The stream (all workshops)
An Awnings Worth of…
Spit out some lies from an executive
mouth what other use does it have,
you rolled the slave’s dice found six
when there were only two to be had.
Didn’t dare greet it with terse
engorgement.
Run now back to the athematic
temple, find the new guitar stringed,
inhale heartily your funny cigarette,
love her and at last find comfort.
The Yukon river still has time to
run it’s course, attributing a strange
cleanliness of our class to someone
less than you on moral stature.
SLAUGHTER
Slowly they slither
surrepticiously
from dark hidden places
when suddenly they strike
tongue needle sharp
deep
deep into the heart
to the death of all Beauty
UNA MATANZA
piano piano scivolano
da luoghi nascosti nel buio
quando all' impproviso
colpiscono
con lingua tagliente
profondo
profondo nel cuore
per la morte
di tutta Belleza
Door bells ringing, children singing
Christmas songs, just for you.
Joy they bring, with smiling faces
hoping for a coin or two.
Church bells ringing, choirs singing
Christmas carols by candlelight.
As the faithful come to worship
on this special holy night.
Lights are on the Christmas tree
pretty colours reflect on the wall.
Excited little ones, trying to sleep
hoping Santa, will come to call.
Ghosts inhabit now my home,
where once the fire cracked sparks,
and when I left,
threads of thoughts hung on to memories,
those strings that hold puppets,
our lives in fairy tales,
a tale that's told,
slowly taking shape.
We grow like trees from little sticks,
fill out, reach up, walk tall,
the sun attracting, the moon distracting,
day and night as one in the attic of our dreams
containing chests of mundane things,
their re enacting whole.
curled tongue
licking clouds
the dark nostril
in thoughtful flare
blinking blind like the
focal glee of the watts
on the dimestore tree
shit me some tinsel
and call me santa
she gears the lazy boy
handle in a death grip
slopping kentucky
bourbon on a battle
scarred street ware
when the catch releases
falling back
eject eject
"I love you madly,
he said self-consciously"
- Umberto Eco
He cries,
not a few vagrant tears,
anguished ripping sobs.
Hunched over,
forehead in palm,
he is also acutely aware
that to the non-existent observer
his entire persona
is a caricature
of grief.
Great gifts must last forever,
that is what I heard you say;
but both of us will surely know
the wind of life blows to and fro
and nothing stays the same.
Good things are hard to come by
it is generally agreed;
but chance will often look to dare
or fate may flaunt its destined fare
so nothing stays the same.
The worst will surely happen
that is what the wise men think;
and life, obedient in that light
must make reply against some slight
to drive the world insane.
Will you be mine
you draw from my lips’ wine
like divine
you feel my face
with a soft trace
my lips wet as I do too
as you are about to come all over
come be mine this night
let me make you feel at home,
as your fingers I taste
you bend on your knees with grace,
then we all just in imagination play
as if in dreams we were ever so gay
the birds flock around
as you become all mine,
be mine and know
I will forever be yours
to glow
Declaration
Kneeling, I am at a loss
to conquer all the fears
that have pursued me hard and fast
throughout these many years
so I stand with upraised fist
and shout my battle cry
down into the depths of Hell
and upwards to the sky
Would Athenians,
titans of intellect
know to curse
them?
Would Spartans
raise shields,
to huzzah their
passing?
Would soldiers
like those laconic
spirits stand by
to salute?
and If those gates
were cast open
Would they pass?
No. For Hades
gates are closed
to all and where
the dead reside
the dead defend.
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