Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Bad Romance: Dreams, Longings and One-Night Stands


Usually I shy away from writing about love and that sort of thing, don't ask me why, it's just not a common subject for me. But there are a few scraps lying around out there in my archives that do prove I'm not the barbed-wire, armor & nails that many people think I am.

Strange and Beautiful Skin
(By Walter Beck)
I came home
With my usual scent
Of cheap cigarettes and beer
Permeating my leather jacket.

On my flesh
Was the scent of new life
Blooming in the middle of nowhere;
The scent of coconut grease
And your strange flesh.

Pale skin
In the light of the cult film on TV
In your swank pad;
I’m not piss & vinegar
As much as the rest of the world thinks.

One night,
Two nights,
Or never again;
Just one moment
Of humanity
Without a fog of smoke and booze,
A soul unshackled
By the chains of an image.

Teach me
To love myself
And to love you;
Teach me
To be more than a glorified gofer,
A mercenary for hire
Who’s feeling rapidly out-of-date and obsolete.

Teach me to be all the way alive.


Let Me Find One (A Goddamn Miracle)
(By Walter Beck)
Let me find one
Who can jam out to a boogie-woogie
Or Lemmy’s bluesy-bass rumble.
Let me find one
Who can tilt back Wild Turkey
And chase it down with Mad Dog.
Let me find one
Who’ll take a slasher flick
Or National Lampoon
Over a chick flick or musical.
Let me find one
With a thirst for the streets,
For Revolution
Over soft-soap speeches
And pressed, ironed collars.

Let me find one
That makes this freak lifestyle
Not feel so goddamn lonely.

The Field Poems of Pvt. Mountain Dew Pt. 1

The following are poems I've written as a re-enactor, primarily with the 33rd Virginia, Co. A, where I'm affectionately known as "Mountain Dew". At the end of the 2010 season, I was named "Company Poet" of the unit and presented with a quill dip pen.


Soul Stitched on a Striped Woolen Sleeve (for Sgt. Murphy)
(By Walter Beck)
“Living the dream, baby!”
He said as he marched
Off with his queen
Of oiled wood and steel.
But queen she may be
His soul lies back at camp.
You could hear it in his voice
On the cold, smoky nights;
No, not in his characters of
The Recruiter
Selling bounties and fresh air,
Nor Belvedere B. Belvedere
Running for congress and promising progress,
But in those moments when he
Wore his heart on his striped woolen sleeve;
When he, the Sergeant, sang Sweet Melodie.

The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.

She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.

She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “à tout le monde, à tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*

*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"




Two Old Friends
(By Walter Beck)
Two old friends
From the Days of Decadence,
Where the splatter flicks played all night,
Where the smuggled booze flowed like the Wabash.
Two old friends,
Brothers in the White Sash,
Glaring at each other
Across the line of fire
The first sight of each other
In many years
Seen through forty inches of blued steel.
Two old friends
Fell in a glorious staged rush,
Blue and Gray
Separated in one arm’s length.


Street Freak Archives: Protests, Rallies and Revolutions Pt. 1

This is a selection of poems written about gay rights, either my opinion or involvement in the Movement. This is just a small selection, look for more out of the archives.


If Only They Knew (How Many of Us)*
(By Walter Beck)
How many of us
Are fighting
Just by existing?
Just by working
In the grit & dirt;
Scarred skin
Slicked with sweat
Given in dedication & service.
How many of us
Feel forbidden love,
Have forbidden spiritual beliefs,
Hold forbidden political views?
How many of us
Wait, pray, hope, dream
Of the day
When the acid chains
Will dissolve?
When we can stand proud
And say in unison
"On my honor..."

*Previously published in Swell, an online publication of NewTown Writers

The Writing’s On the Wall
(By Walter Beck)
When even Focus on the Family
Admits defeat.
When the Westboro Baptist Church
Have members flee
As the “church” gets crazier and crazier
(Who thought that was possible?).
When Huckabee
Won’t even try to be President
And Fred Karger tries instead.
When Congress is trying not to leave it to courts
And instead is trying to pass it through legislation.

As these things come to pass,
Victories great, small or symbolic,
The writing is on the wall;

Equality wins.

Family Education
(By Walter Beck)
While I was out on the streets
In the wind and rain,
Gagged and defiant, holding a sign and a flag;
You were teaching your children
To hate my brothers and sisters.

While I was out challenging and questioning
Preachers and street loonies
And looking at the hard reality of corruption and brutality;
You were teaching your children
The dangers of heathens and pagans.

While I was out soaking myself in literature
Writing papers, poems
And exercising my mind;
You were teaching your children
The joys of ignorance, of being common folk.

While I was out reading of revolutionaries,
Of social radicals and outlaws
Living and breathing in the freedoms of America;
You were teaching your children
The patriotic and biblical duty of absolute obedience.

While I was out learning to live
To feel all the way alive,
To inspire people to make their own stands;
You were teaching your children
How to die.

No More Martyrs Blues
(By Walter Beck)
Would it take another martyr
To bring us all together again?
Would it take another bruised and broken body
To bridge the gaps
Between politicians and radicals,
Tattered t-shirts and suits?

How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?

Have we become so splintered
Vain, petty,
Complacent, compliant,
That only a burnt offering
Of a brother or sister
Will get us
To march together?
To struggle together?
To fight together?

I ask again,
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?

Have we forgotten
Those who have gone before us?
Have we forgotten
Our own scars and stories?
Have we forgotten
Those who yet scream into the night
With fear and madness?

I ask once again, I ask you all;
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?

I can’t watch no more.
I can’t stand no more.
I won’t see another
Broken life,
Wasted life.
I won’t see no more.
I’ve seen enough.
Enough! Enough! Enough!

OH GODS ABOVE I ASK YOU!
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?

Roar (For those Named and Unnamed)
(By Walter Beck)
I will honor them;
The ones forever
Mourned, un-mourned,
Remembered or forgotten;
Beaten, brutalized,
Murdered by society;
Shamed and shunned
By preachers,
By parents and peers.
I will honor them;
Those still in rusty cages
With souls shredded on razor wire.
I will honor them
With a powerful rush
Of silence.

Revolution Summer


Revolution Summer
(By Walter Beck)
Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

I came here shaking;
Full of bad craziness & paranoia
As I walked into my ninth year.

I walked the tight rope
Through NCS
Amongst the shadows
Of old-schoolers & long-timers.

I walked that tight rope
Sitting through half-sincere lectures;
Not knowing
If they could handle
A gonzo-styled commissioner.

Even as we were being
Indoctrinated into National Standards
There were still a few kindred souls
Raising their own flags.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

As I strutted back into my wilderness home
Decked out in my medals from the streets
And Mork suspenders
Walking into a swarm of politicians;
Cold hostility
Armed with only my rock n roll.
Badgers don’t impress me much.

Took a day off from training
To tear the big stage up
In the Windy City;

“Sweating Bullets” spinning through my head
As I ripped through revolution
Gripping the sides of the podium
Eyes crazy with determination,
Grit, gut and soul.

My brother and I drove back
Feeling victorious;
Feeling the floodgates open up.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Bosses speaking up
For my right to speak out
Through ribbon and sheet metal;

Telling a leader
He won’t get his dirty money back.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Brothers and sisters
Showing support
Through Rainbow silicone;
A dozen,
Two dozen,
Three dozen
Pouring in;
Solidarity in a sunburned wrist.

Colors hung under moldy canvas
In the back lot known as Swamp City;
Pride shouting in the summer breeze.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Hot off the wire
When New York rang the wedding bells
And the Swamp exploded
With the sounds of Jefferson Airplane,
Dylan and the MC5.

Rhode Island following fast behind
Drawing the line closer
And closer;
And our celebration continued
Late into the night.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Unseen voices
Started whispering threats
Down the line;
Bound and gagged
For two weeks.

Bound and gagged;
So the hammer wouldn’t come crashing down,
So the other shoe wouldn’t drop.
Voiceless;
With no brass stepping in
To break the hidden chains.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Sweating bullets
On the phone;
Digging for the opportunity
To take it on a National Stage,
To drag my heart and soul
On a bus route.

Immersing myself
In King and Thoreau;
Sharping my mind.
Getting my odds down
To one throw of the dice.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

During the last stretch
Dripping with grit;
Tearing down and packing up,
Got a text message
From a gathering
Of National Brass;
It was the news we had been waiting for
For ten long years.

They’re getting ready
To open our gates
To all
Who speak and believe
In the words
“On my honor”.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

Taking my last bow
In my Colors;
Braces, stockings
And Allen Ginsberg.

Heading home
Tired, exhausted, drained;
With a Lucky Strike lit
And headphones
Barking freedom.

Oh brother
It’s a revolution summer
Here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.