Author Archives: babylon crashing

SLICE BONE CRAZY

09 Thursday Apr 2015

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She shows us how to pierce the neck, the shaft

all a quiver in the airway, the man’s

 

eyes still agog. The poor bastard who laughed,

coughed just once and then flopped forward. Her clan’s

 

riders swept through the green cornfields, now flame.

All their arrows rose up and then came down.

 

Gravity, I love you. The sort of fame

she offers in a blood-splattered nightgown

 

is not for me. Poets do not amuse

her. I’m telling this backwards. She can slice

 

bone crazy. She has the mark of Venus

in one eye. Is such violence an excuse

 

to be enamored? Don’t care if the dice

roll tens; I’ll always bet on this princess.

ALL ORANGE GLORY

09 Thursday Apr 2015

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“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell

 

After loss then the libido snaps back

sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.

 

Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,

straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs

 

soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.

What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?

 

Thorny lips … that curl up around all three

of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows

 

when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.

What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn

 

on a Thursday. After loss why this brief

horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn

 

let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,

moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.

ALL THE DEAD LITTLE THINGS

09 Thursday Apr 2015

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I love that my fear lives under my bed.

I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,

 

and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead

little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls

 

that will always be prettier than me.

Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw

 

of one Milady de Winter. What she

did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw

 

at me aren’t what you think. The Internet

where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is

 

ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit

here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,

 

you might become mine, I might become his.

Strange how just a floor can become a pit.

danube

08 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Just say, “scummy waves;” that’s the sort of kiss
I want. Something so foul that it sucks down

seagulls in its wake. There’s a dead princess
who claims she’s a Czarina. Her pocked gown

looks a tad Orthodox. We made out, once,
though it felt like deep-throating an ice cube.

That cold got everywhere. There’s a science
to it, like when I swam in the Danube;

something pulled both my legs wide. I could feel
each wave lapping. Everything should lap, dog.

And the puckering … and the — tie my tubes,
lip gloss. If you want this, make it surreal.

Like the dead who kiss since they’re only fog,
or the living with fondness for ice cubes.