THE LAST CIGARETTE BY R.M. ENGELHARDT – Page 3

IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS : Where Noir Meets Verse

IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS

Dark-mirrored hallways
a dim precision march
Here we have tread before
Without fear/Well measured
Pagan desires and objective
Study. Pavlov’s dog is still
Breathing, his cigarette falls
To the floor and he dances like
a manic animal. Lost in the
headlights, accidents shall
occur once more. There are
no excuses left for avatars,
no reasons left for men,
only lights in the doorways
flicker and then they slowly

===F===A===D===E

(to grey)

out.

exit.

_________________________________

N I G H T

In the dark we rarely see

Images from movies appear

Easy to remain the voyeur

As Bogart stares at Bacall.

Here, are your vampires

your child-like apparitions

Yet true monsters are by far

better dressed and elusive

who, when asked to be truthful

shall lie as they calculate your

fate, look into your eyes and say

“Don’t worry, all is well”.

There is something strange about

demons, night holds the key, we

devoured by these realities which

someone has named the truth.

And yet, who if asked would pray

for a parallel universe? Would you?

Would God do this after listening

to choirs? So uninspired

that he would need to cool off?

This is an impersonation, he is

wearing old spice, his shirt open

down to his navel. Disgusted, we

turn away from this sight, a decaying

Casanova hiding in the shadows of his youth.

As night approaches, we, much like

our old ancestors, still stare into the

fires and wonder about our lives, dream

of our own private shambalas, forget,

pass the bottle and survive.

But is this all we shall amount to?

When all we know is nothing,

Except this

____________________________________

A POEM FROM MY DESTRUCTIONS

And now alas yet another poem from my destructions,

You, witness to and here in new flesh and new skin.

The skin of hero, the skin of snake, the skin of monster, the skin of saint all gradually and eventually shedding piece by piece living and dying and reinventing the world. Poems, photographs, enemies and the catastrophes which perish into the void. Paper, undigested words, mute horses and mad nostalgic whores, all reality deficient and nocturnally deaf to the unpure beating heart of man and muse. Reason-religion-idealism-theory….and shit. The perfect and critical butt-flight of monkeys and the cacophony of idle crows who sit upon the fences of eternity passing judgment upon our souls until we give in…to emptiness. But let them all know this;

That Jesus came unabridged with two fish and a loaf of bread, more a poet than a precise carpenter and he fed multitudes….

“With hope”

____________________________________

LAST CALL

When stars fall out of the sky and
all lights fade into silence.
When you grow cold
Eyes grow old
Touch grows cold
Stars fall out of the sky

And lights still fade.

After years
After hours
After moments
That never mattered

You grow cold
Love grows cold
Eyes grow old

And love fails..falls,
Fucked up and silent
Foolish and waiting

In the corner.

When the universe mo longer
Yields to your commands

When the mirror finally breaks
And all you are left with is glass

You grow old
touch grows cold
eyes grow old

And all of the stars still
Fall out of the sky

It’s time for the last call.

_______________________________

F E E L

Back in 1994 she was the model of all French fashion, her hair slightly unclean and tied up in a Princess Leia double knot cinnamon bun. She’s always late but ahead of her time. Never shaves her underarms and on occasion, wears makeup, and even glasses. All of the time talking to me on the phone she decries America, God, country and all of the boring bland music of the Rolling Stones at once.

And from her bedroom this morning she says “I am thinking of moving to Seattle”, “There they know art!”

Yeah whatever, I reply, adjusting her very large Persian cat off my lap who always seems to sit on my nuts, crushing them as if cleverly taught. “I am moving Rob, Did you hear me?”

This I something that she does to get some Pavlovian response when she’s curious about “feelings”, but I know her game and it never works. And so I answer back “You’re only 24 and all you do is listen to goth!”

The Bauhaus is turned up as her answer back as I can hear her pee in the bathroom.

She puts her stockings, black combat boots & lipstick on and pulls up her short catholic schoolgirl dress with no underwear beneath. “Oh yeah? Well you’re an old fucking jazz cadaver!”

I am told with a smile as her cat calmly watches from the windowsill like tennis.

But now its Sunday morning, almost noon and she has to go to work, and like

Dracula’s Renfield drawn to the fly its springtime in New York.

And soon, she will eventually move to Boston instead of Seattle, never knowing, never hearing the truth.

That she was all of my favorite things and that the time machine of the mind can never replace “feel”

~ R.M. ENGELHARDT

FROM “THE LAST CIGARETTE, COLLECTED POEMS”

POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE

MEMENTO

Better to feel

(Than be)

Blood rushes thru veins

And the heart beats,

Only one-day to complete its duty.

While eventually earth and gods shall all come

Crashing down

And kingdoms & civilizations fade.

And so please, I ask you only this;

That when I leave to let me take these

Few things with me,

The moon, the sun and the stars,

And the small traces of light which

Once reflected in your eyes

That I

Can no longer

See.

_________________

POEM TO PAST SELF IN FUTURE TENSE

Yours is a beauty of monsterous

proportions with the world

Spinning randomly into

Oblivion where all the leaves are all

Dying all the time off the trees,

Where misery makes its way into

Every small tissue stealing.

Yours is a world where

Beauty has fled and has left town

For greener pastures, has drowned its-

Self into the sea of angst & tears and

Has mixed its-self with alcohol &

Cigarettes, sad poems and

Indiscriminate men & women who

Already know that beauty has left

The scene,

(And they no longer care to find her)

And yet it is good that beautyhas

Finally found you and that beauty is not dead,

But was merely sleeping

On the sofa of your

Dreams.

______________

Poems By R.M. Engelhardt

From The Book “Nod. (moon, stars, sun … time)

2oo2

www.rmengelhardt.com

Get “The Last Cigarette” Collected Poems

View this document on Scribd

R.M. ENGELHARDT, THE RESURRECTION WALTZ

No More Love Poems …

No More Love Poems.

IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS

Dark-mirrored hallways a dim precision march Here we have tread before Without fear/Well measured Pagan desires and objective Study. Pavlov’s dog is still Breathing, his cigarette falls To the floor and he dances like a manic animal. Lost in the headlights, accidents shall occur once more. There are no excuses left for avatars, no reasons left for men, only lights in the doorways flicker and then they slowly

===F===A===D===E

(to grey) (to grey) (to grey) out.

“Exit”

_________________________________

N I G H T

In the dark we rarely see Images from movies appear

Easy to remain the voyeur

As Bogart stares at Bacall.

Here, are your vampires your child-like apparitions

Yet true monsters are by far better dressed and elusive who,

when asked to be truthful shall lie as they calculate your fate,

look into your eyes and say “Don’t worry, all is well”.

There is something strange about demons,

night holds the key,

we devoured by these realities which someone has named the truth.

And yet, who if asked would pray for a parallel universe?

Would you?

Would God do this after listening to choirs?

So uninspired that he would need to cool off?

This is an impersonation, he is wearing old spice, his

shirt open down to his navel.

Disgusted, we turn away from this sight, a decaying

Casanova hiding in the shadows of his youth.

As night approaches, we, much like our old ancestors,

still stare into the fires and wonder about our lives,

dream of our own private shambalas,

forget, pass the bottle and survive.

But is this all we shall amount to?

When all we know is nothing,

Except this.

___________________________________________

LAST CALL

When stars fall out of the sky and all lights fade into silence.

When you grow cold Eyes grow old

Touch grows cold

Stars fall out of the sky And lights still fade.

After years After hours After moments

That never mattered

You grow cold

Love grows cold

Eyes grow old

And love fails..falls,

Fucked up and silent

Foolish and waiting In the corner.

When the universe mo longer

Yields to your commands

When the mirror finally breaks

And all you are left with is glass

You grow old touch grows cold eyes grow old

And all of the stars still

Fall out of the sky

It’s time for the last call.

_______________________________

WHAT SHE SAID

She said;

“If you ever tell me that you love me I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave.”

So not wanting to ever lose her he bent down, got close and softly whispered in her ear,

“Lust…..Lust…..Lust”

_____________________________

no more love poems no more love poems for the tainted and the dead, the wounded & the love-lorn, the fallen & the fled. no poems for Maria, no poems for Faith, no poems for Madonna, no poems for hate, no poems for Jennifer, no poems for life, no poems for the desperate, no poems for their wives. no poems for Lilith, no poems for smiles, and no poems for the goddesses who’ve fucked up my life. no poems for Jesus no poems for Christ no poems for his father no poems for Pilot. no poems for Sinatra no poems for style, no poems are in fashion no poems are worthwhile. no poems for heroes no poems for liars no poems for icons, and no poems for wine. no poems for love songs, no love songs for crimes, no saints for any sinners, no redemption through eyes. no soul in my pocket no soul in my bed, no more love poems for poets no more poetry for head. no love in the kitchen no love in the den no love in the living room and no love poems ever left in this lonely house, on the side of the road, in the backstreets or in the alleyways allover the world. no more love poems, no more and yet we still live, going on & on & on and wondering who loves and who gives and who this stupid man is who keeps writing all of these foolish love poems for “her”

THE LAST CIGARETTE, Collected Poems 1986~2006

THE LAST CIGARETTE :THE COLLECTED POEMS OF R.M. ENGELHARDT 1989~2006 (Read in Fullscreen) by R.M. Engelhardt Poet, Writer

Engelhardt Publishes His Collected Poems
_______________
MICHAEL ECK Special to the Times UnionSection: Arts-Events, Page: H1
Date: Sunday, October 29, 2006

R.M. Engelhardt wears black sunglasses in the shade. He chain-smokes Djarums until his head is wreathed in a clove-scented cloud. And, in the middle of the day, he sucks down coffee like a trucker on a midnight run.
Engelhardt, in case you haven’t already figured it out, is a poet. But he doesn’t just walk the role, he talks it, too. In fact, he’s been speaking his poetic mind in public for more than a decade, at least on occasion as the host the long-running Vox and School of Night readings series, both of which he founded, fostered and produced at local nightclubs. Engelhardt, 42, is one of the leading lights of the Albany poetry scene, and he is finally, rightfully, celebrating himself with the publication of “The Last Cigarette: The New & Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt” on his own Dead Man’s Press.
He calls the work, which includes selections previously published in journals, online magazines and in his own chapbooks, “a handbook of my life.”

Q: Why do you write poetry?
A: Why do people breathe? Why do people make music?
I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I wrote a Greek myth when I was 12 years old. We were studying Greek myths and my sixth-grade teacher freaked out. That was my first clue it was like, hmmm, I did something interesting.
When I was about 15 years old, I was a Doors fan. I liked Jim Morrison and all that. Then I read (Danny Sugerman’s Morrison biography) “No One Here Gets Out Alive” and he made references to Blake and Rimbaud and other poets. Of course, being an introverted, quiet kid, in junior high, with glasses, the whole thing, I spent my time in the library, in the corner, reading all those books.
I started writing a lot at that time. It’s just a part of life. It’s who I am.
Q: Your work has been published and you’ve performed it as well, which do you prefer, the page or the stage?
A: Actually, I’m more partial to the page. I’ve written more than just poetry. I’ve written prose pieces and things like that, which are also in the book. I like the craft of writing itself.
I do enjoy performing, but I find lately that I’m staying in more and writing, rather than going out all the time. It’s kind of crucial that you have a place where you can share your work with other people and perform your stuff and get feedback on it, but as I’m getting older I see that the form and the style in the clubs is changing, with poetry slams and poetry battles.
I’m old-school, and my style is different from what’s coming out now. You won’t see me doing any slams in the future. I’ve done them before, but it’s not for me.
Q: Why Albany?
A: I’m a sixth-generation Albanian. That’s one reason. My family’s been here since 1890.
Albany is where I grew up. It’s a part of me. A lot of people I know have died here. Their memories are here. It’s my city. It’s my town. Albany is it. I’ll probably live here the rest of my life.
Since I was a kid, Poe has been one of those influences that’s been inescapable. His work, his stories, they’re phenomenal. He had an imagination like you wouldn’t believe. At the same time I wouldn’t want to end up in his shoes. He died alone, and nobody wants to die alone.
Q: What do words mean to you?
A: Words are powerful. Words make a difference. They can create and destroy. They can open doors and close doors. Words can create illusion or magic, love or destruction. … All those things.

Michael Eck, a freelance writer from Albany, is a frequent contributor to the Times Union.

IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS

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