A single touch, and you would know
me with your skin. Moving half
a step back, awareness slid across
you like a river, a floating crown of
black rope to wound. Starlings tune
turned inside my head, so sweetly
inching downward around the throat’s
undersides, kicked up bourbon
from my tumbler quarter full, cruel
to my tongue that had tasted you
a thousand perfect times. Skin alive,
my love you invented smitten,
where I spiced with the telling blood
of you, fixed to be the fjords of
viola on your fingers, wrung and
felled to where we started through air.
all you have
is space and fixation
compounded with isolation
furthering sexual desolation
giving rise to savage and unyielding frustration
even in the most primal and immediate form of fulfillment
can mean many things
without ever getting anywhere
could be prose or statement of momentary inspiration
funny how with time and insomnia…
set on edge by rapid stomping, trampling
above, near midnight
and the howling retard mother
causes her child to weep
so she may be entertained
tired in despair
vessel on high alert
push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups
berries and hopefully shit
before the bus arrives
A time to sleep peacefully when the weeds
in the nearby towns have reached the
fringes of the sun, a time to
when all the birds in the woods have been lost in the foliage
to compose a lullaby for the
when all the prairie dogs have been lost underground
for the first hangwoman in the world long dead
when all the waves in the nearby oceans have been counted
Run your fingers
through the depth of my soul.
be strong, like a sprig of oak
swaying in the wind of a tempest.
For once, just once, I beg of you,
feel exactly what I feel,
believe as I, of what is truth,
perceive, what your eyes see,
for I perceive what is before you.
Taste the long tracks of tears
examine and for once, just once,
understand what life screams into
your mind, emblazons in your eyes,
whispers softly to your beating heart.
Just imagine, as it may be all that’s left.
*Excoriate: first appeared in English in the 15th century, comes from “Excoriatus,” the past participle of the Late Latin verb ‘excoriare’, meaning, “to strip off the hide.”
Squirrels piling their stock up. Jamming
acorns into cracks. A noisy little
assembly. Tap. For the love of…
Or water breaking against
a yawning leaf. Veining its dome,
countering the deluge.
Detuned drum assailing silence,
chopped by quiet. My ears
function to spite me.
A robotic high heel. Pencil
on a steering wheel. Dashboard
orders the downbeat, a padded
Cash registers with taped bells,
ringers gauzed, leaning toward the metal
feebly declare, “no sale. no sale.”
Vermin crossing borders, switching
yards under streetlights. Fence-knocking
skulls, befriending the future, divorcing
last time, last night.
Some sort of wren? Organize yourself
down and away, bird. Your string nested,
your eggs beating against aluminum in fragile,
yoking pulses. Your wing a conductor’s
bone, feathered and gaveling
the maestro’s pit to stillness.
Ummothered child, cease and be dead.
Half-sucked lolli thocking your glass eye,
remainder of your house. Hunger North!
Or here and never out loud.
Gargoyle weeping gems.
Stone tears on your lover’s wings.
is as much clock
as it is knuckles rubbing eyes.
It’s shuffling in the bathroom
and insistent ticking,
footsteps trudging down stairs
a step or two behind time
and that the rattle of cups,
the hiss of a kettle,
sipping of coffee,
all in aid of the realization
that the hour is uppermost.
By the time
corn flakes are quickly shoveled down
an unsuspecting throat,
a watch face is unnecessary.
A supervisor’s face
has taken over.
The scrub of teeth,
that rifling of the drawer
for clean underwear,
are conducted under
an increasingly impatient eye.
You’re running behind the day
and the day trails
the moment you’re expected
to show up at the office.
Hurried dressing and frazzled commute
live in fear of the whip of duty
that cracks a bare millimeter
from the back of your head.
You make it by the whisker
your razor never quite got to.
Okay. I’m yours now
you whisper to a large loud room
that’s crawling with cubicles.
But it’s had you since
you left work yesterday.
He doesn’t stop all that shaking
until halfway through his second drink.
Smiles and starts singing
on his third (This is the annoying phase).
Then suddenly begins weeping
in utter despair on his fourth.
It’s like a house of cards
toppling in upon itself…
it’s almost perfect in its patheticness.
Until blanking out completely on his fifth.
I swear, you can set your watch to it,
it’s going to be easy, a piece of piss.
His ex-wife got shot of him
using the very same tactic.
She got a mate to strip down to her underwear
and jump on the settee with him,
whilst he was half snoring
and pleading for mercy from the Past.
He saw the photos the next day
picked up the one bag she’d packed ready,
and said “I’m sorry…
you deserve much better than me.”
then meekly left by the backdoor.
We rub the weapon over his hands,
then hide it under the cushion he’s laying on…
place a fraction of the lifted goods
around his general, stinking vicinity,
and ‘Fanny’s Yer Aunt’
he’s in The Dock afore Christmas Time.