Gabriel Shanks and G.L. Morrison

Shanks R

Gabriel Shanks
Duet Of Myself

Created using G.L. Morrison’s poem (below) as inspiration

Howl for Me
By G.L. Morrison

I have howled at night alone like a dog, hollow and wild
I have coo-whimpered the dying song of a pigeon caught in the dog’s
my heart is a double-throated singer, duet of myself
I stalk myself through these mad streets
passing cars toss their headlights in puddles like discarded cigarettes
cherry burning
their reflection set my feet on fire
acid clouds darken with chemical rain
my shadow splashes at the side of building
gray as hiroshima ash

the best minds of my generation
were destroyed by greed
and doting parents and I didn’t see it
I was busy learning not to look, not look
starving in our mothers’ kitchens
clothed only in our father’s prejudices
starving, cynical, naked
we dragged ourselves through alleys
and days looking for nothing

anger is justice defiled                                    but
we never knew her innocent
justice was turning tricks before we were born
we danced the faggot streets
knew everything, expected nothing
and were never surprised
burning adolescent tallow off our quick lit wicks
saving nothing for tomorrow
who knew we would survive?

starry nights, so many starry nights
seen through madhouse windows
constellations sordid and stale
yesterday’s failed suicide attempt
stars falling like accusations
beautiful in their falling

belle morte,
fireworks, light show, stars in death
beautiful, beautiful
the machinery of night
grinds on, gears slip
noticing us not at all


Shanks I

Gabriel Shanks
Canal and Mott
Inspiration piece provided to G.L. Morrison

Canal and Mott
By G.L. Morrison

The ghosts of what’s to come shop here.
Armed with bright shopping bags
that smell of cloves and Szechuan pepper,
but are filled to overflowing with totchke moments
savory regrets and battery operated
appliances of destiny, these zeitghosts overtake
our common sense(s). They are reverse
pickpockets who slip gaudy keychains
and snowglobes into the bags of unwary tourists.

Possibilities chase us up the street like rain
forcing us to take shelter in storefront windows
and kiosks full of everything we never knew
to need. Buy nothing and still it will all come
home with you. The open Air is five-spice thick:
the bitter hickory smoke of a street vendor’s poultry
competes for top note with the invisible breeze
of star anise and cinnamon that trails after
an old woman exiting an adjacent restaurant.

Hao Hao.
Pungent but good as the moment passed,
the moment to come waits like a mugger.
Stars appear in the still light city sky
distant and dark as fennel seeds in rye bread.
We can’t help noticing
every sixty seconds we spend here
we grow one minute older.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.


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