Ted Sheridan Poems

blessed be the pure of mind
who will turn a blind eye
to the poetic forms of porn
written by
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Bukowski sent me a high priority email
from his luxurious bungalow hideaway.
He’s living on an island in the Pacific; said
that Amelia had landed safely….
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There is this too; the unctuous manner
in which they sliver back into their liar’s lair.
Twisting their caudal evil beneath
their cold and scaled underbellies
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I’ve noticed of late
that as I have aged
most things have taken on
a very different role in my life
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The happiness that once swelled a proud expansive chest
has since subsided. Concavely, I must lament a dire and calamitous defeat;
my unholy reunion with the drink is now all too fatally complete.
Never a slave to any master, only the occasional scantily dressed mistresses
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Naked pictures
Of bluebirds and red finches
Overdeveloped and out of focus
Feathered boas and padded breasts
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The smell of death stole my morality and my innocence.
About the time I turned twenty; almost overnight
I’d forgotten how to play peaceful like….
the weapons were real.
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An almost empty, two day old yogurt cup,
was still sitting on the kitchen counter top
next to the stagnant soapy water in the sink,
a spoon stuck in its uncovered open mouth,
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There remain no honorable gods left
who are pure of thought;
only a small army of faith filled poets
with yellowing teeth
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I had a dream last week
God had given me a bad check
I had deposited it in my account
Spent the money
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