Shadow Eros
I
And we never spoke, but your commas molested me.
How idle the crevices of your women, their salt grains
in your mouth, the percolations
of their rust, dripping.
There’s a simplicity to all that we’ve been:
a razor, a hook, a hole – and that was all. You see,
you saw images, darling: I played with screws
(and we impregnated children with shadows).
II
And now we never touch, but your fingers molest me.
How voracious the insurrections of your tongue,
the profanities of your silence, the percolations
of your rust, dripping.
There’s a simplicity to all that we are:
a razor for my legs, a loose hook for my hole,
a bar of soap, melting – and that is all. You see,
you paint images, darling: I screw them with words
(and we impregnate the shadows of children).
III
And soon we will never kiss, but your demons will molest me.
How ravenous the incisions of their teeth,
the inward groping of their dicks between my thighs,
the eventual percolations of my rust, dripping.
There’s a simplicity to all that we will be:
a pair of legs for a razor, a loose hole with a hook,
a bar of soap, melted – and that is all. You see,
I’ll screw images, Love: you’ll paint them with words
(and we’ll impregnate the children of shadows).
The Reckoning
I return to the room where we first met;
it still screams of you. The walls miss us,
they tell me they’re unhappy in wall-purgatory.
I give them cemented cookies, and promise
to return again very soon.
They don’t love me anymore, they say
they want you back
but it’s me or you, I explain,
so they wither away
and collapse.
I return to the ruins where we used to lay;
they still sing of you. The walls miss us,
they tell me they’re burning in Hell.
I give them cold water, and promise you’ll come join them very soon.
Caution: Falling Debris. Please Wear Your Helmet at All Times
My father was a drunken carpenter
who liked to build fires.
He built three great fires in his lifetime,
all in all, at least, that’s what I remember
FIRST
He built Mama a fire
to distance his body from hers
to take his flesh apart from her bones
to dismantle what they had built,
and to rebuild again.
By himself.
SECOND
He built me a fire
to cut off my hair, when I wanted it to bounce
against my ankles. To cut the chord clean, and
neatly. To suffocate me till I spit his fruits,
and developed an allergy to them.
But I didn’t want his fruits;
I wasn’t his worm.
THIRD
He built himself a fire.
To watch the curdling of his own
flesh from flesh; until he became a silhouette
(until mama and I became silhouettes)
until he could hide the bodies that we
had shed in a hole, somewhere deep,
somewhere busy, somewhere unspeakable
(where recycling was not cheap).
Dear Mr Prick
I wrote a whole poetry book for you,
and here it is.
I wrote it because I know how much
you love my arms, and how much you love
that I am your wimpy little tourniquet.
But the truth is, Mr Prick,
I don’t love your arms, and I don’t love
being your wimpy little tourniquet.
The truth is, Mr Prick, I swallowed all of your syringes
last night – and, yes, you’ve been shooting blanks.
So here’s to all your empty sheets –
I’ve filled them up with what could have been
if only you had learned to keep silent
while cocking the gun.
