it’s still possible to be cool
but our chances are limited.
we could fall in a day
at the lake
stroke the dirty water.
if the sky
hollows &
the bees
we’re dreaming,
sorrowed some
cymbal what’s
missed & it
can’t come back but
where was i
when her sides
got torn god-made
Christ ritualised.
murdered.
cluster of thorned
roses. my gut
churns for it her
heart in hand
beat & i’d cut
the offending
stuff the mouth tight
as chloroform. entrail
not legible sez
nothing to no seer no
auger profiteer your
arse or mine. scratch
the inner beauty & i’m
grateful.
study your skin with.
fingernails pink
the shape of – is. like
hyper realism.
impulse.
this is where
the water rose
as i turned the corner
& everything on it. my
lungs swelled hurt like
–
when we kissed
you were shy tongue-tied
& i wanted more.
24 June 2019
Reads with an excited, breathless quality to me – which I like a lot.
thanks, emjay. much appreciated
makes me think, comparatively, of Ashbery’s free-associative poems; of which technique I enjoy by endeavouring locate the poetic impulse
& thanks Dean. will take a closer look.