Clark Davis Hitchens

Clark Davis Hitchens Aug 2018

Venom

A Reading from the Book of Puppets

Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say

Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity

the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?

And when she’s not there
I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile

why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to

Why? Because at the end of the day

your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams

You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life

a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul

cdh

Clark Davis Hitchens Aug 2018

Sisyphus at the Ready

Prologue: He wrote her a poem
With the weight of a love letter
Her wrote her one hundred more
Just to know she was truth

I want to budget
my words
To strangle the
syllables
To pin down the point
To lock into you

so now I am
Sisyphus ready
my hands on the boulder
so steady the blood from the dig in my shoulder

I lock my eyes on the sun
to find a find a place on the grip
but
would take the weight of the world
for a
taste of your lip

**** it
I’m
ready to serve
only
you

so
how do I
coldly
crack ribs
in a caged heart of strife?
without stealing
the lungs
of the one who breathes life?

I meet you often in my late hours morose
meditating on mad dreams
Your cockiness verbose
just give me the word
I’ll do as you please
you can file your nails
as my tongue splits your knees

(Bukowski) Banging (******* skeleton keys) a sentence assassin
killing paragraphs (open essays diminished)
as the typewriter talks till it laughs (in tatters+finished)
screaming
”take me through door after door!!!”

Always seeking
the right words,
From love’s lexiconic relief,
the sentence that shatters,
so don’t run on the dream
it’s punctuation that matters
the period that finally
bores into you.

Clark Davis Hitchens Jul 2018

Finger Tip Confessional

Usurpation of a universe unwound,
        see our past, see now a passion,
see those seasons
in reverse,

pause now at our first gilded glance,
see the story told by slow motion segue the silent gaze of sacred smiles

forward now
for pillow bites and midnight
saliva, arched back muffled *******,
don't let your man hear that
sound:::

every day we would crucify “the self” on a carnal cross of
butterfly stomachs
and magic morning messages

now we long for a time
of
steamed windows, pressed handprints, prologued by the type of arcane lust confessionals that saturate the seams of ******* till the cotton thread
sees through

she still had nervous eyes when her finger tips said
   "again"

A slight rework of something old