A Modest Construct

1. i am Heliotrope,
   face to the sun.
2. when You smile,
   i feel like falling down.
3. i am Waterlily,
   formless.
4. You are Ripple,
   quietly disturbing.
5. i am many stones;
   we sit.
6. we are aphelion,
   and cold.
7. You are Helios,
   riding the sun.
8. we are tall constructs,
   drawn shadows.
9. when You…

riseth he, from distemp’rate mantle of earth;
long slumbered in crust of binding rime.
he wakes with fury, at once rapturous and weak,
biding his time.

riseth he, asphodel, vernal and lusting, thus
with such passion he unfolds.
with such a bleeding spectrum shineth he,
a body…

As Lauren has been saying, April is National Poetry Month. I, a self-proclaimed poet of arguable calibre, have so far been silent on this issue, except for contributing a limerick about rectum bleaching.

I can’t stay silent forever, though, because there happens…

this recidivist
is sure his god exists
but can’t define its fibre
or paint its weight,
except to say his Deity is
twenty tons of chocolate,
sunlight slanted burgundy—
a runny egg, a bit of thread, a cherry tree.

this recidivist
is sure he breathes the air
and sees the…

Death, hold not me dear; when pressed,
we juxtapose, but never have we met.
The mean of man and shade is graves,
more stone than home, and row on row
the holy go to sleep.
I have slipped through smoky pastures,
morning heavy, morning light,
while breathing…

death suspires avidly, whose
aura stalks the trail of dusk
hung perpetual above the brow,
and —heavy— bends it ceaselessly.
a rancor fell, an angel low
is swinging frightfully its wrath:
an enmity derived of rust,
which makes deciduous a swath
of everlasting infancy.
ill-borne, a bedlam thrived; despair
a…

the star describes her apogee
with butterfat.
the constellations trace with vine
and dirt makes shapes that no one sees.
two hatpins dance a tango brief;
a matchhead gives a eulogy
before it bows to wax.
a branch begets a leaf, unhappily.

the morning to the wren is…

The kingdom’s frame of wire falls
like houses ushered into night,
quaking deep within their walls.
A drooping wreck of countenance
heaped upon the wreck of virtue
heaped upon the wreck of bliss,
machines all twisted wrung;
monoliths of wicked gods
thrown stark in rusting sun.

A silver Mt.…

if i may compare you to a bud
whose blooming breast greets the noon,
the winding folds do make
as milchèd clover clustered, as honeybees to nectarine.
if i may compare your bud to fist
whose eager fingers blossom
first to pacifying palm,
its features then hang…