Eric C. Harrison



closer to the bottom
of the bottle
where the pain returns
the amber stop sign
up ahead
sending psychic stabs

windows cutting
through the surface
allowing ugly forward views
of pain to be
and pain that was
buried for protection

somehow nurtured
under soil
rooted, growing
spreading fast
ivy nagging
strangled soul
return to normal
never easy

shivering body
feeling drained
in sunlight's ugly
ears and eyes
its vampire victims
as dead sensations
blast to dust

emotions strung out
on the rack
flatlined daydreams
on the gurney
wheeled into the morgue
my self
if ever such a thing existed



piano roller
whips it out
in love with madness
fingers run
like a hungry pack of wild dogs

the flow
of a night's howling
calls the songs of forever
left by undead composers

remembered back to life
they haunt the world of recordings
spirits in old houses of vinyl
ghosts donning sheets of music

sleight of hand
plays on death
song writers live on
through old echoes
reaching across the ages
maintaining their presence
standing their jams

quick shots tossed back
burn good
slow drags of smoke
accompanying vibrations
put life in the air

grand teeth
struck together
one player - one piece
rapping with the thickness
of a whole damned band

strumming keys
that open bigger doors
with the gentle touch
of a thief stealing
in and out of minds

pounding rides
up, down, in and out of
tunes scale soundscapes
of the musical world
dancing on its axis
a stellar hop
in unknown tempos
delivered through
timing of time itself

ivory earpaintings
rearing souls
to caress
the most true voice
of all language
will speak forever



colored weave
can catch your eye
blending dream worlds
with the stitch
within the pattern flowing
a hidden secret hypnotist

a stinging bee, a spider bite
mosquito buzzing
in your ear
something painful from the dark
intensifying tortured tears

it started just like any other day i suppose
but something about it rang differently
there was a tainted bit
to the whole of reality

the sunrise itself seemed exceptionally odd
not quite as resilient as usual
standing out more because of it
funny how absence sometimes makes things work in reverse like that ain't it?

a bit of dishonesty and guilt...
redemption attempted
not found.
accomplishments taken
completed one half

red head haunting me once more
in her newest walk
summer dress and scarlet locks
against flat cerulean sky
songs sculpt lust
in stroking tones
to the shape
of craving wants
that fall in tears
and run through nerves
while rising with my cock

they tell me that's obsessive
but i don't really listen
i almost argue the point
when overall i think they're right
i know that they only know because
they are the same
in their own ways

remaining lost in
beauty penetrating
like no other
without seeing at all
i feel
the softness of her feet
as she walks across my back
this soul left
humbled before her

cries reach
stars shining overhead
in the blue light
off the snow
a magic kingdom for
a short while before
becoming fleeting sparks
when none have set foot here
we link freely
in this untouched spectral airspace.

glowing, i pass into
idiopathic patterns
finding myself
caught in the stream again
last minute maps drawn through recollection
lead somewhere along the line
lost again, seeing too late
i must have messed up
because sometimes i don't know
how i got here
where i am
or how i'm going to get back
to wherever it is that i was

cross tundra tonight.
lay down in the shadows now
get yourself some rest
some reasoning
some remembering
set courses in time and space
relevance irrelevant

no fear here
let me have it


THE PEOPLE IN ROOM TWELVE (current events)

magnetic television
full of
exploding deserts

third world
parking lots
to be
falling bombs

newsprint war
rises up under
media lords
drafting their own
cable regimes
sideline soldiers
wielding cameras

new mad shutterbug
between shots
struggles with death
to win
the purple lens
nobel peace price
brass balls award

it all
serves to turn
my stomach
i run
to the nowhere
there is to go
inside of me

finding that
being cluttered

something said "leave"
The sign up ahead of me read NO VACANCY and then died out when a nearby transformer was struck by lightning. Two people in room twelve were heard fucking by everyone within a five mile radius. Apparently "Donna" really likes to yell to God about how hard she likes what she likes and where she likes it put...

Everyone else who was awake that night called the cable company to complain that they had nothing to do.



She makes it hard

to enjoy sex

fuck her.

click for larger view

the writer
"the writer"

oil on canvas


watercolor, pen and ink

Miserably ever after...
"Miserably ever after..."

oil on canvas
previously used as the cover of an album
of the same title by the doom band Grief.


Eric Harrison is a chain smoker who likes to fish and who takes his artwork very seriously. He strives to capture his vision by choosing the right media to express each thought or perception. The bulk of his creative work is that of a moody musician, painter, illustrator and poet. Much of what he does represents misanthropic depression and the darker, uglier aspects of the human psyche as well as the delusions that preoccupy his excessively paranoid mind. Some of his music, song lyrics and visual arts appear on CD's produced by his own and several other underground bands. Many of which have been sold and distributed worldwide. His most recent written work appears in The Rockzillaworld Americana Poetry Cosortium and the Third Lung Review Issue #32. When he isn't "being an artist" (and quite often when he is) Eric spends time alone or with his dog and is usually found brooding over paranoid theories or wandering the woods and salt marsh near his home in Lynn, Ma.


• Rockzillaworld-Americana Poetry Consortium
• third lung review - poetry
• Art Conspiracy art/poetry

grafitti messageboard

email | to forum | BACK
© 1998-2003 Eric C. Harrison / - all rights reserved
[ TOP ]