Tag: Nick Cave

He’s a ghost, a holy godlike guru

Like a preacher 
mad with a microphone
on stage black dressed
unbuttoned cross hangs
chained to his open chest.
Cave’s his name—
through his dark accent
you feel his plight.
With every chord,
the riffs he plays—
the crowd ignites.
He stands like a God
in this house, auditorium,
arena from Jubilee Street
to Tupelo. His British band
plays so loud they can hear
from the clouds all the way
to heaven. Even Methostopolies
loves to feel the burning fury
of his Southern refrains. 
With Cave’s Northern soles 
he prances and romances 
while towering over his disciples
owning this stage; 
when his voice rises—
raging poetry, bible verses
he spits out grooves of insanity
from her to eternity
some of his stanzas 
will save your sins
with the rhymes, epic anthem 
odes to Johnny Cash.
This son of an English professor
pens songs like sonnets, so sinfully
sweet, dedicated for the drowning
and defeated Cave will Nick
your scars as his guitar bleeds.
When you see him live
applause from his electric pulpit
and always scream. Lovers
addicts, tattooed outcasts
heed his choruses, spotlight
untamed. Mad like a preacher
Cave faith has him dropping needles
on vinyl skin, instead of veins. 
Let Nick’s sermons and hymns 
send you inside the skies 
his church is at night
for the price of a ticket
more than a show 
before leaving
all you disbelievers 
definitely will understand—
as this singer extols
spinning reprieves
of his holiest refrains;
as each riff resounds
you can feel Nick’s soul
was saved by the beats as
each night Cave rolls his
tongue with the confessional 
kiss of rock and roll. 

Nick Cave's Spotlight Craving

From a photograph by Ted Grudowsky

He sat at the piano, fingers
touching black and white
keys, matching his tuxedo
colored suit, dark tie and   
an alabaster shirt stained
with sprinkling sweat.
The singer put an Australian
Dunhill cigarette, letting it
dangle in his mouth. After 
playing a few notes, 
he stopped, looking for 
a match under the spotlight,
but there was nothing but
baggage claims, loose leaf
lyrics he scribbled in limo
on the way to the show. 
As the singer fumbled,
in the front row, my balding
friend got up and hurried to the
side of the stage. Taking out his 
antique silver lighter from his 
torn blue jean pocket, Martyn 
in his faded blue Leonard Cohen
t-shirt, reached up from 
seats and magically lit King 
Ink’s ciggy—Cave winked 
and mumbled Thanks mate! 
Looking back down, towards
the keys, the singer grinned 
eyes closed, beginning 
the notes to “And No More
Shall We Part” he exhaled 
smoke— savoring the nicotine 
on his lips, the music echoed 
reigniting the quiet the halls;
as the singer played, we all sat 
mesmerized, watching Nick Cave’s 
fingers becoming entranced again.


Why Fear Her Tears?

Why are all the women weeping?
…They are weeping back at them
—	Nick Cave

Every night I hear La Llorona
grieving outside la Ventana, 
I no longer close the blinds
or cover quivering under
How to sleep, how to sleep
Instead, I take in the chorus 
of her lamenting wails, 
and then una mañana
desperté to find her weeping
like a song spinning on 
an endless vinyl trying to find 
a place where her cries can no 
longer feel dethroned. Cada 
noche, I rise from bed and stroll 
descalso barefoot to la concina, 
reach up for a bowl in la alcana 
cupboard and bring it back 
to my bedroom, leaving it
under my cama mattress,
so, when I hear La Llorona 
weeping, I make sure the bowl 
is empty, if it’s full I pour 
out the pain into an empty
botella, corking each one, 
And when the wind does 
howl and cuando el viento
sopla, bottling every sob, 
I always save for her, keeping 
Them safe as she leaves me
the sweetest of invisible beso 
where her rosas grow wild
kisses on the floor. She knows
I am no longer afraid each night 
I feel her medianoche refrain…
as I quidado carry, trying not
to spill nor leave any trembling
tracks, protecting every huella 
drop of her lagrima tears. 
 
Don Quixote Driving His Truck

Navigating their way 
on N. Buena Vista Ave 
to Hollywood Airport, 
Burbank, CA…with 
Sancho Panza in 
the passenger seat,
using his iPhone, Don
keeps waxing quixotic
about directions, which
way they should turn. 
Wishing he was still 
on his horse, doesn’t 
like how the truck tries
to swerve onto oncoming 
traffic, Listening to Ghosteen
while scratching every
Nick and scar on his chin
following his inner Cave
imagination, picturing 
bright horses, unholy Jubilee
street corner spirits standing in  
front of the Jesus graffiti on 
the Hollywood sign, Don
loves pushing the sky away
past the skeleton tree, 
as another airliner lifts 
off above them, Sancho 
says go ahead, let’s take 
the fork and see where 
the road leads us towards
our latest mapquest, seeing
the fringy lunatic gaze on
Quixote’s wandering eye,
Don pushes down on 
the pedal like he’s galloping
on his favorite caballo, Yes, 
derecho, my friend, no longer 
lost, with the windows rolled 
down, the maniacal driver roars 
it is time we become legends again. 


Before I Turn Into Gold Online Anthology: 4 poem showcase by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda


A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

Bio: Adrian Ernesto is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing. 

His poetry has been featured in Harvard Palabritas, Glass Poetry: Poets Resist, Cultural Weekly, Yes, Poetry, Frontier Poetry, The Fem, poeticdiversity, Rigorous, Luna Luna Magazine, The Wild Word, The Revolution Relaunch and Palette Poetry. 

Adrian lives with his wife and their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold in Los Angeles.

“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.”
― Sigmund Freud