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Who’s feeling rapidly out-of-date and obsolete.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.