He sticks to her body,
pulls his weight to her, in his body,
He’s tense inside her. He sticks to her.
Yet she never laid an eye on me ever.
Her place is in a peep show
Where she’d enjoy the sight
alone without stakes.
When I was beautiful with hate and around-around / When
I was beautiful with hate and the implanted heart of the Snowqueen and I still
wasn't absolutely his / When I was beautiful with joy and around-around
To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder
He tries to come, in vain.
He jerks me off
as if I were a tired
personal object. I imagine
the rest.
Then came the odors.
The badly installed roots.
As corpus delicti.
On the operating-table.
Wandering tired lady aristocrats
Baronesses choked by their own shrivelled hair
Mannerism rococo Art Nouveau Baroque
Gothic laceneck serieses. Nothing but foolish
Young ladies.
Should I presume mine inside it?
Or does it reflect its soul onto me?
Can it be otherwise? Who knows.
She seemed fidgety
they said
when she was first revivified.
Did she want that I wonder.
Act natural. Thrift shop for used clothes
by the pound. The colored smell
of poverty is leading the way
How many women!
How much time you’ve been given.
How many borrowed charms have been shattered around.
All we’d need is such a power in the hands of a compulsive
narcissistic megalomaniac who worships himself
knowing he’s not good enough, so he must
distract himself by rejecting even the thought
of right and wrong, forcing the world to comply
As I dip my mind in paint and write
a colourful and creative muse
visits my canvas to illuminate
it like a starry starry night
The figure announced
That he was the spirit
Of Jack Daniels
And had a message
For Sam Adams.
Was it even plausible to think
with that figure and that face,
Marilyn Monroe could succeed
in 1950 as something more
than the girl on the subway grate,
Having shortness of breath and chest pain,
I thought ‘heart attack’, but
no
only arterial heart disease,
same as killed my father
We wink at the crooks, our remnant like that
anvil we keep tossing each other, our
residue like saluting. We clutch the
banner of a warrened world whose tunnels,
unsolvable, incarcerate, swelter,
Who needs these black cloudy sheep
Who needs this clanking cease-fire
Who needs these empty sky calculations
My sky is empty with the fullness
Of this some other week’s skies
for toxic willow pageants
cascade merchants align
cranking out
their crude ultimatum
Give him a fake phone number.
Or better yet, a fictitious jealous boyfriend.
Toss out the phone number, but keep the cash.
Always get 20%
or more.
Your dream will be short,
like the smile of a pretty girl
which gives a little more hope
if you can go further.
you’d lived life beyond most norms
of social convention,
meeting the challenge of restrictive forms
though hinting at mortal rendition,
Karim Wasfi,
the renowned conductor
of the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra,
takes his cello to the sites
of some of the Baghdad’s
most violent acts
and plays.
A female delinquent spoke. She described how her male beast was a cock artist. “It lives inside my brain. A Twisted thing, it tells me its secrets – dirty and unclad it hides behind objects and silences. It satiates victims for amusement.”
preceptors of sheltered cause
and promised libations
plexities aroused
of a yearning to bother.
in a state of des(re)pair our crawling forward blindly to nowhere
at a tipping point too often chalk outlined Vitruvian-
splayed post-
mortem on an urban city street made to feel the press of hot asphalt
up and down the street,
some pay with a bruise on the face,
a blackening of the eye,
a few just hide
from the fake storm
angry, fierce
with pockets full of bullets
and cyanide capsules.
There were just not enough
of either.
Myself and the rose. My body a light-bender; you reach me through photosynthesis. Rootedness, tongue in my mouth, a reminder:
"another transaction" rolled
under other
a hand severed "that’s a"
garage (the)
door opened then closed
Our silence bangs against the heater.
He draws the blinds partly closed,
says he longs to bring Jerusalem here,
heart of his, held captive when
they banished him, forbade return.
grossly negligent armies
swept through the brain/cellophane
like shallow individualism
of fashion
but a good foamy piss ascends lung bursting mucus, but a small roll of snot ascends earwax, and so mucus is caught between not forefinger and thumb but piss and earwax and the more you produce the better for all manifest life.
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