Some of my poetry

I write poetry.

"There are kids smoking smarties
on the block where I grew up.

The expatriot neighbors of mine
judge them through cracked shudders

while I bathe in the blood of my
former lover whom I stabbed

because he was playing jazz too loud
in the bedroom.

As I genuflect to my achievement and
solidify my future as a rebel,

I am taken aback by the realization
that the world will continue to be

strange and bizarre despite the
double bar lines ending that annoying

trumpet line that screams in my ear.
Those kids will always find a way to

get off on some kind of love drunk,
leaving me to keep changing things so

at least I'm breathing for you.
Is there any chicken left?

Oh right.
You're dead.

[Connor Lidell]"

"I.

A child, gilded by the sun’s rays, reaches for
an apple on a rainy spring day.
He climbs trees while his mother watches
In hopes he might see everything.

He reaches the top and breathes in the air
The cool crisp breeze whips around him and there
He is the King of the World.
No understanding for he needs none.

He is the King of the World.

II.

A man wakes up every day, the same.
He drinks in the coffee and kisses his wife.
Going to work, he passes the tree where he
Once used to play.

He sits in a cubicle, a silent cubicle.
He drinks in his coffee and crunches the numbers
Watching as the leaves change outside his window.
A colorful cornucopia of the Earth’s soft song.
He looks at a picture of his mother, remembering when

She used to watch him play. He misses her.

III.

An old man loses his wife to the cold winter.
He sees all the barren trees without life.
He wishes that he could have done it again,
He could have loved her more.

Seventy years had passed since that tree was his throne.
He walked to the tree one freezing day.
He trembled as he put one hand on the trunk.
As he cried, he saw in his mind’s eye, a mother and a wife

Who cared for him so.

He misses them, truly misses them.
As the cool, crisp breeze wrapped the old man in
Screaming white, he kneeled at the stump where the tree used to be.
And saw the inevitable change in its naked appearance,
And laughed.

[Connor Lidell]"

"Hymn.

There is something about the way you smile.
It's not the smile itself, rather it is the sparkle your
eyes get when I dream them brighter than they really are.
The way your voice makes my stomach knot into

fifty million iterations of "not well" and beautiful.
There is something about the way you move your hands.
It's not the grace you move them with, it's that the room
seems to spin when it happens. How the shimmer of

five hundred butterflies surround my vision with
endless rainbows. How the universe itself bows before
me and yet all I can do is bow back. There is something
about the way you talk to me. It's not the language you

use or the fact that it's beautiful. It's that I can't tell
it's just normal human speech. I suddenly cannot
breathe and everything is made up and the only person
in the world is your kiss I haven't had yet.

That's the only person I want to meet.
But, in the meantime, while I'm sitting here,
let me tell you this:
I am a delicate jay flying beneath the

technicolor clouds at sunset's finest moment.
I fly to you and bring that sense of finality:
we will have the sun tomorrow.
Then, in dreaming, we procure the absolute

quietest moment. It isn't even that we're alone,
it's that my heart is beating so obnoxiously that
I can't even hear what you're saying.
My delicate jay heart sings a tune far more

sophisticated and stupid than anything I'd ever know.
And, it's not even the song itself:
it's that you smile when you hear it,
and a whirlwind of rainbow butterflies inhabit me.

Oh what an anomaly this feeling is.
And, let it stay,
for I am better having it as my companion
than dreaming of solitude in heaven.

[Connor Lidell]"

"Lament
Agnus Dei, Quitolis Peccata
Mundi: Miserere Nobis” –
Catholic Liturgy.


Don’t like watchin’ the news on Saturday night.
Over-stuffed egos, shallow minds recountin’ somethin’ like

“I am standing here with mr. destitute and
his house has just burned down.”

Poor guy

Those stations are more concerned with showin’ people that
life sucks than giving us news. They want to show us that we
ain’t havin’ a need for respite, that the world is a mess, and
we should just accept it.

I’ll tell you what, I am just as guilty, mmmm I’ll tell you what…

There was that one time I kissed that girl at that party.
Didn’t ask her or nothin’.
You kin guess how that turned out.

Felt like crap;
I needed it;
Or, I wanted it. At this point, that stuff runs together like
news stories or vomit.

It’s like stickin’ that needle in to feed the rush
of adrenaline. It’s like rubbin’ one off to the sound of
a Mozart climax. Or even like peein’ in the pool.

It’s that kind of sad song I sing to make me
feel better when the world comes crashing down around me.

That little tune whispering that it’s all ok when
it’s just fucking not ok.

I’ll sing it anyway.
I’ll scream it anyway.
Just so I can’t hear anythin’ else.
It’s my mea culpa, shitfaced on Saturday night.

Who’s listenin’?

[Connor Lidell]"

"Ode to the Black Mamba
after Patrck Rosal

I.

Fact; The Black Mamba’s venom is
among the world’s most effective
toxins, in that it kills the victim in under
fifteen minutes. Guaranteed.

100 – 200 mg of venom per bite.
Paralyzes the nerves.
Doesn’t halt the pain.

Once I had a friend who lived on an edge of sorts.
He held a gun as well as a politician lies: in other words,
Excellently.

Kenny was an assassin; Kenny loved to kill. It wasn’t an
Ecstacy, though, as much as it was simply his nature.
When you saw Kenny on the streets for the first time,
You knew there was somethin’ mesmerizin’ about him.

Somethin’ truer than you about him. Somethin’
Deadly, and by that standard: more alive.

In the alleys of New York/Bangkok/London, he killed famous men,
Sexed men, drunk men, rich men. Diamonds, all of them. Or,
Glass, when they broke easy.

II.

Kenny and I met when he was on a job. I had a man to kill too.
I had a rich sonnovabitch to eradicate from this holy ground.
Turns out somethin’ got mixed up: Kenny and I had the same target.

In the true fashion of assassin law: we held a competition!
Who could kill the man the fastest?
Do you know what that’s like? To look in the face of corruption and
Purify it with the stake of unholy justice? To want to rip somebody’s face
Off just so you could get a little more cash in your pocket?

Just to taste that scarlet from the stains on your hands. Kenny was
Better at it than I was. He was born from the venom of a corpse
In the middle of the street.

No father, no mother. Not afraid of
Guns. Even as a child. He was conceived in the nature of
Death. Killing was only natural. He embraced the
World as it was: limited and limitless altogether.
He was so much stronger than I ever was.
But, I won that competition.

Somehow, I figured that if I wanted to stop Kenny from winnin’
(and I did, by the way)
then I would have to still the source of his power.
I stabbed Kenny in the leg. I took his speed.

I took his feet, his knees.
I knew Kenny wouldn’t die, nor would he be hurt forever,
But, I wanted to win.

Kenny’s pride wasn’t hurt that day, though.
You bet that in the next week he
Would be back on his feet, hidin’ the limp
behind the stars in his eyes.

I gained a friend that day, or maybe not.
I know I gained somethin’ that day.

Kenny didn’t have much of a soft spot, but
He did love the lights. He always went to see a Romance
Movie ‘fore takin’ on a job.

He never thought about killin’ then. Which is
Good, because there might not be any movies
If the contrary were true!

One time I asked Kenny: why ain’t you on that screen?
He replied: Dunno. Can I kill to get on?

I had my answer. And,
I am glad Kenny was my friend.

III.

Fact: The Black Mamba is the only predator in
Sub-Saharan Africa that is guaranteed to kill its prey
Upon impact.

Kenny’s greatest moment, though, was when he died.

Months later, on a job, that leg wound gave out. That expert
Treatment the doctors did wasn’t perfect.
You could say: karma’s venom was stronger than Kenny’s.
It was months later, but even in that short time, Kenny and I had
Gotten so close. I had been wrong. I did kill him.

I knew he was dreaming a treasure of blood that
Would carry his cadaver to an El Dorado of darkness
Where psychosis or cocaine was god.

A place where Kenny could be pure: a hell of the
Most onix flames.

That’s what I loved about Kenny.
That’s why I loved Kenny.

He was always goin’ on about how life wasn’t perfect
And that he wishes he had been born with a mom and dad
To raise him right.

But, I knew he was raised right. I knew
He was an ideal. There was no killer
Greater than Kenny. There was no
Demon who topped his hit list.

I knew that the world would never be able to swallow Kenny.
He was bound to leave it at some point.
There is no infinity.

But, maybe that’s why Kenny loved those romances so much.
He could go, and for two hours: the world was completely perfect.

[Connor Lidell]"