What if the world ended?
That is round
And that is also round
Turning machines
Means turning seasons
From far to near
The death of ghostly children
Become old war stories
In the insane beyond
Where we remember
The world before war
Violins on old recordings
Sound reminiscent
And I reminisce about you
Music is your muse
I am your butterfly
And your dragonfly
And your sword.
Life becomes a path
Fear becomes a pathogen
I feel pathetic
Night closes her dark wet clammy hands
Around your throat and loves you like
You were a corpse in an alley way.
So much in war is death
We see it every day
But nothing comes from the unreal space
In my heart but palpable cries
Somewhere I loved you and lost you
Your dark eyes
Flooded with blood
From that head wound
We made love in the desert
In a fox hole
And died our hearts bleeding
While we watched a stage play of what it would be like
After the end…
There were worms that ate a hole in the apple
They were bullets
I saw the stark nightmare of my own life fall
Through nights’ clammy fingers
In despair they rode over the dunes
“No point now in planting trees”
We built a shelter in the shade
Life continues on like a thread of fear and violence and mindless loathing.
\somewhere there. Here. Love is a transcendent moment nothing more.
After the end/we danced/in feral circles/ screaming out into the night/ purposeless rage and rags/men die every day and live like raccoons/ stealing bread at night/women are slaves/what is left? Fire. Brilliant and beautiful Fire. Water desperate water. Life is overwhelming in it’s courage/ even here in the desert/where every one is a savage/ I forgot the best part the narrowing circles in the sky/all is lost/they give us nothing our ancestors/they stole our future/bastards/
Thursday, May 27, 2010
sweet mother
Sweet mother
Sirens come from so far away
The little string sings
My life pulls me between two extremes
The life of a lover and the life of a writer
Nothing makes a mission out of me
Here at the end of the universe
Millions of gallons of oil
The earths life’s blood
For all we know
is plummeting into the sea
my mother was violent
I know about violent mothers
And a violent mother earth
Scares me
Blacked-out-skies
And dead fish and nothing good to eat
Is frightening
I want to save the earth
Not because she’s a delicate dragon fly
But because her brute anger
Will destroy us.
Sirens come from so far away
The little string sings
My life pulls me between two extremes
The life of a lover and the life of a writer
Nothing makes a mission out of me
Here at the end of the universe
Millions of gallons of oil
The earths life’s blood
For all we know
is plummeting into the sea
my mother was violent
I know about violent mothers
And a violent mother earth
Scares me
Blacked-out-skies
And dead fish and nothing good to eat
Is frightening
I want to save the earth
Not because she’s a delicate dragon fly
But because her brute anger
Will destroy us.
LSG 5-27
LSG 5/27/2010
Music is the epitome of something said
By saints and devils
Into the spaces where we cannot see them uttering
Magic words
And magic works
Lofty pieces of trash
That love themselves
My music has a tree running through the center of its nervous body
Love loves fingers and metal and coarse hair on a young man
My pieces of fate lend themselves
To nothing.
What does art mean?
I wonder while whispers
Come from the sideways places
This Orangutan is staring at me through time
This walrus
This ship made of steel
Do whales sing like bass players?
Or do drummers play Like whales?
Music is the epitome of something said
By saints and devils
Into the spaces where we cannot see them uttering
Magic words
And magic works
Lofty pieces of trash
That love themselves
My music has a tree running through the center of its nervous body
Love loves fingers and metal and coarse hair on a young man
My pieces of fate lend themselves
To nothing.
What does art mean?
I wonder while whispers
Come from the sideways places
This Orangutan is staring at me through time
This walrus
This ship made of steel
Do whales sing like bass players?
Or do drummers play Like whales?
Thursday, May 6, 2010
oblique LSG 5/6/2010
LSG 5/6/2010
The oblique
The concrete
The staid
And the
Broken
All lay down
Under a half moon
Sky
Under Neptune and Venus
Where they vie for places
In the bones
They are broken
Reptiles
That lived many billions
Years
They were stoned to death
The night invades
And pleads
Sarcoma
Blood
Sack of guts
And diamonds
The water
We are crossing the water
And there is no one to
Quiet the roaring black waves.
The oblique
The concrete
The staid
And the
Broken
All lay down
Under a half moon
Sky
Under Neptune and Venus
Where they vie for places
In the bones
They are broken
Reptiles
That lived many billions
Years
They were stoned to death
The night invades
And pleads
Sarcoma
Blood
Sack of guts
And diamonds
The water
We are crossing the water
And there is no one to
Quiet the roaring black waves.
street poem number 1
I am waiting for you at the Isle of Lesbos,
My gay lover
The one who remembers a flower every day for my grave
I am waiting for you young woman inside every moment
When you think you have lost your self love to the years
I am waiting for you underneath wet woodland bracken and
Ageless dripping moss
I am waiting for you at home in the big black oil slick of night
The empty evening is full of music and the music loves herself
She is different like sounds can only be different if they are from the
Gut. This land that you feel so broken in is not a empty land, and my hand is not an
Empty hand. I am waiting for you where women love each other and are not ashamed.
If I told you how many poets died writing about their women you would laugh.
They died on battlefields laden with snow and blood they died cumming in their pants
They died laying rapt in bed and some died reading the newspaper. The men that wrote on naked vagabond walls about their love laden hearts.
My mother lied when I was young, she told me her love was perfect. Yet her love died within me some time ago. I am a woman. I write different poetry. Poetry of the self, not of another.
The woman in space spoke to me of my mother…she was a resonant beauty the oil on the slick that looks like a rainbow…
….she was a doll fitted with a metal bra and false pride. The unseeing bastards of childhood preach of Jesus, yet there is no woman I love more than her.
My blind eyes cannot see but the music reaches my soul. I live in darkness here in Darkness here in the place where I cannot see. This is the street. It’s not romantic.
This is the street and sound becomes my only word. Walk. Pace. Run. Dance. Sway. Do not cover your ears, yet your eyes have been abandoned.
I write poetry to someone I never saw, to someone who never held me, to someone who never kissed my lips, yet I love her less with my soul than with my body. My gay sister who was Athena. The pride we lost when women became no better then cattle.
Music reinvades my consciousness and I feel the lost love blues.
No more wet mornings of youth feeling like I was a goddess lost In time or an angel left behind. Lost Innocence loves me forever.
To be left behind in darkness is all I need…some woman out in the alley says, whores all of them, throwing their lives away for their next meal. The darkness cant be a real place it’s a metaphysical landscape where junkies pass out beneath neon crosses. And God denies his woman, Eve, that bringer of sin, was framed for her beautiful body and her ignorance…I wait for her alone and alert under the sun. My budding goddess of glory, my sinner, Eve, my lover
My gay lover
The one who remembers a flower every day for my grave
I am waiting for you young woman inside every moment
When you think you have lost your self love to the years
I am waiting for you underneath wet woodland bracken and
Ageless dripping moss
I am waiting for you at home in the big black oil slick of night
The empty evening is full of music and the music loves herself
She is different like sounds can only be different if they are from the
Gut. This land that you feel so broken in is not a empty land, and my hand is not an
Empty hand. I am waiting for you where women love each other and are not ashamed.
If I told you how many poets died writing about their women you would laugh.
They died on battlefields laden with snow and blood they died cumming in their pants
They died laying rapt in bed and some died reading the newspaper. The men that wrote on naked vagabond walls about their love laden hearts.
My mother lied when I was young, she told me her love was perfect. Yet her love died within me some time ago. I am a woman. I write different poetry. Poetry of the self, not of another.
The woman in space spoke to me of my mother…she was a resonant beauty the oil on the slick that looks like a rainbow…
….she was a doll fitted with a metal bra and false pride. The unseeing bastards of childhood preach of Jesus, yet there is no woman I love more than her.
My blind eyes cannot see but the music reaches my soul. I live in darkness here in Darkness here in the place where I cannot see. This is the street. It’s not romantic.
This is the street and sound becomes my only word. Walk. Pace. Run. Dance. Sway. Do not cover your ears, yet your eyes have been abandoned.
I write poetry to someone I never saw, to someone who never held me, to someone who never kissed my lips, yet I love her less with my soul than with my body. My gay sister who was Athena. The pride we lost when women became no better then cattle.
Music reinvades my consciousness and I feel the lost love blues.
No more wet mornings of youth feeling like I was a goddess lost In time or an angel left behind. Lost Innocence loves me forever.
To be left behind in darkness is all I need…some woman out in the alley says, whores all of them, throwing their lives away for their next meal. The darkness cant be a real place it’s a metaphysical landscape where junkies pass out beneath neon crosses. And God denies his woman, Eve, that bringer of sin, was framed for her beautiful body and her ignorance…I wait for her alone and alert under the sun. My budding goddess of glory, my sinner, Eve, my lover
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