"foreskins" poems - Hello Poetry

a memory yes but after yes atomic foreskins pink and fresh yes but no no dream rocoque no krupp haloes no religious artifacts made of lampshade skin beneath a million kilowatt moon no anticipating geometry the smell of soap nor calling into question human sexuality without flesh nor the vibration of blood that angry lobe hammering overhead that echo bite again and again clenched no teeth no Hiroshima no again again black graveyard womb milk-glass lit bandaged echo **** him **** them familiar bell music **** them all (with)

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Pablo Picasso

christ in the desert no.45

a memory yes but after yes atomic foreskins pink and fresh yes but no no dream rocoque no krupp haloes no religious artifacts made of lampshade skin beneath a million kilowatt moon no anticipating geometry the smell of soap nor calling into question human sexuality without flesh nor the vibration of blood that angry lobe hammering overhead that echo bite again and again clenched no teeth no Hiroshima no again again black graveyard womb milk-glass lit bandaged echo **** him **** them familiar bell music **** them all (with)

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poor buick good dog we’re almost done bad moon bellyful of big dumb blond last line i want uh a memory yes before yes atomic foreskins pink & fresh yes hunger for the womb **** **** **** *** junk food ****** with a walkman playing schumann to dilate woman oranges have more delicacy oranges orages oral fruit caught in the act the memory here it is a certain man crippled since birth caught in the act *** without hands his only defense: today today is only the beginning this is only the beginning a sick man’s argument okay last line while in the street already leaves are falling

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Pablo Picasso

the stenographer’s notebook no.2

poor buick good dog we’re almost done bad moon bellyful of big dumb blond last line i want uh a memory yes before yes atomic foreskins pink & fresh yes hunger for the womb **** **** **** *** junk food ****** with a walkman playing schumann to dilate woman oranges have more delicacy oranges orages oral fruit caught in the act the memory here it is a certain man crippled since birth caught in the act *** without hands his only defense: today today is only the beginning this is only the beginning a sick man’s argument okay last line while in the street already leaves are falling

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It had been raining for ten years— just after our vows too, when the life of the party shouted “Drop dead.” What aplomb! All those faithless Springs suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment counting for nothing. Oh horrors of enchantment, beauty of truculence. You can always depend upon the hostility of lovers But we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus, eyes averted, move en pointe past the confessional’s lurid glow, that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary! As if our holy yawns don’t prove we’re simply riddled with purity and will float softly, silently as the dreams of the inconsolable rhinoceri, pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls, sure as Adam’s apple pie, straight to heaven. The angels’ impatience says we’ve all prayed for too little and they can’t wait to scold us. God’s redecorating. He wants all his darlings back. Oh Frank. Have you missed us terribly, whom you never met? I picture your daily grand jeté over the sun, knowing the moon never tires of loving you. I long to change costumes and visit. Let’s see. Blandishments, pitchforks, foreskins. Well! But then Edward told me you had the longest he’d ever seen. My mother loved me so I got to keep mine, ensuring that there I would always be a goy. Just knowing that I’ve kissed lips that once kissed yours—but enough. Discretion is the better part of careerism. Now there is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.

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Feb 1, 2015

Feb 1, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC

steve-turtell

Letter to Frank O'Hara

It had been raining for ten years— just after our vows too, when the life of the party shouted “Drop dead.” What aplomb! All those faithless Springs suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment counting for nothing. Oh horrors of enchantment, beauty of truculence. You can always depend upon the hostility of lovers But we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus, eyes averted, move en pointe past the confessional’s lurid glow, that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary! As if our holy yawns don’t prove we’re simply riddled with purity and will float softly, silently as the dreams of the inconsolable rhinoceri, pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls, sure as Adam’s apple pie, straight to heaven. The angels’ impatience says we’ve all prayed for too little and they can’t wait to scold us. God’s redecorating. He wants all his darlings back. Oh Frank. Have you missed us terribly, whom you never met? I picture your daily grand jeté over the sun, knowing the moon never tires of loving you. I long to change costumes and visit. Let’s see. Blandishments, pitchforks, foreskins. Well! But then Edward told me you had the longest he’d ever seen. My mother loved me so I got to keep mine, ensuring that there I would always be a goy. Just knowing that I’ve kissed lips that once kissed yours—but enough. Discretion is the better part of careerism. Now there is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.

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