Sunday, April 14, 2019

[No] Plath



It is 1961


Life is all around/ digesting the debris
from moon-belly,  diagram of decorative spines
seed-vessels, pinked

    
In 1962


A similar species furnishes space
a small, narrow stem     of the fringed polygala


             [ in its laborious year]


star torn from its bodice -------   I appear mad and invigorated


open up between slits of skin

[1963]    


 Everybody glances wantingly at the gorgeous girl’s knees
kissed with sun  -------


                  she is a dream in the voice-box, awakened


   some furious fruit/honey/baby      [two-lipped, four-sided]


           absorbing fractured syllables, arcs
                                of fray


reckless, accidental   ----- torrential honey-pot terminally delicate


      --I appear, my eyes, nectar pouring out
 of each ripe orifice  


stroke the air and its bulbous vacuums



[it is]    1964

    To music; thieving boys, human longing rose
up just past the knees        how much is discernible? How much
is left to tremble beneath?     ----I am potentially ajar, steaming with
flux                            [needle is said and done for the eye
   
                     
               
flowers exaggerate with age]
------death adores her,
                                                 she’s not alone

1964 [it is still]


    All I think about is obliterating the bay,
any bay,      waving poems and bellowing   ----- where God
is a sensation of white noise and youth-spunk


                          Ariel, you witch, I’m invigorated once again


   [we become photos of her most unphotogenic moments]


Ariel likes a landscape where everyone is lost and clinging
to their neuroses           ----- thighs sore with necrosis

my plastic bag obscenities smothering your jollies


Ariel enjoys talk of planets in retrograde, women coming late
or not coming at all      succulents in their late withering states,
    
                                    once healthy children bursting with consumption

   ----to Ariel, their suffering is like an inaccessible breast


she longs for the painful music within it


1965


Medusa stopped him dead, so why can’t I?
This poem fits like a glove, the old cliche
            I depart where my line ends; I am not endless

guttered and abandoned -----  he did things I would have laughed at
     had I worn another skin

                        little tremors around the mouth


[     it is a thousand degrees
                     where my heart rests  


Ariel enjoys the dense fog of wonder


[another] 1965


   Real men fuck with indifference
pound muscles, broadly


   I see enough to know what is, is
but don’t quote me              -----  the gloss is obscene

  [   where one comes scourged and sweet on the gums,
                                         as unforgivable as God or bad sex ]

-----    a little bloodiness left on the hands


   
the ruts are extra dangerous, shows skin-moves,
sin after poems   ---- /doctor, I rubbed it until it slid
leaving jagged pieces of myself


here is the bad blood      [ of a pulverized flower


----decoys of us apparently broken    ]



///the untouched area between coccyx and navel///


Ariel doubts the lover who whispers in her ear
takes her hand as if she is suddenly stillborn
pink and blue around the corners -----   


              he likes to say she is thinner than heroin
                            shooting through the veins


                          Ariel doubts this, too

Sunday, February 18, 2018

*



There’s porn in your raw curves, the mere renderings of loose teeth,
all double entendres 
pooling at the crease of your cunt. Mother,
it’s not getting any tighter these days, the gut is 
strained
leaflets of papyri & suffer---&
  you’re a wild gal
with your suggestively raunchy glance.

How many of you are you nakedly? How many of you
from the gutters emerge like a silk-
drenched pearl
from a beggar’s mouth? He’s seafaring, gone
every six months, but still 
manages to stare back
at you with fishy eyes. Loose slickers & a bit of scurvy on the lips.
You’re a little bit of a rash if you know it. Good for you, or bad
depending on the weather. 
Nothing can reshape your mouth
to do better than a noose—all up in it, tight-lipped.

Dew is a mercy of the morning! Scarlet wet with blazing intentions.
 A buxom bold. A hold of 
ecstatic tongues—you come scourged
& sweet on the gums. I fashion you into my skin like a salve 
as you divulge
the deepest secrets, claim the locusts swallowed
your lover’s bones as you fished 
your rippled face out of a river.
You say you were l’inconnue de la Seine in your past life.
jawbone the shape of a cliff, as you waited for Him
to harness your endless body.


Sunday, March 5, 2017

Ex-Voto


Call it “flesh vessel”, oil forming
rings around the stomach
of her papoose, a rind of thick skin
heaven knows it holds together so
what  mouth knows to be soft
fruit, a tang, fur-lined olive
a fistful
of holly in a sea of moths
─the exact moment light bends
into phosphor & slow decay

I think She, or Radiant Hummingbird
her intense sun, prays to thickets
of pulse trapped in the blood
of Mayan gods—she stretches
her breasts to meet the tongue
earth shaking between the knees

Call it “honey temper”, simmering
in her saliva, ointment or salve for
mosquitoes—all utterances slick
with hum her vulvae spreading
to receive flowers

Sunday, November 20, 2016

FAULT LINES


Don't bring to me water when I am parched/ nor milk to my lips

to make these lips more desirable/ what stirs the vocabulary


dust leaves behind?/ or venous geography of our air sacs/ or

the topography of my primal skins/ give to  me a trembling flame/


or death as personification of a vigilante/ O' bird/ you've gone

and done it now/ these lips pull back/ laugh bird-struck