Category Archives: poems

back to life, back to reality.

i want to live

in a soul II soul video
for the rest of my life.

as i stand on the corner,
white seersucker derby
atop the flower,
i scream to the heats.

the curb tackles this:
and our town sports the frown.

elevator shaft
is cold like the marrow,
i stop with the rocking,
and fade into the sets.

i want the blackness
to rule my night.
i am locking down,
and preparing
for the rest of my life.

suit borrower
burroughing under
layers of kraft,
tape and silver-

ask yourself
to greet them all,
over and over.

copywrite:jeremy szuder
Saturday, October 5, 2002 2:43 AM


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driving and surviving.

you can see him,
four o’ clock in the afternoon
on a sweltering summer day,
collecting paintings
from here and there,
and stacking them like
little people into his car.
you can hear his music,
lava like prog rock
with some possessed uni-sex voice
talking about abra cadabra
and the art
of remembering and dismembering.
he is all that there is
left in the cobwebs
of this cosmic machine.
he is driving the streets
as one who makes
life altering incisions
with a stainless steel scalpel.
he has chosen to sing
to the birds and billboards
and never refuses an offer
to drop those little seeds
where ever flowers once grew.
i am looking forward
to the Polaroid’s he will give me,
the ones of his cranial folds.
i will take them home
right away
and study them
under a magnifying glass
until i find the solution
to all this love pollution.
copywrite:jeremy szuder

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“the valenshrine whipping post”

the world seemed up for grabs,

and towing close behind

the tools of sound, passionately.

under a wash of stardom,

between aisles of lackluster wheels,

with enough time to know.

something rolls a layer back,

it’s underbelly now exposed,

showing bare bones and goodness knows.

untimely pebbles splash,

snakeskin streets skipped upon,

picking free a jewel here and there.

understand this connection.

twice more kissed by seduction,

manicured handsomely beneath wraps,

letting the pale ivory gleam.

extracting the sap of a day

made for nothing more than this,

st. vincent’s cold tomb in remembrance.

channeled grand visions,

prerecorded future games and prints,

some kind of honing inward,deep.

locked by golden hinges swing,

palpitating gray river indifference,

and winning the whites of outer iris space.

sometimes in all the time

with no time to spare.

copywrite:jeremy szuder

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large idiots

you were right poet,
there are large idiots
under every nook
and over exposed cranny.
they are plump,
and they are in the way.
let us point them out
with our own crooked fingers.
it was the idiot eyes
that peeled back the lies
and left our skin
shed on the ground.
poet,understand something,
we all leave room
for growth.
it seems vital
we should overcompensate,
just to leave some
breathing room
for the well taught,
the urban dwellers,
the judges,
the grudges,
and the large idiots
copywrite:jeremy szuder

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cat power

a piano and a guitar are taking drinks under the red lights of the stage. they each take turns whispering the forlorn felonies of love and carefully straining them through the sandy mesh of red velvet and silk. the helpless crowd of youthful quietness,shudders. to be living amongst the dead is a call at arms for the heart to cry one million jaded tears. the piano and guitar both agree; she is obviously not human. and still they both carried her out over the clouds, out of the skies. 02.22.05 copywrite:jeremy szuder

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he said sorry.

he had said sorry
so many times,that the word
became a hollowed out
old dead oak tree
that slumped across the plains
of a dusty wheat filled hillside.
his toungue curled away like a snail
that went back
into his shell.
he could not be a man,
as long as the skys pounded
every last breath out of his body.
i know him,
he is an asshole.
he took love and burned it down
and tried to make an airplane
with the ashes.
i told him to stop,
to do away with such
cancerous decisions.
the notions he holds near
are the last true calling card
for any shred of sanity.
he makes noone proud,
he sucks up the precious air.
he will die as we all will,
but those few cranial halloways
that he never dusted,
will take him over the line
and haunt him into the next world.
you are correct in assuming
that the sun frowns on him
every day that he crawls these streets.
you are allowed
to put him back in the box
anytime you like.
copywrite:jeremy szuder

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“ye rustic birthday”

the fury of the screaming


it tidal waved over

my tiki torched head
I was a dead man with

one heavy price to

be paid.

the juke jumped,

the legs twisted,

an old man with

a respirator and

a four-legged cane

rolled about 
halfway in

in time to catch

all the good stuff.

a gold-plated badge

of honesty showed

only halfway out

of the blazers.

we all mobbed tables

of food, drink, desperately.

”I got the family

a new station wagon frank!”

the conversations were

all as wholesome as

a mile of astro turf.

some of the wives

felt as if they were

in an exotic Elvis movie.

and the men went,”HAW,HAW!!”

and the football game

was on twelve different

t.v. sets.

one amazon warrior of

a bartendress trotted,

and had all the hounds

lapping up puddles

five bills at a time.

another one,
whose simple name

I forgot

strode the killing floor,


she was glad the game 

was ending and the real

drinkers were coming

out of their coffins.

her hair was short, blonde,

and her eyes were beady 

and doll-like.

all the wives hated her,

and the husbands

made her trot

across the floor

twenty overworked

and underpaid bills

at a time.

the host of the party

wobbled a little more

every fifteen minutes,

and I caught a ride home

with him and the miss’s.

she drove.

they sent me into the door

with a packet of 
macaroni and cheese.

happy birthday, frank.

copywrite: jeremy szuder

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there’s a vampire in every kitchen

in every sad song,
there is the ending forlorn day.
in every burning stove,
there is the sore crooked neck.
coming too close to bear,
watching the clock ware off words.
there is the occupation always,
that never fits the style,
and the weary  wear it so well
till that well again runs dry.
and we can drink in the silences
of our homes away.
i could go work in
another kitchen
in some other world,
but there is always one set
of hellish problems
that always seem to replace
copywrite:jeremy szuder

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the golden rule

fingers had commited
murder across the keys.
my blood turned jelly
and lodged itself
around phrases,words.
i was not certain
how i had gotten here:
to the chair,the radio….
it all seemed to be
waiting patiently.
the great hammer
was furious.
it had knocked imprints
into the seams of my
and padded swirls
along ten bottoms
rubbed away each letter,
one at a time.
i had been hungrey
for thee days.
and i thought too much
about the bad things,
the things that make
our backs hurt
and our muscles squeek.
the golden rule
was always the same:
never rush the last line.
copywrite:jeremy szuder

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an open letter to syd barrett:rest in peace.

the fingers of an englishman
have died and stopped.
the fingers that scratched the surface of the sun
and itched at the moon.
i knew him through the songs,
the playful hollowed jugs,
the skipping gnomes
and the wind in the willows.
i knew his bike and his scarecrow too.
somehow,i am feeling the emptiness.
my paintbrushes have emulated his beautiful face
so many times
that my mind was warm
and relaxing to the sways of sound.
i miss the tea parties,
and the p-coats.
i miss the purple and orange painted floor boards.
everything surreal i ever knew came from
the fountain of one syd barrett.
he was a mentor of dreams,
the father of fantasy.
i will listen to him now
and do my best
to kiss every last cloud,
as if it will eventually float
all the way to his grave.
thank you for being alive.
thank you for showing me
the beauty in the underbelly.
for having me entrusted to the bottled messages.
i wish you were here.
you are already a legend in my eyes,
and now the machine will lift you up,
and everyone will take heed.
if it means a whole new batch
of nimble ears,
then so be it.
but i knew you when i was young.
and i knew you when i was afraid.
and those are the things that will never change.
i hate to say it,
but roger was right on,
shine on you crazy diamond.

jeremy szuder

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