"The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
"When he looked the cave in the eye,
Had a moment of doubt."
Leaning out over
The dreadful precipice,
One contemptuous tree."
This ceiling that I keep staring at
Has a sickly charm to it
And my words are infested with
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.
I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays
I don't know about your convolutions
Neither you do about mine
But we came this far, we did
We conquered, we lost, we forgot
While reading Frankenstein
I built you in the snow, I drew you in the sand
We saw construction and destruction
Walk together, hand in hand
You think the wind moves on when it blows?
But when love blows and dies, where does it go?
Does it emulsify in my heart again?
I wouldn't ever know
Why not be grateful for this evolution?
For it brings just another poetic revolution
And you know you don't have to
Compliment my ****** poetry anymore
Or my face that has vaccine scars
Or my hair with split ends
For we are split too now, like two dead stars
Things that make me sad: permeable curtains
The rusted hooks on my fairly old Brassiere, hair fall
Not using conditioner, slowly losing it all
— The End —