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Waverly Aug 2012
There is a
home
someplace
for you, peopled
by the niceties
of a lot of time.

You don't have to fear,
this is heaven,
we are gold there.

Don't tumble
in your covers.

Sleep, child,
there is dessert
in your dreams,
and you can tangle with the spider-women
later.

But,
mother goose,
I do.

I do tangle with them,
their loving arms
embrace me,
and their mandibles make my flesh scream.

I hope I dream a dream
so beautiful
that it destroys earth,
and god,
and heaven,
and you.

I hope the spider-women
come to you at night,
lowering themselves into your bed,
and whisper into your head:
"this is nothing,
this poison shall pass too,
in heaven,
you will be free."

as they say lastly,
"I am your saviour,"
while sinking their fangs baring sleep
into your soft neck.
Waverly Aug 2012
A whittled will
exiled from the cave-mouth.

A half-hearted goodbye,
a full throat
full of sorrow.

A doe
hiding her fawns
in the suburbs.

The sadness that I feel,
is a sadness bereft of refuge.
Waverly Aug 2012
Do you love him more than me?
Is there something beautiful and indistinct
In him?

Can you bow like never  before,
A prayer of spine?

Do you kiss him like an angel,
And dole out your lips to the stupid others?

Does ignorance call your name,
And hope drive the nail?

When I see her again,
She hugs me casually,
And the smell of her hair
Is an ink,
On my wife-beater.
It soils, and oils
And stains.

Beneath the darkness of her car,
The shadows become loam,
And in the cabin she squeezes out a waving hand,
By the time she pulls away
I am working hard
not to pound her hood,
And demand a return trip
To the factory of my heart,
Where she could be a foreman
And wish things of me all day,
Working a hot sheet of my skin
Into a pliable mass,
And the body of my sins
Into the image of God,
So much so,
That the mere dream of that forge would make her stop
Her car
In the middle of the street,
Hop out,
And walk up to me, repeating a sentence in this gist:
She doesn’t know anything anymore,
Not even how she feels about him.

Make me that God of your
Life
Once more,
Deliver me from evil
And the hands of wickedness that render my soul.

I must be a God in your midst,
a love of the mist.

I know my sins,
I only call you when I'm drunk,
hollering your name
in hurtful epithets.
Waverly Aug 2012
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.

I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.

He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.

But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.

She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.

Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.

Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.

The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.

We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.

So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.

The genie calls us falsifiers.

The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."

She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.

The genie left a few weeks later.
Waverly Aug 2012
A fortified wall is nothing against a surfing barracuda
during a bad dream full of bad intentions:

Wave-action makes you look drunk,
stumbling in the water, lazy as a jellyfish carcass on shore I stare at you.

I am with that girl
the one in the silvery bikini
and wet hair,
fanning on her clumsy shoulders in thin strands.

I'll be with her till the end. I'll make this stand. This stand against the wave coming in.

Turning around in the barrel of a wave,
you wave me in with you;
smiling up to your incisors. How cleanly
you are able to bite off chunks of meat.

The wave womps the **** out of you.

Thunder is under there, thunder
of waves, lightning of jellyfish,
brutalized clams,
hard-pressed sand,
all confused in the barrel of betrayal that is the wave,
while the wave yawns and grins.

Nothing can stand the wave,
I hope you ******* drown in there;
I hope that others just like you,
eat you,
that you become seafood.
Inspired by Bernadette - "Floating"
Waverly Aug 2012
The throne of a metropolis is on the far side
atop the lake
that wrinkles the sun,
beneath a mountain
green with sickled pines;


The people use their boughs as scythes.

The people use trees to cut down
more and more,
and burn whatever's too pesky
to stick around.

In a backyard of a house in the suburbs
people get bored playing cards,
watching tv,
getting drunk in the evenings.

They party like pagans going crazy
over a peerless future,
and an impermanent past.

Sometimes a new bonfire is started
where the old one died,
sometimes the old one will flare up
and scorch the sky beautiful;
a smoky curtain on which the tongues of stars
can make good on all the promises
made on them.

And people kiss around the fire.
Hug,
make up,
joke.

The sealed souls of the people open.

At the end,
they regret it.
This newness of life.

They swing their wooden scythes at the night,
still furry and wet
with bark and sap,
cursing god in fury, fury, fury,
trying to cut down the stars too.

These people that take and destroy,
they whittled the throne of the Metropolis
out of ivory from Africa.
Waverly Aug 2012
Night twinkles,
winks,
with cross-dressing jets.

I catch a thousand spider-webs,
until I'm home. Caught up
with all this silk, tickling my arms
it's a trap.

I've never had
more than I've had, a share of
love that loses money every day
is the only investment I've made,
and I'm poor in her hands.

My caretaker
might be meeting the undertaker
soon, the gingersnaps baked
until they burned, but she served them
anyways, and she made me feel good,
because she was as heavy and reassuring
as an indigo-less night,
she was my black night.

But I'm seduced in the night,
caught up,
held down
force-fed debt,
and reassured.

A night is heavyness.

A night is a ceiling,
in whichever way you think of ceilings:
either in your home,
your job,
or your love.
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