18 Wednesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on love poem [in technobabble]
[E]xtending
temporal
change affects
anomalies
within weak galaxies.
I don’t want
to be weak
galaxies. I want
to be a singularity,
quantum’s blessing.
18 Wednesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on mewling
Tags
Diana Prince, everything is better with a katana, lewd selfies, Lynda Carter, mewling, Our Lady of Blue Hot Pants and Breastplates, poem, Poetry, potbellied twins, radio static
“it crawled into my system/ while my guard was down,” – curve, fait accompli
A prophetess speaks on
the airwaves. Got your ears
on? Roll me like spirit
weed, careful I crumble.
You called me a pretty
fear, for I am low. Off
the interstate I heard
their mewling among
the worm seed. Cat-
pawed girls, potbellied
twins, they say, don’t try
to get away, their flea
bites the proof that I need.
I would tie up their hair
in ribbons. We’d wear thigh-
high go-go boots. I wouldn’t
be lonely while shifting
gears. We three succeed in
worshiping Our Lady of Blue
Hot Pants and Breastplates,
Lynda Carter. Forever reruns
is the best an actress can
hope for. The static of a radio
and the static of a TV is
the same static. Somewhere
Diana Prince is taking off
her glasses. You think that
I’m lonely. You send lewd
seflies but that’s not what
I want. There are some spirits
I’d still fall on my sword for, as
if to say, got the guts for it?
Everything is better with
a katana. To say, indeed,
everything is better when
someone else is driving,
the window rolled down,
I’m drunk and lolling. Break
her, he said. You had no
choice. I go down like death’s
seed. I cloud your judgment.
Breaker. Breaker. Good
buddy. That is to say, I am
here to stay. Hear me now.
16 Monday Feb 2015
“A bra, a bra for all/ sizes” – May Wong,
a bad girl’s book of animals (1969)
Pity the mermaid, she knows nothing about
cunnilingus. Underwear baffles her.
I’d give up my fins, too, to lick that doubt.
To taste what the other side enjoys. Her
body comes out of the sea at dusk, crawls
through the grasses. There are no runaways.
No one gets to swim free. On the stonewall
of the beach – a house; its alien ways
will vex her. Even the shamans among
her kind can only sing about night skies.
We hope a queer stanza, a strange octave
will lead to wonders, to songs that our tongues
forgot. As if it’s language that denies
us all this, and not us denying love.
16 Monday Feb 2015
rain the birds start
up the practice of small
deaths and fleshly
leaves part
inside the bearded
iris song song sticky fever
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on schall’s AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO
| AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO Virgínia Schall |
LOVE IN BLUE AND WHITE translation by ZJC |
|---|---|
| Nuvens brancas espumas flutuando os andes Brancas geleiras pinceladas impressionistas descendo sobre os cimos do Ozorno Branco em flor campo de margaridas ondulando ao vento Branco-amor esvoaça em lençois e cortinas desnudando os corpos no quarto róseos, ardentes, úmidos e ungidos Branco enevoado do ar em cheiro de sêmen-vida do encontro que exala e enche a casa perfuma a brisa e se espalha por entre as ondas suaves do marinho Pacífico, ornando a cena, túrgido e cingido ao azul celeste da Terra em cio. |
White clouds foam floating across the Andes White glaciers Like impressionist brushstrokes coming down off the peaks of the Ozorno White flowers a field of daisies rippling in the wind White-love fluttering in the sheets and curtains they bare their bodies in this room all rosy, glowing, wet and anointed White misty air that smells of vital cum from the encounter that exudes and fills the house with perfumes the breeze spreads through the gentle waves of the Pacific ocean, gracing the world, surrounding the turgid heat of the blue Earth. |
Poet’s Biography:
Besides writing poetry, VIRGINIA TORRES SCHALL is a psychologist, biological scientist (neurophysiology and behavior), and holds a Ph.D. in education. She has been working at Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) since 1981 as a researcher. In 1990, she created the Laboratory of Environmental and Health Education (Department of Biology, Oswaldo Cruz Institute). According to her website she is also currently working at Rene Rachou Research Center (Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz, Belo Horizonte).
10 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on teixeira’s VISITA
| VISITA Virna G. Teixeira |
VISIT translation by ZJC |
|---|---|
| criado-mudo: bíblia e rosário de contas na cama, ao lado |
Bedside table: a bible and rosary beads In bed |
Poet’s Biography:
Born in Fortaleza, Brazil, in 1971 VIRNA G. TEIXEIRA works as a neurologist in São Paulo, and has published three books of poetry: Visit (2000), Distance (2005) by 7 Letters Press and Transits (2009) by Lumme Editor, as well as several titles of Scottish poetry translations.
03 Tuesday Feb 2015
Shoulder deep in the ocean at sunrise —-
night, stars, fish slid around me, my hair swirled
behind. This point in the sand horrifies
me, this point where the tide pulls and the world
wonders if I’ll return to shore or let
myself be dragged forward. There are spirits
in the deep that are hungry for touch, wet
like me in the surf, who know the secrets
of how to survive under such pressure
but have no wish to survive. If only
there was a third option; neither forward
nor back; something to calm this sex-fever.
Brain sick, I cannot choose the land, the sea,
madness, love, silence or these damning words.
02 Monday Feb 2015
poppies wept
swept between
the waves at
dawn over the
stone pier mist
increased I
ceased out from
the dune’s salt
tongue past the
creek its pale
waves dragging
rain froth and
downfall and
for a moment
passing through
his hunger-song
I heard a name
a monstrous
palindrome the
gulf’s firth a basin
shaman By then
I’d learned of the
Ampullae of
Lorenzini The
shark is a tune
a pychedelicacy
and you darling red
heart a mere morsel
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on nape i cannot
Tags
blood ax, conjured claws, groove maker, I still cannot sleep, nape I cannot, poem, Poetry, porno-proud static, shattered ink
It’s not the violence, I tell
you, that draws me in, we’ve
survived worse, it’s
the porno-proud static it’s
the television glow. It’s
the peel unpeeled. Call it
the sense of control. Between
the fox and the wolf I choose
the blood ax, the groove maker,
the conjured claws bared
to the bone. Lonely beasts
have no idea how to ask
to be invited in. I wanted
to knock you to the ground,
sit upon your shoulder
blade, play with your
nape. I cannot
sleep tonight. Foolish
child, the static glows, I
warned you, go shut the door.
21 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on consume the rest
Tags
chaos bores, consume the rest, flesh eating bacteria, new pastoral, poem, Poetry, sextant is broken
— bony hired hands
There is no frieze with
me dancing on it. Renoir,
like Hollywood, passed
me by. I have no spark, no
flint, no wheel to measure
the heavens. There are no
heaven, singular or plural.
What rite, what coven, what
belief would encompass this?
The sextant is broken, the
compass thrown down. Let
the maps drivel three-fold
down the page. What will
clean the mud from these
wounds? What will look upon
this flesh without horror? If
there’s a pastoral scene
with me in it, burn the hay,
salt the earth, let flesh-eating
bacteria consume the rest. I
look for no wily shepherdess,
no bucolic wood-man with
a cock out to here. Even chaos bores.
memories of my ghost sista 