January 2012
9 posts
I can’t talk of moonlight, moist hands, whimpering;
those days are behind me. Now Lazarus appears in every poem
which is nothing but a dream to stop time briefly
Being a writer takes up so much time
and there is no one there to tell you
it’s right just the wrong wrong wrong
of the elders, flowers in their hair;
Baudelaire with a bouquet tucked under his left breast pocket
in the cimetière du Montparnasse.
All I have is a baguette to fill the hours
and a hand-painted bedsheet
spurning the joys of capitalism.
There is nothing beautiful now that...
Good night, you beautiful woman.
My face in the frame replaced, time does so.
Your hallway deserves something warmer.
Blue knickers on the wall, not lighting
Cats licking milk, dry tongue clicking, smooth fur like a
runway. Run away little me, little you, little I,
all the same from different perspectives. A relative
shift in perception electrifies an evening;
juleps on the porch,...
do you remember when the days were young and we, necrotic in our skins like rotten potatoes, unearthed and parted from the worms swore we’d never leave, chased windows of sun in billowing dress, cheesecloth milky as an elephants breath. Today please, a tin of tomato soup and bread to dip, a river inside of my wellington boots.
we pick eagerly though sticks of liquorice
wishing we knew such delicate design
as the nose of a beautiful boy.
had i known or you known that we would be here
now, in the now
watching carefully each other’s face
incase at any moment mine might disappear,
worth less than gold to the roots of the cinnamon tree.
your face is a hole in the sky
your face is a tear in the fabric of...
He is in the corner wearing a ridiculous hat
We all rushed out to buy painted shirts, galoshes, skirts embellished with tropical fish.
The telephone wires in Haiti still swing though it must be windless now. My face warms the earth like Montana. May it be cooled in the pond outside? Kissing fishes cooly. Fringes part like seas after a few dry martinis and then the lady of the house starts...
Bluets, no. 72; loneliness is solitude with a problem (she is chewing at the corners of papers peeling from my walls). I sat for Schiele as a child in a striped skirt on an upturned crate. He took me to a deserted bakery on the East side of town; gold light fell through the dusty windows and I sparkled amongst sacks of flour and satin rats. The red velvet cake case like a flattened tulip on the...
On the Plain of Aleion
And though his hair is godly
the oracle has spoken in
trickling prose; the eunuch
is crying on the porch because his horse fled
leaving only the golden bridle behind.
It lays on the grass like a lion.
I survey this sentimental scene from above,
wearied by the state of things; The crocus’
did not bloom this year (and why?)
Acid rain is eroding the...
Are you working today on the silver fox farm? Hoteliers revolt! Your eyes are oppressive like Sunday on which light never shines. I lie, mostly, amidst cushions and cats, caressing hard spines, soft sighs, confession: even soy milk can sour! I am every concubine. A shard of glass on fire. Douse me in sand from an overflowing ashtray; I deserve no less than the stench of smoke on Sunday.
October 2011
6 posts
1 tag
June 2011
15 posts
2 tags
2 tags
