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a dying love poem

 

 

 

   sounds soundless pleasures:

   Dead being deaths predicament, we dare not cross the threshold of,

   until the menthol cools the poetry down like a river can.

   (you remember)

   Barmecidal rivers of imaginary fish and abundance.

   I am waitng for the kiss from the angels of "lips"

   so as not to share our fluids.

   I have concluded, there is no

   true love,

   only the compartments where jealousies

   malts

   undress.

 

 

   This is a potion, though dried up and blown up the nostrils

   of the once in love.

   Who bargained for, bare-knuckled,

   danced in long robes,

   empiric,

   membranous with their

   artifice taughten together.

   Who made paper shapes on my black

   skin of old beer, bread

   and leather enamel.

   Who peed, bare chested,

   in the fountains as viviparous bliss;

   (the ironis is also the one we need

   for true emoton).

   Who left me with my books,

   but with no lead

   for hate to scribble

   over.

 

 

   I am far too ordinary.

   I can't guarantee a good outcome.

   But I stand proud and cleansed before

   the regents, shoveling the shame

   to the cute and curious.

 

 

   I was told that voles

   would much rather be caught and eaten by owls than by eagles.

   Owls tear the body apart and swallow you quickly.

   But eagles take you high among the cliffs

   where the souls of the unknowns sit,

   and throw your body down,

   then eat your bones,

   your breath,

   your gibbous,

   then your hair.

Reviews

[...]

. you are an extraordinary poet ... even though i do believe in love ... you writing is compelling ... and makes me question what i believe in ... albeit momentarily ...