Derrick Keeton

Post image for Derrick Keeton

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 17, 2011

Derrick is an unemployed shell of a writer who drinks copious amounts of alcohol and smokes cigarettes like a chimney while trying to get his work across to anyone insane enough to pay him mind. He lives in the rural outskirts of a God-Fearing Tennessee town by the name of Ten Mile, where much of his twisted imagination is molded into prose and poetry. Having seen the light opposite the light others in these parts stare at with pious eyes, Derrick continues to write, doop chicks into one-night stands, and go generally crazy whenever it strikes his fancy. Blog: www.dkwriting.blogspot.com

“Boy”

My nipples look like rancid pepperonis
On an old stale pizza of an overgrown
Boy’s body.
I have acute self-interest syndrome
And when I awake to the mistakes
Of a night of drunkenness before,
I will have to hide my head once more.
Hands are not sacred enough to bar
The loathing of a million regrets
And jovial, aggregate minarets.
You were there, were you not?
When golden hopes became breakable
Lead plots
For ancestors long buried
In an enabling, taunted-by-vice
Cemetery.

Ballad I.”

I saw colors of every kind before I fell
Into the lap of bedlam, trading grace for
The sake of something sublime…
I was wronged, but found in a ditch,
Empyrean gutter, society’s glitch
Where we made a graceful throne
Not something known, yet overthrown
With longing for a meaning aside
From the songbird’s ballad of just
Getting by…
Where was solace when our promising
Children were getting high?

“Ballad II.”

I was a blank verse searching for a chorus
Of damned souls and rebels who couldn’t
Pay the toll to save their sorry lives.
For it was all a matter of such.
And we couldn’t be touched, like hot stakes
In an eternal fire, ignoring the habitual
Tongue licking our souls, savoring the flavor
Of knowing what it means to be damned.
I am not drowning, just…Searching
For a life-raft in this sea of banality and
Willful ignorance to quench the thirst of
Vacant saviors…yours was a ship sunk
In a crude lake of spite and keepsake
For something greater…
Than all that we know

“Ballad III.”

Consequence is instilled in nature,
The very backbone, marrow of
Mortality
Corrosive as mercury…
A drop to the tongue of subliminal
Tyranny.
You and I must act as couriers
Delivering fragment of truth
Beating still in the night.
My heart groans sleepily, idling
By the retina of God’s despotic,
Deviant creation
And lo’! We weep at the cremation
Ceremony for our great nation
Sinking deep, the hooks of
Celebratory masturbation
While all we can do is hope to catch
Out next meal, why did we make such
Ill-conceived deals?
I want my soul returned, you can keep
Those sordid lesson plans and those
Diamond-studded urns.

“Digger”

Warped as the heart of a felon,
I found my start on the offsets of
Corporate-willed strivings.
I was a young man, hand caught in
Machine
Like a pervert, squeezing at the heart
Of pornography
I dreamed of wars and greatness,
Gushing out my orgasm of Satan’s slum
My brain ripe as a plum
Eating of the fruits that dismal fantasies
Brought
I was born with cancer, thanking God
The word ‘cure’ never crossed my mind.
To all the sufferings of the pure, I was
Willfully blind.
At least I remembered where to find
The bone of perfect harmony,
Buried by the outcast dogs who
Made a beast of me.

“Open or Closed?”

War is something akin to pornography
A cheap dollar-turner and thrill
Some may balk at while secretly wishing
To take part in
I will not lie: Hands will die
In turning the cards of putrid sensations
Sanctions would merely beaurocratically
Block the radicals set in the mind for
Totalitarian rule of the world
Have I opened your mind?
If not, close the door so you can set
In darkness, solitude
Notice still that light seeps through
The cracks like rapids untamed
And if you open up, you’ll learn to breath
Under water
Swimming will be second nature.

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