Category: JR

KEVIN R. FARRELL, JR. - POEMS AND PORTRAITS

1/21/2021

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is a New York based artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in BONED – Every Which Way, Burning House Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Adroit Journal, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Foxhole Magazine, Yo-NEWYORK! and others.
His work attempts to capture life from the vantage point of someone in the backseat of a stolen car running on fumes. His poems are a play on words in the form of political, satirical, surrealist, tongue in cheek rants that often border on stream of consciousness ramblings that are a last-ditch effort at taking it all in before we get taken out.

It’s a Daily Fight

My bouts of depression are less heavy weight slug fest these days
and more welterweight stick and move,

24 rounds
all blood,
no glory,

night sweats,
moving my feet,

jab,
jab,
cross,

my best defense a strong offense,
but I’m on the ropes,

forearm to forearm,
you can’t block it all when they won’t stop swinging,
the bell sounds like an internal alarm clock I never remember setting.

Round 1 bleeds into 2 and so do I,
it may be a long day.

Graves In Our Yard

A mouth full of tombstones,
junky teeth,

gritty specks from dust to dust,
rotten core issues,

forlorn ornaments dangle with hashtags,
influencers influence no more than before,

mass graves down the hatch,
virtual funerals,

stress briefings,
life’s final hour streaming live,

a hole in our universal soul,
black heart emojis,

a fight to the death,
loser gets a eulogy.

How many times must we say goodbye?
Someday we’ll get our forever hello.

Faith Dealer

I am the wreckage of a single car crash
who’s been told there are no accidents and that god works in mysterious ways.

To add insult to injury there’s a divine plan we’re all destined to pursue.

Divinity is the meringue of amethyst
and marmalade clouds whipped against the fading black of dawn.

Destiny is a dead end and the real poetry lies in the lines not written.

These vague metaphors are the tip of an ice cube melting in a rocks glass,
how shallow of a bottom spent licking wounds rimmed with margarita salt.

I’ve succumb to less,
hollow bones,
sunken regrets,

all is force fed and laughable,
as forgettable as the supposedly unforgotten.

To be bogged down in the all so trivial is too fucking unforgivable.

Falling

Someone else’s thoughts are running through my mind,
their blood boils and I’m burned.

Dominos are stacked to fall,
so tell me why are we standing here?

A standstill of mediocre proportions,
how epic you’ve made it seem;

blown to bits,
chunks,
bile,
nosebleeds,

please,
just disregard.

Painting a self-portrait of me painting myself into a corner.

I’m around most days,
mentally I’m physically drained.

Running straight into the wind forcing my eyes wide open,
when the wind finally hits my back I shut them,

I hit the sand,
then the water,

waves of emotion,
I’m just another drop in the ocean.

First Bored

A crisis actor run off script
fighting demons on the front lawn of some suburban battlefield

pulling at heart strings tied to an oak tree
by a war torn civilian with an ungodly number of recyclables.

Much to do about nothing,
no strength to muster up,

no cause to raise alarm,
no life to live at home.

Investigate the difference between losing faith and losing touch.
Let the little shit slide until it forces an overreaction.

Grease the wheels,
we’re running out of mind and time is closing the distance.

Can’t be there for another until you’ve shown up for self.
A master manipulator always knows who to bleed first for trust.

I can smell the blood before it tests the waters.
I can taste the fear jogging through your veins.

Raised with a clenched fist,
learned right jab from left hook

and if you told me I was wrong
I’d prove to you that daylight had no effect on seeing stars.