to the world--
The only response that came back,
Was cold and carried to my ears the phrase,
“Drown the baby”

Lower the gates and let me in
They want me dead--
They envision my corpse in their arms,
Cradled like some doll or bauble,
Play with me parents,
Stir the yolk of the fetus with your fingers,
“Drown the baby”

Am I not yours, your sexual productivity?
Use me like a razor--
Carve me like a cool meat metal,
Live off me like a staple,
Don’t worry or say a prayer over me--
As If I really cared,
Oh, oh, you silly cannibals you!--
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26
THE END


I can still hear the heartbeat,
And I can still hear the chanting--
I muttered in the womb,
I called out in birth to the world--
The only response that came back,
Was cold and carried to my ears the phrase,
“Drown the baby”

Lower the gates and let me in
They want me dead--
They envision my corpse in their arms,
Cradled like some doll or bauble,
Play with me parents,
Stir the yolk of the fetus with your fingers,
“Drown the baby”

Am I not yours, your sexual productivity?
Use me like a razor--
Carve me like a cool meat metal,
Live off me like a staple,
Don’t worry or say a prayer over me--
As If I really cared,
Oh, oh, you silly cannibals you!--
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27
THE FAMILY POEM


Wendy sleeps,
Between the sheets,
Aware of her life in her dreams--
Her children “can never understand”,
As she says it,
But they may know more than her,
Wyn mumbles, rolls over--
Mike is dead already, although still breathing--
Evan has always been the youngest one,
But Ethan has always looked to far ahead--

They all sleep,
While Ethan writes this poem,
Aware of his life in the light--
His beloved “can never understand”,
As he says it,
But they can if they listen,
Outside, birds fly out by the street--
Ethan can hear them, and watch them fly away--
As he will one day--
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28
THE HARPIES


They come spitefully in the night—
As would some hellish dream,
Passively clawing at the window and walls—
Seeking to fulfill their pansexual rapist fetishes—

Their eyes are gray and blue—bloodshot veins showing,
Glancing over the phallic grandeur of the pyramids on the ceiling—
Crying in enviously of the puzzling cavity,
My, my—how they draw me to their entourage—

I hang on the hook of their every oral stanza—
Notice how they have the heavenly luster—?
All the bottled sensation of a sea of orgasmic splendor—
My Christian name seems such a slur to them—should it be a curse—?

They use it in overly scorched vulgar sentences,
A whorl of seductive language inside a pocket of gender—
A capsule of medative amphetamines swallowed in their graces,
My life to them was a bother—so I killed myself for them—
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29
THE JOURNEY MAN


I heard you were leaving town--
No, not from the four way sign,
I heard it from you yourself--
--as you passed by my house the other day.

Leaving behind all this?--
Boxes, suitcases,
And you say that all your packing is a mirror--
--and that you’ll use it as a compass?--

Where are you going this time?--
Iraq, Biloxi, or El Paso?--
I can never tell,
But I guess you can’t either.

Leaving behind the pills?--
And all you need is a newspaper?--
What news? What news? What postmark?--
It hasn’t changed in six years,

Bomb here, bomb there--
I think one went off in my head--
--or on my dinner plate.
Yes, yes, Ive been very concerned--

No letters, just a call--
--Every now and then--
Did you call yesterday?--
For I was on my way,

To the bedroom to join the sheets,
In an erotic display of freedom--
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30
The Prophet


If I were honest no one would have to ask me why it is I lie,
If I were the man I covet, then I would be God--
Sadly I am thus, that which he who owns me created--
A wretch among the faithful--see me as I am--and love me--

Love me because I told you this,
And wonder if it is true--
For if I tell the truth in this, this poem--
Then it is you who truly lie--
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31
THE RUE RHYME


Red, black, and blue--
The devil, and you;
Sitting in a room singing “pass the rue”--
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32
THE SLEEPING MISTRESS


You’ve always held my attention--
Far, near, I have always studied you,
I have worshiped you in silence, as if you were a savior--
I have bowed before you solemnly like a cultist--
Biblical love at it’s best, could only slightly draw me to God,

Don’t think I haven’t touched your body--
Smooth your saintly hair in your slumber--
Almost like a femme Buddha you hold you smile--wryly,
And hold you eye’s closed as if blind,
I have noted the blue hue of your body at night--

Are you some manifestation--?
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33
THE SINFUL COLOR


So many shades of color hit me—
The legs pushed back reclining against my head,
My back against the espresso black of the forest—
The hands and eyes I see are that of my child,

Born in the spaces of my head was he—
The man he will become my opus—my creation—
The person that I should have been will he be—
My soul a fan of radiant and flaming feathers,

My forehead a page-mark professing my sins—
I stand like a tree against my own back—
Ive never used myself in this way before,
In time my child will forget me thankfully as he should—
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34
THOSE THAT SEE THE RAIN


“Those that see the rain, must hear it as well,
Or be called liars,
And beaten with a stone,
And be buried with a mirror pointed twords the sky--
So that they always see the rain,
And hear it in repose--“
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35
TO MEND THIS MAN


To hold his embrace,
And to not take it lightly--
To understand,
Mr. Bush, oh Mr. Bush--
What will you do?--
To mend this man--

My father stood up at twenty,
And was then crippled at 30--
But oh, oh how Mr. Bush,
Do you make my father kneel like a servant?--
Why do it again and again?
My my Mr. Bush, you are a sadist--
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36
WHAT THE AFTERLIFE MUST BE


Oh what the afterlife must be—
So that people crawl through and beneath,
The legs of mercy just to see it—
And fall on their knees before God to reach—
Some paradise which they have never seen,

If Hell is to be their destination—
The evil are glad they were at least recognized,
And given the honor of the wrath and pain they cherish—
And so that those who made the gathering of saints—
Stand close and ponder where they could have been—
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37
WOMAN AND MAN


This woman and this man,
Were meant to be--
Watch them as they stand,
Lips ready, hands shaky--
For the words to be said--
For the their bond to be sanctified,
To make their union holy,

This woman and this man,
Were meant to be--
See them on the hill together,
See them make a home beside it--
Watch the woman with her pose,
The man ready to catch her should she fall,
Together the two make one,

This woman and this man,
Were meant to come together--
From the day they set out,
To find one another--
The woman looking from the side of virginity,
The man from the sky,
From now on, they are intertwined--
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38
ZENPISCES


Give me your Libra hand,
Give me your fallen limb--
Drape the wreaths of constellations over your head,
And perhaps you’ll see my soul--
As I had meant you too--

Tell me how balanced you are, sister?--
That I should give you my open ear,
That I should give you my attention--
Take your Taurus and make him kneel,
And be the beast that befits your servant--

Let me show you the mark of the Pisces,
That God gave me in your womb mother--
In my head swim yin and yang,
And on my navel shows the crude writing--
That I know to be an astrology chart--

Oceanus give me your pride--
So that I might feign strength twords something,
Eta Piscuim give me your light--
So that I might see past the fog of,
The twelfth house and the lies--

Ive never been so far separated as,
To just immerse myself in the aquifers,
The oceans, the lakes, or riverbeds--
But I am sure that as the sun comes to its end,
I will find life again, as Zenpisces--
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THE END - SORRY YOU BOTHERED TO READ