Art & Literature

Contemplating Vincent

by

John Frazee

I find myself without direction, completely uninspired

From the stark blank canvas I can feel a presence eminating

A stagnant century old breeze wafts across my studio

Where could that sweet smell of absinthe be permeating

I'm commanded from afar by the tortured soul of a god

From what source of power is this energy generating

A surge of inspiration unlike any I've ever felt

While my minds eye staggers, my hand is not hesitating

I am flattered by his spirit, an honor to be sure

I bask in his glow yet find his presence discomforting

I should have accepted him with open arms, however

This attack on my color scheme, I was not anticipating

No one alive has the nerve to trespass where I toil in paint

How these images propagate is truly fascinating

The colors, the strokes, the intensity, there can be no doubt

I am sure now it is Vincent I have been contemplating

AM Again
by
John Frazee    

 I woke up late this morning   
My hair tied in a knot
Somehow my slippers soaking wet   
And the coffee’s not even hot 


This AM started out all wrong
And I’m looking for a fightI 
wish I could remember who    
I went dancing with last night 

Once I had such hopeful plans   
But plans often go askew
Now I can’t find them anywhere   
I just haven’t got a clue 

I ran to see my best friend   
To find out what I had done
He said I’m no friend of yours  
 And went to get his gun 

I went off searching high and low   
For a friendly face to find
But all my former friends would say   
Is man, you’re not our kind 

Got to figure just what I did   
To sink to this level of disgrace
To make every living soul I know  
 Want to slap me in my face 

I finally discovered why   
I was eyed with such disgust
The fault lied with two pals of mine   
My friends alcohol and lust    

Kamikaze

by

John Frazee

I'm a kamikaze pilot

My name you do not know

I'm the one who killed your son

It was a glorious way to go

I'm a fresh faced doughboy

And I'm developing my skill

I had to shoot your brother

When he tried to take my hill

I'm a suicide bomber

With a low regard for life

I had no reason to hate you

Till you murdered my child and wife

They say I'm an expert marksman

And its a skill I always had

He was simply a target in my sight

I didn't know he was your dad

I find it easy killing your kind

Because you're of a different race

It's something I learned in pilot school

That's how I became an ace

I don't care who you are

A frenchy, a brit or a yank

I didn't even see you there

When I crushed you beneath my tank

I didn't give it to much thought

As I pulled that hand grenade pin

You may not know to look at me

It was my very first mortal sin

I was proud when my bullet

Put him in his flag draped coffin

I never realized that bullet

Had in turn made you an orphan

I am not a violent man

At home I'm considered a dove

Forgive me, you see I had no choice

But to kill the man you love

I'm sorry you and your family

Have such an empty life in store

I never meant to take his life

That's the price you pay for war

     The Piper
 by
 John Frazee

Paying the piper, his dues keep getting tougher everyday
Resting or rusting, I find the difference hard to define
Arising each morning with hope of something, anything new
Nearer the beginning or the end it is such a thin line

Deliberately unconscious amid piles of memories
I find myself pathetically clinging to thoughts unknown
I am rummaging through recollections of a past unseen
Could things have turned out differently, did I leave seeds unsown

Memories so deeply twisted are slowly unwound
Mixed with others I have known they can't possibly all mine
The who, what, where and when the facts just keep on coming
They push past me too quickly I must deal with one at a time

What happens to these ideas when they vanish from the mind's eye
Why be so bloody concerned about visions within my head
Who cares if what I am thinking goes up in a puff of smoke
Will I be stuck with these awful thoughts long after I am dead

Stranded hopelessly alone in this crowded restaurant
As far as the waiters concerned I'm just taking up a seat
Better order another cocktail, before they insist I leave
Have no idea how I got here or who I'm suppose to meet

Roaming without direction, I'm sure I've never been here before
Walking around in circles with no destination in my plans
Running into solid walls that I know were not there yesterday
Dealing with everyday life is like navigating foreign lands

Searching through maps I had drawn in order to find my way back home
While debating my future it seems both sides are equally torn
While ignoring the warning signs my intuition sends to me
Further and further I travel till both my soul and soles are worn 

     

Bacchant Recollections
by
John Frazee

Life wasn't always this clear, wasted many years in confusion
I might seem confidant now but once held major apprehensions
I would fall asleep in midair and wake up with contusions
It was much like living through a series of dramatizations

Stood on infirm soapboxes making baseless declarations
While avoiding scrutiny by government organizations
Deeply under the influence of illicit medications
It got so no one believed any of my heartfelt confessions

Decided to face this world with little or no preparations
Accepted employment with woefully few qualifications
Rated within my species I was a poor representation
Still I rose to the top of my field despite these limitations

I met my first wife residing in a house of detention
A cult of druids made me their project for restoration
Once got caught up in some paramilitary operations
Pleaded my case to a jury without representation

I followed many but never felt the need for dedication
Some were true messiahs quite lord like, but most were aberrations
This was where I bore witness to many a crucifixion
Was a true believer before accepting realization

As is evident I possess no skills in communication
 I'm trying desperately to avoid further complications
As god is my judge all these facts are true without exception
In this my autobiography of bacchant recollections

Fourth Street
by
John Frazee    

Walking down these streets together  
Free from any harm
Walking down these streets forever   
Always arm in arm 

When exactly this took place   
I really can’t recall
It was either early that winter    
Or very late that fall 

The arm I held that bitter day   
Belonged to someone you don’t know
For the sake of finishing our story   
We will simply call him Joe 

Details seem a little sketchy   
Was it rain, snow or sleet
The one thing I am certain of   
It was positively Fourth Street 

We knew those streets   
We knew them all so well
That street went to paradise   
That alley led straight to hell 

It all seemed so instinctive   
So easy to choose the right road
If you take to the streets of New York  
 You had better know the code 

The scenery changes, the surface too   
Like cobblestone to tar
That Starbucks on the corner   
Once was our favorite bar 

If friends had lost us in the night   
Here is where we’d meet
The name of the bar eludes me now   
But it was positively Fourth Street 

No matter where we started from   
There is something that we found
We ended up in the perfect place   
By merely following the sound 

They weren’t just streets to us you know   
They weren’t just places to roam
They were part of our heritage   
Our life, our world, our home  

The sidewalks seem so different now   
Without his familiar arm to hold
I never thought I’d see the day   
When the pavement felt so cold 

Of these two things I remember well   
First the time it was too fleet
The second one I swear to you   
It was positively Fourth Street     

Frazee Fine Arts

John Frazee resides in Boynton Beach, FL, USA (temporarily) I also reside under the impression, that like the infinite number of monkeys at the infinite number of type-writers someday I will accidentally create something worthwhile. I rely on you humans to evaluate the results of this experiment. Published in Skyline magazine, OMNI magazine, The Horror Zine, Twice the Terror, The Horror Zine Anthology, Death Head Grin Anthology, My Word Wizard, Aphelion, StoryMania , The Horror Zine Magazine and The Original Van Gogh’s Ear.

Mistaken 
by 
John Frazee         

What if I am mistaken 
And the makers of weapons are right 
Will we use the bombs as peacemakers 
Or to just start another fight   

What if I don’t know any better 
But to believe in what bigots say 
Do I leave my brother bleeding in the street 
And on Sunday, kneel to pray   

What if I am misinformed 
About what the courts insist is just 
Should I stand by and watch 
As the scales of justice rust   

What if I simply misunderstood 
And all men are treated in kind 
Shouldn’t I find a single case    
Where the system is color blind   

What if wrong is what I am   
And right is the domain of the powers that be 
How do I look in the eyes of a child   
And tell him he’ll never be free   

What if I am incorrect    
And what church elders preach is gold 
Or are their ideas, like withered bones    
Have simply gotten too old   

What if I were misdirected    
By teachers who’s facts were untrue 
How do children recover from    
Being served up lies in a stew      

What if I miscalculated  
And we must live on time we borrow 
As we rape our mother earth    
Shred her skin and suck her marrow   

What if I am wrong   
And what the wise men say is true 
What if there really is a God  
And this is the best that he can do