The Burning Album of Lame

by Greg Gerding

Publication Date: February 2005
Trade Paper; 112 pages; 4″ x 7″

Praise for The Burning Album of Lame

As Reviewed in The Espresso, April 2007 Issue
When I read Greg Gerding’s work, I feel like a voyeur. I’ve snuck into one of his hiding places, pulled out his private “don’t-you-dare-open-and-read-this” journal, and can’t let go. Despite the title, there is nothing lame about this book. His work is raw, gritty, honest, insightful, disarmingly well-crafted, and emotion-laden. It will bring tears to your eyes (for a variety of reasons) and leave you wanting… wanting? No. Needing more! – Terrie Leigh Relf

As Reviewed in Twiggs Poetry Magazine, April 2005 Issue
Greg Gerding accesses a generation raised on crude language and a decaying society and reveals that beneath the anger, angst, and false machismo there is something human. He sees and reflects a gritty world, a realistic world, and yet dreams of, and through implication, lives for, a perfect world. Gerding has produced a book for the times, a book for this generation, but also a book for anyone who enjoys brutal truth in a deliciously chocolate shell of dark humor. The laughs and the insights are about equal, coming much of the time together. – Alan Gilbert

Selections from The Burning Album of Lame

Kiss Therapy

Kiss Therapy

Skeletons in the cage,
we are all born into this jail.

Our births are squeezed through small holes,
and it is in this vast space that we grow old. (imprisoned.)

Wow! The kiss was really nice.

I hugged her in her car and, as I moved away,
I moved in for a kiss and it was returned.

Her kiss was soft. Her mouth, her lips.

Funny how everything focuses on a moment.

She surprises me with kisses to my face, gentle.
Very soft and gentle.

I entertain her ear with my breath and my mouth and my tongue
while her profile thinks on my question.

The question is soon lost.

She shudders beneath.
She has now been distracted.

I don’t proclaim confidence,
I’m too smart for that.

Her hands can heal, I know they can. They’re magic.
Her hands can heal all pain.

She covers my face with her soft lip kisses. Her lips steal over
my face and my face feels sensitive to her kissings.

I return home and look in the mirror expecting to see her lipstick
kisses all over my face.

My face looks unmarked in the mirror, but, beneath the skin, the
face beneath has been transformed.

I can’t even touch my face now, it’s too sensitive.

The slightest touch from my fingers might disrupt the magic
pools of sensation her lips have stirred upon my skin.

I know that inevitable sleep will bring up dreams of swimming
effortlessly through pools of oceans.

I backstroke through the pillows of her soft lips.

The Things We Sometimes Do

The Things We Sometimes Do

It was just awful how she would kiss me. She would shove her
tongue in my mouth like we were full-on into it and it was very
unpleasant and wrong. Her entire tongue would fill my mouth
and I would try to block her assault with my teeth. Sex became
laborious and unfulfilling. I would roll off of her, empty and
dirty.

Where did the passion go? I would wonder while she tried to
shove her huge tongue in my mouth. It wasn’t even sensual,
it was like a dog trying to reach the biscuit in the back of my
throat, relentless and gross. It was devoid of feeling, caring, or
passion.

It seemed that I would feverishly fuck her just to get her away
from me. But she remained. And I died a thousand times.

I am not proud. What made me hang on so long to that death?
I felt dead in her embrace. What was I thinking? How could I
do that?

She would be on me and wouldn’t waste any time with foreplay
or kissing. I think she thought her aggression was passion. The
force of her tongue, she must have thought, was a turn-on.

She just wanted my cock inside her. She just wanted that space
to be filled. She needed it. She wanted it.

She may not have realized it, but she was fucking a corpse.

Now she knows.

An Open Letter to Lovers Past, Present, and Future

An Open Letter to Lovers Past, Present, and Future

Love made,
I parade through youth
and lay waste to feelings
like banana peelings.

How many gifts of the heart?
How many packages of the soul?
How many have I torn through and discarded like Christmas?

Too many, I should think.

Is evolution the solution?
I think, yes.

I am a revolution seed and
I must remain untamed.

I will not settle for a lesser man,
nor will I deny history less.

I have shown them the face of passion
and their skins know fingertips’ potential.

They are now free to choose, except they can’t choose me.
Or can they?

I must continue restless, their choices are theirs.

Immortality for your martyrdom?
They have no regrets.

I, on the other hand, have many.

 

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