Friday, April 30, 2010
there are tiny fishes in your hair
as it bellows out behind your un-doll features, the quite
ordinary angle of your nose turned up at the bland sky.
As they drag you from the water, your death
fetishist lover is still a very young boy;
forgive him for being forever haunted by some version
that was never you, salt in your sinus,
waterlogged pinafore ratty.
They will change you for your funeral,
push the water up out of your bloated gut
and pretend away your putrefaction.
They will grease up your cheeks
like a not-quite-live girl, and forget you
were supposed to make a fuckload of mistakes.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I write everything down in a big pink book
and close it conspicuously and hug it to my chest.
I let my eyes dart around the room like bait
to catch your eye, or anyone’s.
What could I be writing in my big pink book?
I want to seize you with the kind of terror I feel,
the kind that forces tears out
that seem to have a shape & a weight.
I have known all along what I am not.
I will flash and flash and five more of me
lie in wait behind the tapestry.
Then I pretend I am a reverse vacuum, blowing
bougainvillaea and paper money blooms.
You come to me because you like my colors,
then feel repulsed with yourself and your greed.
Heartpounding nausea. A sweet eaten, then immediately
puked, glutinous and intact. Still beautiful-looking.
You make my stomach churn. You are it,
and right at my gut there’s a jut in the shape
of a large music box. It plays at inopportune times.
I might need an otomy.
If horror and mock horror
are both placed in your body,
can you tell which is which?
Amoeba (or, Things You Deserve)
A corroded hollowbody
crowding with green un-flowering plants. A skeleton
posed to look like you in the bunk above yours,
as you lie awake, terrorized with the kind
of terror that you thankfully are the only one
in the world to feel. Suffer. Suffer.
Your petty finch-sins
peck out of you as if by machine
they were being sewn onto the fabric of night
in a gibberish of pattern. Yes from your pores
a microbe new to science. Yes in the pondwater, go.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
2. and these are zombies.
3. I'm still one poem behind,
4. have been for days now,
5. but I will make these last few count if you stay tuned.
You Know the Phony
We’re forging ghost meat,
clay, or wax. Let’s fingerbang.
Let’s be together forever now,
a duplex echoing with yell:
I’m you. I’m you. We’re big cuckoos,
we swell with noise until the chest
under us bursts into gross-smelling flames
-- you know the phony
never liked you. The pictures which all
were hating you, staring you down
from the tack paper, your lentil
of good hope a big hate in their eyes.
But now the tiny venge is grown
and knit up like a vine. Something
with no father, forever climbing.
Monday, April 26, 2010
When I was something else
than a girl, in the mauled darkness
a named vessel. Known
stink. Little moon.
When you imagine drawing a bath
for a shadow or a ghost, remember
the tub’s volume and the way
the water fingers
over the sides
and to the floor. If it had a color
everything it would touch
would be that color.
But just the light
like a cheloid right there.
This room has never had a window.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
to the island where the bodies were:
stinkless, scentless actually,
dreamlike in that they had no presence
save the feather waft,
soft in the late day breeze.
are your geese plunked beside
heads turned sweetly away?
wing fold. This death
is recent, and it’s probably not nature,
but it’s nature,
because we’re nature
and I am trying to remember that.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Through the Gallery of the Potential
Hairdo after hairdo. A shift.
Into minor key. And they are so.
A ramble with vining flora.
A retrofeel rec room. Visual noise.
The garden pushing hard.
Forever. In the foreground.
In the background. The photos.
Sixteen of the same blurry girl.
Her confident smirk.
Her no-environment. The lens is a man.
With an idea. Something is in.
That identifies. The expression left casual.
That laugh. The hand-grasp. Parts are cropped.
Or left inside. Outside the frame.
The ceiling is visible. The torso is not.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
For Earth Day, the Empire State Building was lit up a smug green. Wouldn't it have made more sense to just leave it dark? Poems 21 and 22 as follows.
Who you said who uses these.
You meant something else but I thought
of the puffing horses we had passed at the park,
their coats dusty and traffic-smelling,
their public defecation. Remember the images
of the rimpling Iceland ponies, furred
flanks to the wind, a muscled look
not disregard, not aloof, each foot’s
little hoof so: up or down.
I want to think: park
horse, I validate your park, you’re the dark
pony here and you can come up fast. But there
are so many horse poems, and the night sparks
indefinitely, and in it we are torn
and cannot redeem even a smallish animal.
to the exterior, but inside is gnarled
and beastly, like something stitched together by melodramatic
taxidermists, from a gruesome and untidy end, no gunshot
but a road wound maybe. Yes, everything stinks out here; nobody
can tell the gross airs that come from my pores,
the glisten of my baroque oils
from the surrounding garbage station’s grunge
and sheen. My friend,
I am actuating and wormy, my dear,
all along I have been lying to you.
This is my one clean try,
hateful as though it may seem.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Foolest, what have you done.
(For Jonatan and Karl)
Astrid, it’s hard to put a finger
on a volcano’s pulse, we tried,
believe us, we burned
bits we love best. A hangup
and no smile at all. Your dead
dove relatives linger, cannot leave
a torch unlit, in the night, the sunflower
from the berg, bright as borealis:
shuffle your unfed feet, hear
as your mama cries. Your gross
overestimate of your worth
at the shack: Adam
and Eve it, you’re not flying out.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Today I will need mechanical help.
A cloud cover over the loud magpie hover
of the trees: we fix it up on our front yard,
how everything is on blocks,
guts out, much bigger
than when it’s in
the mysterious There.
Describe the problem. Yes,
the issue is with the frontis-bit
where you had fed
the oil. I heard there was in addition
a phenomenal sparkle plug. So, I was
interested in saying
some magic phrase, but the loud
gargled out. Said an ordinary one.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
When I try to put it down it starts
up with that moaning sound. Chains
on a blinged-out diva, no regard. Or what I mean is:
we were alone and it was not dark,
and the winter is always coming,
in less than a year.
The scheming nonsequitur, like
a phonecall from a phone booth,
I changed in that phone booth, I left my boots
and a lipstick print. Now significant
is the less exciting.
What magic bruise is time, the blue
and black of my resting legs. A cat sigh
wafts fat from the rambles of my slipcover.
This is how I remember to go to sleep.
This will help you with your good mood.
Statement for 4-16
All day you were happening,
flagrant as a cuckoo, you kept
sweetening the deal. Like
the pulley on the pop can, the flip tab,
you are more than garnish, you proved
useful and beautiful. But thank you especially
for being so beautiful.
How far? So far.
Although you are big
we want you to be small
and functionless, a tangent,
our best to the dinner,
we wear our finest till the darkness
there with great care, we had
a dream in which we selected the color.
because though this poem is about you,
and their blunt ends strike
and repeatedly strike
lace spread and our hands,
a hot blood color, drop
to our sides and seem useless again
as if they had never been reaching
towards anything, ever, at all.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
DreamGirlz Ask You Questions!
We have for us a glorious pony
with an unbelievable tail, so long it could catch
a million unluckies and crush them for the right response.
Did you know how much we loved you?
All while we gallop, minty,
we are learning how to say it.
with the green side-eye,
champagne. Let’s stop here, and pick something.
The right kind of mint thing,
of course nobody wants that.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The pathetic wave gray. Bleachy sidewalk.
As I am waiting, which I am,
of my person is not a sound:
I became a garble and undistinguished
from the back
or a goose meadow – individual
Any other instrument.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Finally, I am up to speed.
The first time I let anyone touch me
for more than an hour, that isn’t a lover,
he is wielding a pen. When he lifts it from my back,
he buzzes it with the beat of the song, exact.
It is a song I don’t know, not terrible,
not great, but its beat slice matches the black garnish
I dreamt, and decided, and paid for in advance.
The quiet of the room is a not-at-all-quiet:
machine’s embossing whirr, hard
core. Each nerve leads a strict tether
to its original point, centre: where the body
is soft, its exterior is its own weird mirror
softer still. It bleeds, it burns, it takes
color so easy there’s almost no decision.
Sonnet about the Rules
Between the deals there is always no deal.
You old-at-heart, around that tableau
with your bunch of comic dogs posed
listeningly to the sides, continuation.
There is a disinteresting trickle from outside
but it isn’t what felt green. Happy
or happening, or filled
with blowsy smoke, the crazy beacon light
giving a tendriled fabulous life
to each misprinciple and straight-face.
& god you know it but you keep
on bluffing, even though your fucked up
deck is missing some of its hearts.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
To get to your windowless bedroom,
all minor situations, all sweeping
pad through the oily sawdust. You aren’t the only
stray cat per this square mile.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Tonight there will be friends, Scrabble, and a slight Southwest theme. (What?)
Sock on a plate from Chez Aristote, in summary, gratefully.
In Which I Ask For Help
like a goodbye. Blue, the sense that things revert,
the romantic most revolting sense. Somewhere
where you are so loved. But for now, the bedding
sunset, for now I am the holy cow.
Bring me the milkpail,
brilliant with ooze,
and help me take these gnashers home.