SA Krowley

 

SA Krowley is a virtual nobody, a make believe student in Dayton, Ohio. Krowley's work has never been featured anywhere, at anytime, in any way, shape, or form. When Krowley's not writing, he's probably sleeping. Or maybe reading. Nothing he does is really productive. Krowley began writing his senior year of high school, where he decided he no longer wanted to major in physics and biomedical engineering. He promptly switched his college major to Creative Writing, thereby becoming completely worthless to contemporary society.

 

 

SA Krowley's Blog: theworthlessreview.blogspot.com

 

That Damn Pickle Smell

 

"If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution."

Emma Goldman

 

Christened on a morning lark,

With wings of tape and glue.

The blood filled eyes in the shining dark

keep steady watch on the rain gushed flue;

the objectified heart of the sun soaked dew.

 

Knighted on a grub bred crow,

with tacit songs in cobble blue.

The wind swept trumpets unanimously blow

and God is a mottled stew

in which they boiled the Birmingham crew.

 

Awarded on the alabaster bird,

the ditch men cry their song.

The sky men let their noise be heard,

and now it won't be long

before we twitch that mineral gong.

 

Initiated on a violent jay,

our society, a loaf of bread.

To congeal in that holy day,

the divine raise their own dead,

and tack their likenesses upon our head.

 

Sanctified on a darling chick,

the dilettante stalks his lord.

The lord, in turn, dyes a stick,

turns it into a sword;

eviscerates his rosy ward.

 

Complicated on a silvered finch,

a martyr burns his porn.

Tis the only thing a burner could lynch

with nary any scorn,

and hardly yet those which have not yet been born.

 

 

---

 

 

We, the popcorn shovelers

 

It's the time of day to go

to work,

unfortunately.

I am snack bar lieutenant,

The Sanguine Captain, the

officer of ovulation, whatever 

that means.

Transversely perpendicular is the white

plastic table,

and my friends up top ask 

me if I'm able

to toss a few dimes at some 

bare assed swimmers,

and give them some hard candy

chocolate spinners.

Some popcorn is thrown 

all about the room, 

and I say

"Lord, this place is like

a tomb."

AND THEN

some swimmers come down the hall

PANTLESS

all of them

PANTLESS.

I turn around and eat my 

popcorn, the

other way.

 

 

---

 

 

Those Dirty Ideas

 

I want an idea that will

infatuate, simplify,

assimilate, mystify,

simple gait, semper fi,

virtual shoot, they virtual die.

Or quid pro quo and grassy green?

Stand alone now, because you're obscene.

Those holy twins, let you in.

Calvary Calvinist,

sex begins.

I want an idea that won't.

 

 

---

 

 

Sheets of Ice Cream

 

Twenty and the ragged son;

forty billion with the prodigal daughter

and the disease of God

spreads like talcum in the 

already perfumed air,

and I am splayed on some

railroad tie, my innards

stinking like a nerve and

the movement of suns

is my dying pulse.

 

 

---

 

 

Innovation the seeds that sow it and my own thoughts

 

I hate

the word

Innovation.

I hate

Businessmen

I hate

their

Creativity

It is a sob

of wet

and flaccid

Impotence

and their

god is 

the

results.

A god of

denial and

of gold and

hate and

now the flame is

cold and now

burgers are being

sold with fries and

cars with tinfoil

ornaments they used to

charge 40 bucks for.

We can make a

beautiful thing if

we have enough

Capital and

Work.

Down with the

god

who chaged those steelheads

with labor and sadness and

talking ties that smile

and say

that's all.