We are still under the sky, In the guest room; Beast and cryptic. Everything crawls. A car flings us. I see one peeling The middle east. Down there, it’s still Exotic; an open sore, With a mule-cart Full of gold.
Tag: original poetry
Curtain
You might trace the eye-sockets of enemies settled in the folds; curious samples of feet – the duck or elephant tramping off the hem of the cliff. I loathe a modern home set to cream on cream; a sterile soap pinching corners; eyes have no place to comb. I like these…
Exclusive eyes
Exclusive Eyes The changes in the temperature when they walk into the room, my desires and my memories all hang upon a loom. Exclusive eyes they do not care for me, they see only beauty and it’s me they fail to see. their sepia gaze drawn down from a million nights as the…
History
You exist in the poor length of my second toe, our lip and Irish eye that pinks upon the island air. I’m bored cleaning corpse from empirical floor. I pack jaws that don’t speak, at doors to centuries. Sing – give us wars that ring in your elbow, sting of injury, and porous…
Still-life
Will stay but not fight embarrassment in the lewd sun. Bring down infamous rain; the fingernail and the boot. I will sit here. Tender. But a still-life is a dead thing. I saw one sit and never breathe again. I paint corpses, apples and such, and the red ones…