slashsmut serial icon beecher keller

Wires Gone Dead

by iconjax


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First excerpt from book of poems found in prisoner;s 98K514 cell in the geriatric Section in Em city and published posthumously .i will be posting excerpts from this thin tome at irregular intervals (the prune juice hasn't kicked in yet),which i was lucky enough to stumble upon (hell,its 2035,and i stumble every other step)

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                  WIRES GONE DEAD                

    by 98K514

This is a publishing of excerpted poems from a cache of writings found in a shoebox in a prisoner's cell.He had died serving an 88 year sentence.These poem span much of these years,and are filled with love and hate and insight into the caged soul.When available prison records were used to add biographical sketches to give context to the poems

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This poem was was written near the end of his stay in the maximum security institution.Records show that he was recently fitted with special corrective eyeware that eased the cataracts he suffered,and would have eventually taken his sight. ---------------------------------------------------------------

                        SLOW GLASS

A window of slow glass confronts my days, with images long passed
;drifting from focus, to the edges of smoke and haze. Through these
panes of thickened transparency; come young nordic smiles still
displayed , crisp and clear as if they had no schedule to keep no
commitment to month or year.
I sit. watching from within a dusty cell ; old patterns shift ,between
ebb and sway looking at him standing in the yard who had in fact been
paroled
and long since moved away .
So addicted to this light retarded aperture; to venture outside this
vault in which i dwell becomes unwarrented and extremely hard. I'd
prefer to stare through this sweet lens; witnessing the yesterdays in
virtual replay, than participating in the present, where nothing ever
happens.but the dying of the light day by day.

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The one great love of his life had been a fellow inmate;though documents show that most of his life was spent behind bars;he had managed in his brief stints on the outside ,to have been married four times,one was to an ex-wife.His inside affair had not gotten off on a good footing ether.He attacked and broke his future intendeds limbs.Tobias beecher was most often the subject of these poems.He was paroled March 5,2005

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IN MY HANDS

I've felt bones crunch and give and limbs go soft; in my hands ,that
grab and take and took some more.

 I have felt limp get hard in these very same paws; that harassed and
manipulated and ever bent the laws,
 always to suit what was my whim;
never conscious of the wants of her or him whose life or love these
talons held so fast.

 I learned by slap and bruises and found too late,  an iron grip,is
no way to hold and keep a love.

Power and control are bastards of ones mistrust; a vise of steel that
squeezed and skewed until each plight bust.  
 Four gold bands mangled into a chain;
 never feeling , my clutches caused them pain; but only in liberty can
love and friendship last

I feel the love that was placed within my grasp;in my hands that did
accept and spread and was eased into

I feel freedom's pulse with these old fingers; that have caressed and
invigorated and in whose tips yet lingers
the soft breeze of love in flight on atonement day when from my hands i
let love , just walk away.

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MANDATORY SKIN

Playground tattoos,tissues scabbed hard; scraped and burned until it's
naturally learned, that penance stalks sin for the usual reward, taking
the small patch of mandatory skin.

Juvenile rites,passages rubbed raw;
stroked and abused as minds are confused when ache spews ecstasy all
over the law justice in return, numbs the
tender parts callously.

Penitentiary dues,muscles worked sore
sprained and shivved it's the playground relived where tits are for
bargain in corner candy store
  the payment moistened mandatory skin.

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This poem dates from the turn of the century,in fact y2k ever itself.I
believe this was the night they consummated their relationship.It was a
tumultuous time with in the prison,The prison under went a devastating
riot a week later,and was written in almost as premonition.Though many
people at the time feared the end was nigh ,even on the outside world.

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WALTZING TO ARMAGEDDON

Nearing the Millennium on tiptoes
with cerberus asleep at the gate
wanting to get far enough by him
before the lidded eyes awake
hoping for a headstart before he knows
just how much you fear him
just how badly you can't wait.

Approaching the precipice with caution
a car crash site in the foreground
wishing to avoid the scattered debris
slowly maneuvering your way around
all the while zeroing in on scene of the action excited and repulsed by
what you'll see
on a tightrope trying not to look down.

Counting the minutes with monetary zeal
like a deathwatch inmate in his cell
before the hood erases all connections
praying that there is life after as well
over indulging the senses with last meal
taking those steps toward the final resolution disavowing heaven in
order to eliminate hell

Waltzing to Armageddon deliciously unaware mesmerized by life's
hypnotic downbeat enthralled by the complicated patterns
busy thinking with the balls of my feet
the final rhythm pulsating out into empty air

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This last poem in this chapter,obvious post dates the parole of his
lover,but lust is not so easily assuaged it seems.It deals with release
and need and an undercurrent of unfaithfulness and regret

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MUXY OLD PROXY

deliverance by proxy
discharge into a substitute
representative manumission
blasting loose the old epoxy
into a deputy of abuse

extricating a nut on credit
a surrogate precinct in which to unbar
all the pent and raged constraint
tempting the serpent from the basket
releasing the uncorked torrent

love being xeroxed by lust
a prag playing a cameo role
secondary disengagement
an effigy that absorbs the thrust
the gist of which is meant for Toby

Wires Gone Dead - Penal Pastimes -Part Two

by iconjax


THE GAMES WE PLAY

hearts and diamonds love and money
red as blood that drips from the wounds
spades and clubs shovels and batons
black as the pit that you get thrown in
bridge or solitaire in group or alone
entertainment that fills the empty hours
kings or jacks full fontal or profile
arraignment that dealt these lousy cards

old men round a table holding on to lucky hands
mental jousts of strategic bluff
old bulls band togther in position for final stands
hoping a pair is still enough

Black and white the checkered battlefield
contingents align along the edges of design
Straight and diagonal aisles of planned attack
double check your posterior from snipper shot
Knight or pawn the heirarchy of the game
calvery and infantry that fight this little war
Gambit or finesse the art of subtle victory
Sacrificing ground to rule from the thrown

young men struting across the tiles looking for a mate
physical pushes of ritualistic verve
Young bucks locking horns intent to win the bout
hoping a nut produces the nerve

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¶¶ the next couple of poems deal with the importance of the telephone as a link to their life on the outside.Even if they never will leave ,but in a body bag;this contact is needed to keep them human ,and revitalizing their deams¶¶

BAD CONNECTIONS

Papercups and package string; pulled taunt to carry the vibes
overbackyard fences,from treehouse door to bedroom window.
You couldn't make out everything of such primative diatribes ;
theywere merely a prod to the senses,just a signal given to let you know
you're the object of someone's thinking.

Recievers and mouthpieces bringcontinents within a whispers reach;
across tremendous gulfs,
from freedom's shore to box canyon.
You can hear just about everythiing.
 The inflections in the speech;
foot notes to the tales in nervous coughs.
The silence strains tocarry on ,
when its the love and not the connection that's waning.

The childhood's telephone ,where distance needed to be maximum,
in order to communicate;between the two.
Physically linking them head to head; all the joy was in the separtion.

The grownup utility where closeness can span the spectrum
from oldfamiliar purr to a hum thats fresh and new
emotionally unhooked whenthe wires gone dead.
all the pain loaded in the deprivation.

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PHONE SEX

in line behind a blond the hair your color trimed
along the napeabove the colllar and in
the middle a small dart
pointing to the spine
vertrabrae all in a row but some askew
tired and out of sorts nothing else to do and in
the middle a sadheart
waiting for the phone

Veins of glass pulsing with coded light
heat of friction as electrons pull tight and in
the middle a singleghaut
reaching for nirvana

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¶¶ I had a lovely interview with Sister Peter Marie,in theretirement home in which she lives.Ethics pervented her from discussing Keller's psychological profile,or letting me get a peek at his file.What a glorious read that would have been,i an sure.She did ,however remanise about her dealings with Christopher and admitted that he had more than once question her vows.Wow! ¶¶

A lLITTLE HARMLESS FROTTAGE

Running sister up a tree like a leopardess
before a hound
watching the woman beneath the orders
just a bit flustered by her susceptibilty to the hots
thesubductress run aground
forced into contemplation of her borders
wondering how indelible areher spots

Shaking peter marie down form her perch;
saint in the hood
seeing the mother amidst the faith and foliage
entrenched by ritesand wrongs her vulnerabilty is suspect
the nurturer so misunderstood
allowed by harsh regime to become a vestige
believing thatinscrutible earns the most respect

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© iconjax 2000
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