Author: Mark Prisco

to forgive is a cop-out & a lie.   if you have ever tried, you know. you don’t succeed, even if you think you do & it kills you – the wound plastered.   the second wrong is to do nothing about the first. the soul flushed on one side, smarts & festers. the one…

the face indistinct composite says nothing but bluffs, a closed bud a violet the garden hung w starlight no-one sees, the trees undercut, shades between, the plane that glides the voided sky at Pisces.  call it digression, a slip in standards. my dna is 99% gorilla  2% banana, but we’re not similar.  the death of…

tortoise lit sprayed w gas walks away maimed mid-mass heads roll flock puffed clods beneath cross stench & the bodies. are these memories/ flat the road up sun-struck dark & dust dries our skin the mind winds measured disinterested but. who was it sunk so desolate? so low alone the m- 6 bowels stirred by…

say nothing. the sheets are damp. the doorknob turns. it’s going to hurt. it hurts but keep going. flushed w heat w shame of it. failure to communicate. the heart beats in its chest. it isn’t a trick, omg it’s so easy. you can do it in yr sleep. you can do it when yr…

make me great again. lock the door when you walk in but talk. only   surprise me with (flowers, shoots like ligatures on the wrist with-)   strained visions. an image, not the stuffed bear   on the clothesline; a wire where a light was. make me new.   days have soared/hours wound so long…

you need a swift kick & told to keep moving. better to spend yrself than to suck the dugs of the last half century. it comes   spectacular, the destruction of the world. theatre. when satan fell, for instance – what a fucken day that was! planets wandered & the stars did nothing, nailed to…

if you close your eyes to the words but listen only for the music it moves like a sermon.   if you listen as you would to whispered grass, the joyous buzz of wasps at harvest, the modest song of sparrows,   there’s rhythm like the best bits in the bible. it’s a pity that…

the statues are dumb, struck into silence. when i saw Dante for instance posing on a street in florence i knew, in a flash, what god doesn’t know, what there’s no word for. i took a photo, & after that there was nothing but stone & imitation of stone.

faith in the hands of a weak intellect is dangerous.   if in doubt, burn the house & its ministers   down &, let it be taught: it’s but air that divides us from God, conducts like wire the divine & ties it to flesh & fires   it. might fit: to cut the head…

what’s a spirit w/out body? worth   i ask because i don’t know, versify my question make it poetical, conscious now of being conscious when i ought not to be. it’s – what’s the word? one can’t  break free of.   i want to say Vicious but it isn’t. that bad my question, mark, reminds…

the metal taste of a barrel makes me reach for the sky a longing so fine i can’t cut it.   not only me but what i feel is redundant, more than you need & worse, defunct. a pale Self – unstrip(p)ed un- glorified, on fire & for the best, the greater good & anyways…

the radio dj, that modern day oracle, never saw it coming; nor did the blithe arse celebrity commentator, articulator of nothing, who talks talks & us, we’re under attack &  what are you doing about it?  there’s death-like joy when i trip trot across the little wooden bridge & my balls hold;  wave my stick…