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"The languid soul, oppressed with
its own weight, anxiously
requires some new and powerful sensation."
Edward Gibbon's Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire
this morning's moan ascends with unfettered
boldness
the dark you cast on our footless silence;
blood-clouds haul the injured calf
whose plangent bleats (impertinent)
melt the hardened rage I collect in this stoic's cloak;;;
awake! the spirit spun of a niggling bleak
blasts its lewd trumpet;
this ithyphallic horn breeds a hissing dupery;
it scalds the quiet beams I gather at the martyrs' soiree;;
they were for you, my love;
to loose your tangled roots;
to rip the groans of your languid soul;
to close your famished wounds.
(#8 Fall 1994)
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senile syzygy
the violin's memory, agitated, groping;
belongs to the brown shadow of dusk;
sweaty; a nugatory tumulus
with a freckled diffidence
that hides the hubric fenestrations
from which escape the autointoxication
of the raconteur;; he wishes us to love
his masturbatory tongue; clicking teeth (as he ages);
the desultory fart, symbol of a decrepid digestion;;;
his atrophied brain rolls as a pea; always backwards
to the truncated path he skipped as a youth;;
perhaps he is but an unchained yet wounded child;
though his thuggish words rap a pizzacato
so reverberative, the shadow of the earthworm
scampers to its libertine latrine
(#12 Fall 1995)
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Pythian Sisters
a kraal for you, my love;
between thickened thigh and ankle;
sunned by a guiltless star where refuse
of feeling dries a dripping sojourn;;;
come, my viviparous ladies;
hook your lodestone to the nearest tree;
sweat your blood for naught
but a moment's quiver (a vuggy fuck);;;
leave the kitten to the bobcat;
better a quick demise than a torn spleen;
(the hurting live)
surgery'd to extend smashed lives;
to lacerate the silent pulse,
then mend with liquid skin the swimmer's ear
(a lamenting river)
that bathes the gangster souls.
(#14 Spring 1996)
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