“Look mummy! There’s a shape-changer on the roof! First it was a man, and now it is a cougar!” “-Don’t be silly, boy, shape-changers don’t climb onto rooves.” “Yes yes! I saw it! He’s there.” The sun beat down on the mother and son, Their little tea party on the deck continued. Howard finished…
Tag: original poetry
The Past
A yellow moon glowers, Over my homely mansion. A werewolf stalks on the pavement level. Here in the trees are the huge boughs, Of the neighborhood. We dwell, in the night-time, Above the ground, In a complex of closed apartments, Made of wood. The sickening dim light of the streets, Shines up weakly at the…
la fine dell’amore
He was sworn against divorce, While she had had two marriages already. They were together for only eight years. In his seventh decade he gave her a scooter. She accepted, and rode around on it, Through the mountain roads of Italy, Floral dress, light shoes, Half-dome helmet, no lipstick. Just like in a festival film!…
To Drink
A conversation in a bar. On barstools. An alcoholic. She live at the bar. She lives in a bar. She’s homeless. So she lives upstairs. I came in to steady my nerves. Not that I need it all the time like you said you do. You said you need it every day. I only need…
Ali Baba (from the sky)
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.
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…