four poems

by PD Hurt

The Kneeling Puppeteer

A freefalling nosedive, head first

I fell for five days to find the

trapdoor's bullseye. Lacking oil,

the hinges squawked with a cloud

of fine rust, only to be exposed by

barking cabbies on a one way street

unfamiliar. The discarded gum and

tar had always been inviting to bare

feet, but required a baker's dozen of

marionette puppet strings to begrudgingly

guide each of my wandering toes and two

unsteady knees. From tallest to shortest

in a single-file line, sidewalk cracks and

storefront windows with mannequins as

mirrors glared back with discontent and

followed my every last move. The plate

glass turned to tidal waves after piercing it

with my index, extending a floodgate

footbridge for me to saddle up towards

the sunset. Syndromized and strapped

down no longer, I rode the climaxing

crest toward the direction of where it

sparkled of citrus, a mist without the

chance of solar flares. There, I wandered

aimlessly down the overgrown orchard

aisles, finally with purpose and path—

freedom from self at last.

A Lackluster Absentee Intermission

Organ music — the scum buildup at the

peak of relief. It’s the filth… the sound

of angst after living has stopped

being fun. An uptempo of

dread after your tongue loses

count of all the pills that you drowned

down with three day old warm flat malt liquor.

With no escape, death drags on

as does the velvety elevator music

while in its stuck position between

the basement floor and whatever’s

beyond that. You live long in

your rock-bottom, so long you don’t

even know what it’s like any other way.

Prone to the carpet, a faded dayglow

orange shag that smells of stale piss

and cigarettes, sways with the downbeat

of the tunes and tones that the accompanying

instruments provide, filling gaps

purposefully left by the downtrodden

organ, tickles you and tries to convince

that you’d be better off on your back.

After the wallpaper melts, marrying into

the shag, it leaves not bare walls, but takes

an early winter’s hibernation. Along

with it, you melt, and with Nick Cave as

the catalyst, you hope that spring forgets to

come by in the morning.

ode to GG Allin

scumfuck gutter trash of the worst

kind—

/ cooked in a used syringe and slammed

in collapsed veins / shitty high from shitty

dope / riddled with abscess wounds—one week

from amputation / reeking of cheap booze

and even cheaper whores / water and gas

shut off—squatted there six months /

puke and shit … shit and puke crested

three inches above the porcelain rim /

cockroaches scurry and maggots

keeping pace /

—sits on a makeshift stool, two milkcrates

high, by 3 AM candlelight.

dark sunglasses and crusty track marks,

by 3 AM candlelight.

gg and his guitar,

by 3 AM candlelight.

Manifesto for my attempted suicide

If you’re reading this, it's already far too late—

i shot in the dark and missed.

It grazed my thoughts—my ideations have

the attention span of a fruit fly.

Cartwheeling through the waiting room—

carving snow angels in the sand,

i’ll be damned to stand on my head in

purgatory, and be damned if i don't.

So now i keep a ladder in my back pocket—

a spade and a pick, chain them to my back,

for now i’m ready for my death, but also

like to keep my options open.

Photo of PD Hurt

BIO: PD Hurt is a disabled veteran, poet, and blue collar worker based in Grand Junction, CO. His work can be found in print in Hellbound Books and SOUP CAN MAGAZINE, and online at Exquisite Death. His other work can be found on his Hollow Ledger Substack at cantstandya.substack.com.