01 Saturday Nov 2014
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on yeti
Tags
free verse, howl, poem, yeti
At ten thousand feet
the mountain deer
spots a scant shadow, like
that of a tree on a hill
moving slowly away
and the dog wonders
do tonight’s footprints
belong to a beast?
This legend moves brimmed
with sadness, blinking in
the frozen heights and
like our myths
it will go down
with a howl.
01 Saturday Nov 2014
how do I love trees
of palm uprooted
in the snow?
][
¿Cómo podría yo amar a estos palmeras
desarraigadas
en la nieve?
01 Saturday Nov 2014
Tags
I am an insomniac burning away the midnight fuse, I can't sleep, poem, Poetry, sonnet, yoked-nasty
I can’t sleep. My dreams ruin me. My dreams
of beasts yoked-nasty with Venus figures
hoofed and urged. Urge and scream. I hate their screams.
Clover honey dripping from their fingers.
This is not my real face, nor my real name.
Nothing about me is real, though I lay
stripped, so that you can eat away my shame.
Eat til you gag. What runs through me will slay
any mortal. My fingers quivering,
The buzz cock flickering; the purple moon.
I can’t sleep. Mouth full. Alcohol and pears.
I am night’s poison. Tossing and turning.
I am the teacup. I am the typhoon
making such a fuss over Hell’s nightmares.
31 Friday Oct 2014
hold close I
love you not
because you’ll
do anything to
be loved but
because I
remember you
before all this
shit went down
31 Friday Oct 2014
Posted by babylon crashing | Filed under Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on child, your mother is not amused
31 Friday Oct 2014
Tags
Halloween poetry, hear my bleating, let the grass weep in my image, mongrel's hour, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Thousand names for flesh and its answering
silence. Fold into you. Like so. Like so.
A child’s cry. Of pain and of pleasuring;
but not a cry, no foal’s moan that I know,
no lamb. No body turned to face the trees.
Autumn branches, immaculate muscles
grinding, we all grind but nothing will please.
Nothing that I can touch. Leaves stripped. Mongrel’s
hour. Let the grass weep in my image. Frown
as I swallow down what you did not do.
Here are the names that I give. Grave robber;
they dug and they took. You heard my scream down
in the field, you heard my bleating. But you
never replied; never raised a finger.
30 Thursday Oct 2014
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on the myth of arrival
«El rechazo me liberó»
“Rejection set me free”
— The Monolators (2003)
I.
All this splendor seething. In
the airy green here is the head,
the heart, tendons, the blackened
shoulder that beats and breathes its reign –
and I – the child of an idle brain –
shook my head to scrap.
II.
Blue is my belly
intestines
entwined
I have been a
poor parent
to my desires
I wish to cut them out
translucent
alkalinic; the edge
of the blade at
point of entry.
III.
Patience roots in
this, so hard to slow
down these tangled
desires they demand
so much. Weary
at times, at tasks,
to do without,
make sacrifices
before
these
cravings
dry up.
29 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on shadow that loves you
my hand on your screen
touching your telly static
shadow that loves you
29 Wednesday Oct 2014
Tags
flick groan, new doorways, pitapat, poem, Poetry, slaughterhouse yap, sonnet
From the back of the throat, phlegm or poem,
what we cough up is the same. Something hard
we find we cannot choke down. Hard, irksome
pain, you have become much like a barnyard
squeal, skin flick groan, slaughterhouse yap; the marred
bit of the song we skip over in haste.
Anything than to listen to those scarred
voices sing. Better to escape shame faced,
guts a pitapat, than to stay debased
by the things we have no control over.
Here is my throat, my O of mouth, the taste
of wind rising up, filling the puncture
wound of my chest; gun shot like doors, a new
doorway hole that the dark wind whispers through.
28 Tuesday Oct 2014
Tags
Ann Arbor, art keeps us in hell, bookstore, Frida Kahlo, honey slur, poem, Poetry, Shaman's Drum, sonnet, without consent
“I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return.”
– Frida Kahlo
Translator of omens, chloroformer
of slurs, abductor of wickedness rare
and new; at Shaman’s Drum, in Ann Arbor,
not one poet posed naked, nightmare
of flesh, on their book covers. Perversion
was just a word. Strange eyebrows, broken shoe,
Blue House; you’re still naked, your alien
body, without consent, remains on view,
exposed, gets sold. Others make us monsters.
Others sell us. Others bring us back. You
ribbon around bomb. You jaguar. You grief
in sheets too thin to scab. Blasphemies, slurs,
omens; art keeps us in hell. Who knew
that ink damns painter just like knife damns thief?
