Tag Archives: demons

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15 August, 2012

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non-fiction, prose, writing

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Making Pompous Grammarians Mad with the Singular “They”

The impressive collection of nick-knacks and alcohol behind this bar I happened to find myself at one evening.

Make-Be-Dreaming
By J.C.D. Kerwin

The Kid gets in moods, sometimes. Sometimes The Kid gets in moods in which they talk of politics or society, or they think of Yesterday and all the things they never did or shouldn’t have done. Sometimes they pretend they smoke cigarettes and make-believe they can see the smog dance around their face. Sometimes The Kid drinks Manhattans or Jack-and-Cokes and wonders if they’ll be drunk enough to become the kind of writer who can make monsters out of lampshades in the corner, instead of letting monsters become them when they’re not paying attention. Sometimes The Kid pretends they are invisible; sometimes The Kid pretends they are not pretending.

Aug., 2012

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10 July, 2012

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non-fiction, poetry, writing

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Made for Nomads

One of my short stories was rejected. On the Fourth of July (which was awful in its own right). I wallowed in my woe-is-mes for a while before throwing back a Jack and shaking off the dirt. That’s that. Now it’s forward again.

Anyway, here’s a poem from Aug. 2011

Made for Nomads
J.C.D. Kerwin

And now I’m a wasteland:
a landscape of sparse vegetation
and temporary fires
for the world to pass by
and forget I was,
once,
an ocean.

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27 June, 2012

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poetry, writing

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Automatic Rocking Horse


Automatic Rocking Horse
J.C.D. Kerwin

Let’s play hide-and-seek
in the fallout shelters
we built from pick-up sticks
and a barrel of monkeys
we found
buried in the sand.

I have a pocket full
of licorice whips, and
I’ll give you
a penny for your thoughts if
you tell me what it takes
to fill a double-barrel shotgun
full of daisies instead.

I’d rather play jacks
and read the Hardy Boys
in the post-Apocalyptic world
with you than
live a long, long time
in the never-ending peace
I call monotonous depression.

We could be kids again.
It could be our Mad Max movie,
and we could rule the land
with slingshots and bubblegum balls.

I could Marco Polo our way out of here.

Dec., 2011

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22 June, 2012

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poetry, writing

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Fryin’ eggs

It’s hot here in New York, folks.

And it made me think of this:

And that makes me thinks of summertime when I was just a wee one, rockin’ out to Golden Oldies tunes in my grandmother’s kitchen while she made pies for my  uncle’s restaurant.

But all that has nothing to do with this poem I wanted to post.

Great Big Fish Bowl
J.C.D. Kerwin

I wake up drowning
because the faucet’s running in my head.
It’s like a fish bowl made of
brick and stone,
and there’s already goldfish
sliding through my ears.
I open my mouth,
but nothing but gurgles
and bubbles escape my lips.
My tongue toys with the idea
of eating flakes for breakfast,
and I can’t help but stare
at my reflection in the glass.
But I’m not made of scales;
I’m made of water,
and I don’t know how to swim.

April, 2011

Well, maybe it does because it’s water-y. I guess I just want to go swimming, danget.

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21 June, 2012

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poetry, writing

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Snow in June.

White Red Refuse
J.C.D. Kerwin

I begin:
unblemished and pristine,
like the first fallen snow
at the end of November.
But soon,
I am dirtied and yellowed,
bloodied from the corpse
of a deer carcass:
forgotten in January.

June, 2012