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a gaggle of breasts
come froward, O gaggling breast;
matrix mountains with shamefaced pudenda;
turn this lickerish turncoat from the dung
of the jackal; away from Muldoon's saloon
and Holy Mother the church; bowdlerize the
thewless catechism grumbling flummery
to the open-mouthed dab chicks choking an
anile turnstile to the culumniate's white-
faced orthodoxy;;; hand me my broom; to fly
the empty tomb; to divest the hottentot's
mizzling fortitude that flouts my silver-
haired lust; dip my wings in the rascal's
otiose ocean of micturition; let's see
if my fugitive poems will wilt or die
majestic in the beak of the soul of the hawk.
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poet as painter
pierce my tongue
with the thorn of a paralytic profligacy;
before my eremite soul errs once again;;
I confess:
I've been spreading henbane with my pen;
but you cannot accuse me of frippery;
protean by nature,
these poems are quick to copulate with the wind;;;
did Renoir really paint with his penis??
if so, I offer nipples hard and soft;
dipped in quinacridone violet;
petalled as pure as a lily;
my nose dipped in burnt sienna;
and my talons, in the blood of a renegade poet.
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"Miserere mei, Deus, secundum
magnum misericordium tuam." "Have mercy on me, O God,
according to Thy loving mercy."
C.3.3*
I am the quintessential caterwaul;
the recycled soul waiting to enter a womb;
I am the echo of a choirboy's sophistry;
with a sooty sonata flumping kudos
on the wing of a hawk;; this mountain,
a recalcitrant mule, ferocious in its obstinance;
now festered; now festooned;
thwacks the penitential blind
who rise with the unswallowed smoke;
who giggle in the face of a coddled mortuary.
*Oscar Wilde's number while imprisoned at Reading Gaol
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grasp the tail of the coyote
this desert that houses the scorpion,
the serpent rattler, thorned blossoms;
whose wind whistles through the ear of the airhead
and caresses the cheek of the gilly flower;
also blesses the sacred datura; and heaves
its skirling bones in the face of polemic pliability;;
the heterodoxic lizard scurries to its shack;
lights up, passes out, without noticing
the trout that swims the mirage;
without grasping the tail of the coyote
that would lend its fur in the dampness of August;
that promises no stagnant ideology
but offers wings to whir with,
and flowers whose centers
smell sweetly
of humanity's
hard knocks
#7 1994
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