the Drun Kaiwoz

Hearing, in the flat, bicycles fired
at the house, the same like the way the boys
and I used to, pushing off the peddles,
full of prank and sass, the voice of the
leader, puberty beginning to lift the
first skin of childhood, like a cicada—
clear like the clapping of waterfalls,
wet force of being Life, in the first torrent
of spring, in the desert, from a
hundred and forty miles away, or the
dry thunder of magazines dropping their
shells, the hot spent cartridge scent.
I haven’t had to count up missing hours,
or form, for years, or locate the source
of an unknown scent and I look around my
rented space, no bottles, or wine-stains,
no broken glass, no ashtrays on the floor, or
mattress airing– drying, no shat smell, lingering
fingers, above the keyboard, steady; sober
over anything found like money on the lawn
in the morning, dewy, decimal after the shindigs,
piss-ups, sessions, the lost nights given squelch,
coin-cold sober over anything; fame, wealth, love;
consistent, resilient, spontaneous, ordinary.
I’ve over-used the snake analogy, but how
uncomfortable, to see men and women carry
about the stuck skins of childhood, not completely
out, hanging off them like polyps, like undischarged sleeping bags.




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2 Responsesso far.

  1. Dean English Dean English says:

    Yes, women, thanks…I miss aspects of alcohol and art, naturally, but I can’t do both for long without damage to the whole of Life ultimately

  2. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    again, brilliant: it’s all there as usual – great rhythm, hard vivid imagery, all the senses are alive. Grotesque, fitting, image to end. I agree that the drink/drug thing is romanticized by poets and so-called lovers of poetry. I think you need to stay clean, feel your feelings – as they are. Nowadays, i still drink, but moderately. I don’t get rotten drunk anymore or take drugs or smoke.
    Near end of poem you say ‘woman’, but think you meant ‘women’?

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