Lyric Poet

Poetry by Brent Futo

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2007.

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Tonight in this morgue of romantic relations,
With true necrophiliac sex expectations,
I enter this tomb where a womb was once willing,
And have intercorpse with the cold and the chilling.
Acute rigamortis imprisons our passion,
Enshrouded by bitterness failure has fashioned,
Embalmed by the tears of remorse and rejection,
Our love is a corpse of its former affection.
I enter you still with a prayer of repentance,
For my part in writing our own love's death sentence.
If God can restore the soul, in ressurection,
Perhaps I can raise the dead, with this erection.


She dreams, but not of me...

In the night, as I lie alone with you,
I recount the ways, that I am in love with you.
In your sleep, as I watch you breath-in air,
You hide far away; I can't find you anywhere.
In the day, as the light betrays your place,
Your eyes pry wide, but won't look me in the face.
In the flesh, I know you'll remain with me,
But deep in your dreams, you long ago buried me.
Still, I wait, and hope you'll return and be,
In spirit and heart, here with me eternally.
In this world, no greater atrocity,
Exists than true love, without reciprocity.

"Invisible Man"


Will this be the night she sees him,
Not for who he is, but as who he was?
Will she see the man she married,
Or the man she stays with just because?
Will she notice that he showered,
Bought a new silk robe, sprayed it with cologne?
Or lament his constant failures,
Turn her back, and spend the night alone?
If he were but richer, taller,
Maybe then he'd be, someone she'd desire,
Someone she could touch when sober,
Someone who would not make her a liar.
Shame he still adores this woman,
Sees her as his queen, strives to be her dream.
In his mind, she'll always love him,
As she pawns his heart, and hides his ring.

"Last Request"


An old man wept at the waterfront.
I asked him if it were death he feared.
He whispered once as his glasses teared,
"The chase goes on, but I'm past the hunt".

"There was a day, was it yesterday
A woman's seed fertilized my soul?
It nourished me and rendered whole
My spirit's roots and my mind's bouquet!"

"It is not death that encumbers me,
But rather life that rebukes my heart.
To live alone is the hardest part--
To die in love is a fantasy".

"No young girl's arms will surround my chest,
No fresh-washed hair will caress my face.
If passion's place I could re-embrace,
I'd sip once more each soft, dewy breast!"

"I'd suckle life, milk eternal bliss.
I'd trade ten years, expedite this death,
For one sweet taste of that lustful breath
From lovers' lips pressing one last kiss".

"There Grew Flowers in My Garden"

Flowers in My Garden

There grew flowers in my garden--
Foilage far beyond the rainbow's hues,
And I fathered every bloom with reverence,
Wishing not a one to lose.

For my single joy in living
Was to please a kind or special friend
With a gift of stunning colored passion
Only my such blooms could send.

There were poachers in my garden,
For I knew their small and nasty prints.
And although no blossom yet had wandered,
Just the same, I stood a fence.

Yes I labored to be certain
Undeserving hands would never steal
But a single flower from my garden--
Blooms reserved for my own will!

Now there's peace within my garden.
Once again the soil remains untrod;
Yet the peace within my very being
Has returned itself to God.

For it seems that by my garden,
Every day upon his painful way,
Passed a tiny, sickly homeless fellow,
With an eye for my bouquets.

And they say that on the evening
Of the day I walled away his sight,
This poor spirit lost his will to struggle,
In his world so black and white.

Thus grow flowers in a garden,
Down the lane upon a pauper's grave,
Where I father every bloom with pentance.
And, as always, every bloom he treasures,
He won't pluck--
And I no longer plot to save.

The poacher

"Adulterer's Song"

Spiritual Corpse

Where have you, my oldest friend, fallen?
It was not on the battlefield where, side by side,
Against common foes we fought.
All those victories over time
Have come to naught.

Where are you, my oldest friend, buried?
It is not next to placid streams where I had planned
Always, to lie down with you,
When we grew old, wife and man,
Whose days were through.

Why have you, my oldest friend, left me?
This is not your fault, but mine--for I am he
Who ambushed you, as you slept.
I divorced you spiritually,
And never wept.

How can you, my former friend, forgive
That which God by His word will not--this blasphemy
Against sacred vows we prayed?
Out of my friend's loyalty,
A corpse I've made.

"The Sins of the Father"

The wages of sin is death.

The sins of the Father are vested upon me.
For three generations they've rehearsed to ruin me.
My grandfather's weakness has finally found me.
It sweeps me out seaward and silently drowns me.

The sins of the Father disgust then become me.
I pray as a father, "Lord, rip them forth from me!
This fourth generation, this sweet child before me,"
I pray, "Dear God, spare him," I beg and implore thee!"

The sins of the Father are rooted within me,
And branching more widely, this sick tree of family.
God's justice is harsher than man's ever could be--
He punishes children for reprobates like me.


"Confessions of a Failed Father"

Thorns of Regret

Those dark hours of morning
Prick his conscience, as razor-sharp thorns
Buried in blackness, stems of rosy nothingness,
Slicing off his purpose, as he prays and mourns.

The lone daughter created
Still lies sleeping in some distant bed,
Covered by Mother, and by angels prayed by him,
Not for his redemption, but for hers instead.

The sun arises slowly,
Chases shadows, secrets that he keeps,
Right out the window, as he stops by school and waits
To at recess see her, through the fence, and weep.

Those sparse moments of meaning
Soon are over for Daddy depraved.
Dusk will bring demons--once again he'll call to say,
"Daddy loves his baby," even from his grave.

"She Used to See"

Charging Knight

She used to see a charging knight
Astride a mighty stallion white.
But now she sees indignities,
And no one there to fight her fight.

She used to see a golden ray
That that pierced through every cloudy day.
But now she sees calamities,
That linger on her darkened way.

She used to see a fantasy--
A lover-hero's armored trust.
But now she sees realities,
The dents, the scratches and the rust.

She used to see a charging knight.
But now she sees a frightening page,
As she and he and history,
Lament the passing of an age.

"The Woman I Couldn't Find"

I fear her body was dumped in these woods.

The five-o'clock traffic is thick and concealing,
In the dead of the heat out by I-95.
It was there that I passed her, connected, then lost her--
The woman I saw, but never could find.

She ran on the shoulder, a gang of boys chased her,
As I passed in my car, locked in stuporous surprise.
She ran with a purpose--a frenzied foot circus,
As real as the fear that I saw in her eyes.

I found the next exit, then ran back to save her,
As I scaled an embankment and climbed down a fence.
I searched for an hour in an afternoon shower,
With no single clue where the scared woman went.

I pushed through the bushes, knee deep in weeds,
Half-expecting to find her, but not still alive.
But no beaten body or pursuer surfaced--
All that remained was that look in her eyes.

The truth these years later is still somewhere shrouded,
By the brush, by the road, down by I-95.
This damned seeming disaster, a faster reactor,
Might somehow have saved--but I couldn't find.

"The Chill"

The Chill

I would plummet straight hellbound, seek out Satan himself,
And confront his own hellhounds, carnivores of the self,
Just to rid you of demons, that creep into your sleep;
Yet I sometimes ignore you, as you quietly weep.

I would charge any dragons, any enemy fort,
Any encircled wagons, any king's guarded court,
Just to free you of fears, that have stalked you for years;
Yet my cold disposition, does not tolerate tears.

I would crawl across embers, over razor-sharp blades,
And endure any torture, 'til my consciousness fades,
Just to spare you an instant, of discomfort or pain;
Yet I often do nothing, but critique and complain.

I excel in the large things, all the crises it seems,
Yet fall short in the small things, such as fostering dreams.
I would die for you gladly, and go well-satisfied,
If but somehow I knew how, to reveal what I hide.

"She Has a Heart"

She Has a Heart

She has a heart, in hollow hibernation,
Cloistered as a pearl's clandestine, clammy cloak.
She lives her life, in riteous resignation,
Fortified in fear, emotionally broke.
She has a dream, of loving liberation,
Freer than a fawn's frenetic, frisky feet.
She keeps it bound, in total subjugation,
To empty certainties, she's always sure to meet.
She met a man, who offered adoration,
Scaled her guarded gate, soothed her stormy soul.
She drank him in, in thirsty desperation,
Fed upon his flesh, until her heart was whole.
She wonders now, in aged deprivation,
How her life would be, if but she bade him stay.
A solitary heart is nature's abhoration,
An empty, loveless life, is just another day.

"One Word"

One word might have changed this.

He paved the roads she traveled,
With comfort, love, and tears--
A tear for every moment,
She shared her past of pain and fears.
He loved her in an instant,
And through eternity,
And with nocturnal passion,
That only she would ever see.
He lifted her to heaven,
With newfound wings she'd fly,
Until they had but one word
That crossed between them harsh one night.
She left him in the morning,
Without one word goodbye.
He mouthed one word of sorrow,
But she was off to flee and fly.
He waited by the window,
For her to fly back home.
But underneath the wreckage,
Her body trapped, her soul had flown.
They came around to see him,
Much later that smae night.
He couldn't speak but one word--
Just her name, he would recite.
And so he waits years later,
In silence, by her grave,
Without one word from Jesus--
Not even He this love could save.

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2007.