raindrops dripping from the eaves your lover pulls out
10 Friday Apr 2015
Category Archives: Poetry
STARTLED MOUTH
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
all blur, bipolar, curry on my tongue, flashcube, poem, retro-cool, sonnet, spork, startled mouth, tube socks, vindaloo
At the gym the boy in the stall next to
me has, “bipolar,” “lovers,” “medicine”
tattooed here and there. I’ve got vindaloo,
rice and curry on my tongue. There’s cotton
balls in my pocket, band-aids, a thing – spork?
Something that’s neither fork nor spoon, and yet
I can’t throw away. I’ve got stains, all cork
and basque, under my eyes. With comb I wet
my hair, smear the steamy mirror. My tube
socks are pulled to my knees. My gym shorts tight.
Bazooka Joe gum in one cheek. My words
might mean shame or pride. Startled, the flashcube
on your camera goes off. I hate that light,
that shows me exposed, my startled mouth blurred.
WHAT WILL BE LEFT
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
betta fighting fish, interloper, ouija, poem, Poetry, Rumi’s love dog’s bark, slack sinew, sonnet, what will be left, Yahweh’s pact
Let all the lovers be consumed into
intimacies. Let the interlopers
play with robbed muscles and slack sinew.
Let the sea give me all its pink corals,
betta fighting fish. I, too, am beta.
The slack sub-boy who has what hunger wants.
I, too, have played with a cardboard ouija;
listened to love’s whine, its nails-on-board haunts.
I’ve let the outlaws in, they’re so certain
that the fuck that they give is the right one.
There’s more plastic in the ocean than sharks;
that is what will be left to our children.
And words. And poems. About Hope’s garden.
And Yahweh’s pact. And Rumi’s love dog’s bark.
by perks
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
laughing with chunks of life
stuck in my hair – “just another
midtown addict,” by perks
WHOMEVER
10 Friday Apr 2015
Pat the bunny, the shadows
are long, sometimes I can’t
always find whomever I’m
looking for. Or whoever. I get
those mixed up. See, you
were an aunt to me. Though
I come from a different womb,
different time, different world,
all that you praised is still here,
like this child that you helped
raised though you didn’t know
it. Come, feel daddy’s scratchy face.
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
even in my dreams
trickster gods are the best fucks
rabbit kicks the moon
SPOOKY BIRD
10 Friday Apr 2015
“Kafé, kasita non kafela et publia filii omnibus suis” — an invocation to allow one to enter someone’s dreams.
Dreams are coming to
the heel just outside,
the shadow in my sly-boot
box says so. This, too, is
a love poem and like all
brief solutions is already
fading. Meanwhile go
nowhere, do nothing.
Every motion wasted.
Finger this hole. On my
lips a sticky residue: jizz,
junk, slicked back hair.
Fleshpot vespers. Spooky
bird. I will enter your dream.
ONE WHO CRACKLES
10 Friday Apr 2015
Tags
Doc Martins, dry ice, gurgle, mohawks, one who crackles, pale like bone, poem, sonnet, witch
Right at the down stroke, with all your weight thrown
behind the blade, my arms raised to avert
the stroke, there’s a quick blur, pale like bone,
from two small fists, and the front of your shirt
(awkward) implodes. “Witch!” you gurgle; the way
schoolyard bullies splutter when at last laid
low. We love our movies about gun-play
but the thought that a girl could dodge a blade
or punch a hole through ribs is called bollocks.
Physics baffles us. My rain-reddened fists
unflex. I exhale, luster, turn elsewhere.
I tell you of Doc Martins and mohawks –
– of a dim slip-of-a-thing with thin wrists;
one who crackles, like dry-ice in the air.
SLICE BONE CRAZY
09 Thursday Apr 2015
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
“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.
memories of my ghost sista 