Three Poems from Jeff Weddle

Punk Noir Magazine


I sometimes dream

that I am living

that this body

does not rot

inside the earth.

I sometimes dream

I am alive

and then I wake

and know the truth.

I sometimes dream

I am you

with all

that comes with

your life.

These are all

the very worst things

these shadows

these dreams

which will not

let me be.

Special Event

What is this cadaver

splayed on the kitchen table?

This rotting thing

with the face of an angel

and wings still capable of flight?

What are these things

still alive inside?

How is it that they dance?

Only loud prayers are heard,

if you really want to know.

Scream them out.

Get this thing into the air.

Sing with me the lost songs.

Bring love to the hollows of time,

if you are able.

You must understand

and explain to the others:

We are out of options

and there are no places

left to hide.

Where Things are Poppin’ the Philadelphia Way

First of all the paper’s too thin

and you could stand to eat something, too

but when you climbed into the hula hoop

that was something

it was special I mean

but this paper isn’t going to do the job

my words are too heavy

and will rip this stuff to shreds

but go ahead and shake those hips

get your wiggle on

just like the backyard dance parties

we pretended when we were little

you be the teenybopper

and I’ll be Dick Clark

feeling you up in the supply closet

I’ll write it down but the words

you know the words

are going to fall

right through this cheap paper

maybe I’ll write it on your body

like Dick might have done it

handing out autographs like indulgences

because rock and roll heaven is real, baby

and it’s all flesh and truth

when it comes right down to it

brass tits and blue balls

and the paper I have found

will never contain you

never keep that heaving bosom locked up

because the sweat will dissolve us all

and the paper is so thin

but baby you’ve got a fine beat

and are so easy to dance to