I Live

I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn

taken the wind for a weekend lover,

argued with the reeking river.

I live in a castle of mattresses

and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.

Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,

doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.

Advertisements

A Dream of Color

The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,

like love from the mother of indifference.

I long for electric blue,

sweet pink,

royal purple.

 

My terrible snow covers my table,

the bed.

Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,

the sound is muted.

World of Color

A world of color is rich,

is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.

What I need is a glass of hot pink,

an elixir of glowing purple,

a tincture of pool blue,

languid and electric.

My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale

on my bedside table

while a documentary on contemporary

art stabs me in shades of black and white,

Sound muted.

Clamor Clatter Calamity

Clamor clatter calamity

a huge purple spill

generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.

I am an absence of air.

Paris writes me telling me not to come.

Many things have fallen

into the gaping O of love.

 

My sick senses stretch like a violin note over

a ghostly concert hall.

Halls are caverns.

I have a hall inside my city

And he waits there.

He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,

I the suction of quicksand.

Beauty and Lust

Beauty has frost bite and is just

going to live that way.

The stench is aggressive.

I have been living whichever way is out of sight

from Age and Lust.

Beauty and I go way back

to a year I only remember as a pile of sugar to play in.

Skin scrubs keep Age away.

 

The truth is Beauty and Lust have never met,

though some think they are a couple.

Lust’s eyes are inverted in her face,

her longings contorted and her hearth

cold.

She

She is stove-mouthed

and thinks hideously.

Between her teeth are scrolls

from cities asleep.

Death cartwheels on my lawn

mostly to impress her,

And because in his spare time he has a pinwheel fetish.

After dark she will write my eulogy and

I will thank her

and never know her name.

Depression

The cessation of Fire

in me is like a white wall of Holy cold.

I manufacture crosses.

I carry most of them.

Others I strap to my man and my baby.

Suffering sleeps at the end of my bed,

takes up space.

drives me away in the middle of the night.

Sometimes I drive to a gold mine and wish for another God

if I cannot have another me.