When Todd opened the bathroom door and found Nick lying fully clothed in the tub with his wrists competently slit, it was not an absolute shock. Like Todd, Nick had had musical aspirations, but where Todd was an extrovert with his own band, The Headshrinkers, Nick had been a regular shut-in, working and reworking his ballads just for his own satisfaction apparently. With Marlboro lights and cheap lager Todd had coaxed Nick out of his shell. ‘Teach me one of yours,’ he’d requested early on. He had even got Nick playing rhythm guitar at a Headshrinkers gig one time. Strumming throughout from behind a veil of hair it was hard t
Though he had pre-registered months in advance, when he arrived at reception, the conference hosts could not locate his name on their lists, nor was a “John Wraith” lanyard waiting for him to collect. There were, the wraith noticed, other pale faces checking in, slipping between the hearty flesh-and-blood types who wheeled their compact suitcases about the lobby and gabbed brightly. When his turn came to pass his luggage to the porter for stowing while a room was prepared for him, the man at first overlooked him. Then, handing over the string bag in which he’d packed his best shoes, a black brogue slithered out and tumbled t
They feed you blood from a machine
are kind, want to know about you.
They feed you contaminated blood
sometimes. Then you see heaven
in the sulphur lamp & white walls.
Down a plastic tube the blood
drip drips. Your forearm itches.
Sometimes you see hell. It is
bare like the room they keep you in.
You wonder if you’ll live forever.
They expound the rule of the fittest,
population control. They let you go.
Why should the world sit in judgement
on you? Its social contract was
a cage, kept men like song birds.
You served liberty. As it is the nature
of fire to scorch, vapours to rise,
each acts according to what it is.
For this they would stake your heart.
Sunlight like spilt wine on your shirt,
you in the pomp of your difference.
You tell the wool-wigged lawyers:
Compromise dilutes the blood;
my life’s an experiment in living.
He rides in the back with the other
unnamed noblemen because to them
he’s the same. It’s like Bastille Day,
but he’s in a police van, siren sawing,
speeding towards Shepherd’s Bush.
Society is a closed shop. The press
have displayed a morbid taste for
his affairs, often factually flawed;
they printed his address as Carfax,
declared dead foxes in a cemetery
his work. Halting, first from the van,
It is the man himself! a hack cries.
You turned a brood of skivers &
hair-washers into No Reflection;
now they want to self-manage.
Like an undertaker you beat
their door. Invited over the
threshold into the bacon-reeking
living room, they’re passed out
on the couch, the floor; needles,
foil, all the petty trappings
of pleasure round them, boys
will be boys, as you hoist back
the curtain. Rise & shine.
Chill hands gripping an iron bar,
you deadlift while a man with Gone
Too Far tattooed on his deltoid
stares at himself in the mirror.
Live fast, die young, he tells you.
You go on & on, unsure why.
Years ago your pulse jammed.
In the locker room, a day-tripper
is consuming a packed lunch. You
strip, splash your chalk skin.
Red-lipped, West End bound,
hunting a girl with a pulse, he
startles No Reflection, out on
a bender, already sun-bleary,
despite Factor 50, Ray-Bans.
They link arms, lead him home
to La Nuit Fantastique Des Morts-
Vivants. Cult zombie porn. While
bodies bone on a tropical island,
his heart like a stopped watch.
Without the feeling, there is nothing.
When Todd opened the bathroom door and found Nick lying fully clothed in the tub with his wrists competently slit, it was not an absolute shock. Like Todd, Nick had had musical aspirations, but where Todd was an extrovert with his own band, The Headshrinkers, Nick had been a regular shut-in, working and reworking his ballads just for his own satisfaction apparently. With Marlboro lights and cheap lager Todd had coaxed Nick out of his shell. ‘Teach me one of yours,’ he’d requested early on. He had even got Nick playing rhythm guitar at a Headshrinkers gig one time. Strumming throughout from behind a veil of hair it was hard t
Though he had pre-registered months in advance, when he arrived at reception, the conference hosts could not locate his name on their lists, nor was a “John Wraith” lanyard waiting for him to collect. There were, the wraith noticed, other pale faces checking in, slipping between the hearty flesh-and-blood types who wheeled their compact suitcases about the lobby and gabbed brightly. When his turn came to pass his luggage to the porter for stowing while a room was prepared for him, the man at first overlooked him. Then, handing over the string bag in which he’d packed his best shoes, a black brogue slithered out and tumbled t
They feed you blood from a machine
are kind, want to know about you.
They feed you contaminated blood
sometimes. Then you see heaven
in the sulphur lamp & white walls.
Down a plastic tube the blood
drip drips. Your forearm itches.
Sometimes you see hell. It is
bare like the room they keep you in.
You wonder if you’ll live forever.
They expound the rule of the fittest,
population control. They let you go.
Why should the world sit in judgement
on you? Its social contract was
a cage, kept men like song birds.
You served liberty. As it is the nature
of fire to scorch, vapours to rise,
each acts according to what it is.
For this they would stake your heart.
Sunlight like spilt wine on your shirt,
you in the pomp of your difference.
You tell the wool-wigged lawyers:
Compromise dilutes the blood;
my life’s an experiment in living.
He rides in the back with the other
unnamed noblemen because to them
he’s the same. It’s like Bastille Day,
but he’s in a police van, siren sawing,
speeding towards Shepherd’s Bush.
Society is a closed shop. The press
have displayed a morbid taste for
his affairs, often factually flawed;
they printed his address as Carfax,
declared dead foxes in a cemetery
his work. Halting, first from the van,
It is the man himself! a hack cries.
You turned a brood of skivers &
hair-washers into No Reflection;
now they want to self-manage.
Like an undertaker you beat
their door. Invited over the
threshold into the bacon-reeking
living room, they’re passed out
on the couch, the floor; needles,
foil, all the petty trappings
of pleasure round them, boys
will be boys, as you hoist back
the curtain. Rise & shine.
Chill hands gripping an iron bar,
you deadlift while a man with Gone
Too Far tattooed on his deltoid
stares at himself in the mirror.
Live fast, die young, he tells you.
You go on & on, unsure why.
Years ago your pulse jammed.
In the locker room, a day-tripper
is consuming a packed lunch. You
strip, splash your chalk skin.
Red-lipped, West End bound,
hunting a girl with a pulse, he
startles No Reflection, out on
a bender, already sun-bleary,
despite Factor 50, Ray-Bans.
They link arms, lead him home
to La Nuit Fantastique Des Morts-
Vivants. Cult zombie porn. While
bodies bone on a tropical island,
his heart like a stopped watch.
Without the feeling, there is nothing.
When I picture you, I see a little
Girl, black-haired, chewing her lip.
Serious. Working to create
A password to open up the world--
To recognize her for the princess
She is fated to be--or maybe
An alternative route, perhaps men
Changed to swine, a sorceress.
I called you Circe, many years ago.
"Dear Boy, you found yourself
Amusing. I am old as Greece itself.
You fancied yourself seductive.
It was I who took off your clothes.
In your mirror, look, a snout?"
China, +on reading a poem, +St. Vincent by Swep-Lovitt, journal
China, +on reading a poem, +St. Vincent
back from two weeks in china, visiting son jeremy and family of wife ting xuan, and boys etele and nico. the new house they have, wonderful even before he gutted it, and made extensive changes to make it more open, will be their pleasure for a lifetime.
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each poem is a gift, from the poet to the reader. and then back again, when accepted.
before reading get psyched-up, in a low-key way. take off the coat you've worn all day. settle-in, quickened.
come to the poem as a separate, original experience. read slowly, with attention.
if you don't have a few minutes
A canvas attributed to both artist
And her three-year-old, Clara.
Purple and orange across
The center in crayon. "I only left
The room for a few seconds,
Came back, and Clara's beaming."
So, Not For Sale, Clara says
The swirls of color are unicorns--
Anything is possible,
Come out in pairs to graze at dusk.
the agricultural revolution left sapiens dependent on grains but the faustian bargain between humans and grains was not the only deal our species made. another deal was struck concerning the fate of animals such as sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens.
as humans spread around the world, so did their domesticated animals. 10,000 years ago a total of not more than a few million sheep, cattle, goats, boars, and chickens lived in restricted afro-asian niches. today, the world contains a billion sheep, a billion pigs, more than a billion cattle, and more than 25 billion chickens. from an evolutionary perspective the agric. rev. was a wonderfu
She got Chagall's Cirque Soleil.
I got the four Friedlaenders.
We split the Dalis', Helen of Troy
And Kissing Grapes,with its glittered
Angel, bough of purple skulls.
So, we moved, bedroom
To bedroom, dining to living room,
Pulling art off walls. But not until
The den, when I reached to lift
Alvar's Espacio Rojo--our first auction--
Did she break down, face
In hands, sink to the blue couch.
I closed my eyes. Returned,
Backtracking, each piece to its home.
All the days, the nights, room
After room of memories on fire.
Shoulder to shoulder,
In a rough surf, they ride
A yellow raft,
My Mother and Father.
At the first drops
Of the storm, their faces
Side by side,
They're slow to move.
Legs trailing, now
Propelled, now withdrawn,
They re-appear
Each time farther out.
The rhythm of the sea--
I complain it's pulling me
Down--the rhythm
Is my parents' own.
Hugging the raft,
They wear the distant smile
Of those quietly
Listening at a shell.
When Todd opened the bathroom door and found Nick lying fully clothed in the tub with his wrists competently slit, it was not an absolute shock. Like Todd, Nick had had musical aspirations, but where Todd was an extrovert with his own band, The Headshrinkers, Nick had been a regular shut-in, working and reworking his ballads just for his own satisfaction apparently. With Marlboro lights and cheap lager Todd had coaxed Nick out of his shell. ‘Teach me one of yours,’ he’d requested early on. He had even got Nick playing rhythm guitar at a Headshrinkers gig one time. Strumming throughout from behind a veil of hair it was hard t