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Peter V. Dugan - 2


We were

​We were young rebels acting cool
hanging out all hours of the night
tired of being tame, we went wild
letting ourselves loose on the streets
dancing under the neon lights
and singing our songs to the stars.
 
But we discovered other stars
in the pulsing music of cool
sounds blowing loud, heavy and light
in the steam of a hot summer night,
grooving to the beat of the streets,
listening to the call of the wild.
 
We were set free and born to be wild,
a brand new age of rock and roll stars
riding the big wave down the streets.
We were young Turks, the kids of cool
the banished children of the night
living for the dark, cursing the light.
 
But, like suicidal moths drawn to fire-light
we pushed our limits and went wild.
Out of control we were out all night, 
boozing and cruising beneath the stars,
living and dying in the act of being cool
with no escape from stress on the street.
 
Consumed by the heat of the street
We burned to break away and light
up a joint or guzzle a crisp, cool
beer and chase it down with some 'Wild
Turkey' sending us off to the stars
and our explorations of the night.
 
We were lost souls in an endless night,
wandering in the dark with no stars
or signs to guide us out on the streets.
We craved for just a spark of light
to shine down on our world gone wild,
chilled by the obsession of  being cool.
 
We were the kings and queens of cool nights,
the puppet figureheads of the wild streets,
eclipsed by the starlight forever out of reach.
​

Burnt Offerings

Do you want to stone me
            because I might be
a heretic
            or an agnostic
                        to your faith?
Maybe you should just
            crucify me,
splay me,
            tie my limbs
and nail me
            with old rusted
            spikes
upon an intersection
of fact and fantasy.
Will you do this
for my redemption?
I’m not worthy
hang me
            upside down
let the blood rush
to my head
                        then
you can cut me down
            chop me up
            piecemeal
feast on my body
drink my blood.
Take what is left
of my remains
burn them
in a sacrificial flame
scatter the ashes
in the wind
            or
place them
            in your chalice
keep them in your private
            catacombs.
And then you can try
            to resurrect me
drown me
            in your holy water
a baptism
            to make me
a martyr
            for your
                        salvation.
​
Picture


​Peter V. Dugan's Profile

Go to page 1 of Peter V. Dugan's poetry

Modern Americana

This is the land of freedom of choice:
Coke or Pepsi,
light beer or dark,
less filling, tastes great,
Republican or Democrat,
horse manure, cow manure,
different crap,
same smell.
 
America is now a pie
divided into eight slices,
but, there are twelve at the table,
and three of them want seconds.
 
It’s all a game.
George and Martha never had a son.
Truth and illusion; 
it doesn’t make a difference,
we still sit in the waiting room
expecting delivery.
 
Money is the new Messiah,
greed is the national creed,
“In G-O-D (gold, oil & dollars) we trust,”
but, credit cards are accepted.
 
The government of the people
has been bought and sold.
It’s strictly business,
nothing personal.
 
The heart of America
stopped beating,
the blood clotted,
no longer red,
now medi-ochre,
and pumped
by the pacemaker
of public opinion. 
 
And still there are those that believe
that the only real American patriots
are true blue and white
or least act white,
and all the stars
are in Hollywood.
​

Divine Madness

I am caught between mirrors        
                        while clowns with painted faces
reflections of the infinite              
                        ignite the cobwebs in my head
surrounded by a veil of darkness  
                        with a continuous oratorical ramble
where lost souls roam the streets   
                        citing some lame excuse
like rabid dogs in heat                   
                        for the ineptitude and incompetence
no bounds, no borders                   
                        perpetrated upon us
where wealth is accrued                 
                        a melodrama of words
and then wagered                         
                        beheaded and disemboweled
with delusions of deliverance                   
                        woven, spun, bound together
in the light of new ideas               
                        a choreography of language
fused by logic and reason             
                        inciting and inspiring
with natural instincts                     
                        these word and images
opposing out-dated moralities       
                        twisting and turning in my brain
and decaying values                      
                        curled like a coital knot of snakes
a torrid entrapment                       
                        drowning in the stream
beneath the shadow                     
                        of conscienousness
of the street corner gurus             
                        stagnant water, without any depth
singing the suburban blues            
                        I know it is time to turn off the TV
as these young lions roar               
                        and write a poem
​

A return to a day in the garden
                      ~Bethel, New York 8/15/98


​I sought higher ground
            and settled down
            next to the totem
            of Jerry, Jimi, and Janis.
 
Above spread the tented
            Rock and Roll strip mall,
            everything from art, tee-shirts
            and crystals, to computerized
            stereo sound systems and cell phones.
 
 Buy a piece of flower power,
            but don't sell your soul.
 
The Woodstock Nation
            had come of age,
            an attempt to balance
            its ideology with science
            and technology, 
            and blend it with the reality
            of commercialism.
 


​Below the music played on

            as the crowd danced and swayed.
 
Melanie, Donavon, Richie,
            Lou, Joni, and Pete,
            sang of peace and love,
            human rights and wrongs,
            life in the gritty city, 
            spirituality and ecology.
 
Once again,
            Sisyphus struggles to push
            a boulder up hill,
            knowing it will roll
            back down to the valley below.
           
He smiles with hope
            that from the seeds
            of art and music,
            something
            good will grow.
Go to page 1 of Peter V. Dugan's poetry

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