Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
marzipan network collar bitemark
mother orthodontist
mesmerized
sleeps on her back
and looks so strawberry
with her lips open
you lick her
juicy fat tongue
you say I am sad
I am sorry
I want almonds
the tongue demands marzipan
the mouth demands bitemark
and you wish for milky syrup
voluptuous marzipan–
what would you give to eat it?
The blessed damozel leaned out from the gold bar of Heaven
Congratulations
You could be your own sadomasochistic daughter
The one who likes ropes
You won’t be tied to the chair though
Because the chair moves
You like bars
Tell me
If you see any kind of return signified
In the rosebush
That’s my own heart
I feed it with my own
I like bars too
I’m getting drunk in one tomorrow
Even though I won’t leave the house
I’ll watch you
Way up in the sky in your new panties
Shaking your ass for everyone
Of Modern Poetry
I keep thinking about the violin,
the one we left inside the bow.
How would it feel today,
waking up inside this exhibition,
this late transition,
passed from hand to hand so much?
There is a goblet
that doesn’t want to be smoothed over,
there is a fetish like the afterlife,
that isn’t there when we want it.
And what would you yield to,
if anything?
How is it
this far inside the exhibition?
Do you write for anything?
And we are all miles from something.
We went to see the tree-maker,
the carver, who was gone.
When we finally reached his house
he had taken out the music,
one of many signs.
Stuck in my head
The lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody.
Mama, ooooohhoooooh…
The wise IT administrators here have blocked all the “good” websites so I guess I’m stuck here for the duration. Eventually I will probably break down and post that mean and ugly sweet and lovely poem I’ve been sitting on for about a week now.
Dear Job,
OK, I have been looking for you for a few weeks now and I haven’t found you. Are you lost? Did you lose your cellphone/GPS/nav unit? Maybe you don’t know which number to call because I left so many. Well, this is the one. This is the number. Call it when you know something.
My wife says you look like the inside of an egg carton, but I’m not so sure. I think you might be empty.