a slice of ham,
potato rinds,
a glob of jam,
beer bottle caps.
Inside this drum
there’s other stuff:
a blouse that’s torn,
a hiker’s thumb,
two clips of porn,
hardcore and snuff.
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You disappeared in the dead of winter,
were at your side. A hole and splinteralarmed you, but did not distress.Duty called. You would not partyour sculptor’s studio, the stenchof war not keep you from your art,from rasps and chisels on your bench.Dressed in a motorcycle coatto warm you in the bitter cold,you did not cower in fear or gloat.You stood by your…
For a moment as brief and long as eternity
a sun that never sets, forms wrought from gold, puritybefore it falls or is restored to grace, the grey skybeheld from the far side of dawn. As if in a dream,he walks amid universals, essences of names,and marvels at the beauty of birds, the snowflakes teem-ing through the ethereal windows of souls, and the flamesof…
(for Dylan Thomas)
and to the dark sermons of black-frocked rooks.The air was fraught with the breaths of angelsand the sky stood strangely above the roofs.This morning I woke with the taste of staleliquor lingering on my twisted tongue,and entered the deep grey of my heaven-hellwith a cirrhotic liver and mucous lung.This morning I woke to the coughs…
Crows and leaves beyond the windowpane,
my lines reflected in your eyes, which strainin light as mine once did, the feel of woolthat keeps our stomachs, chests, and shoulders warmunite us, you now, I who came before.You wonder how I lived, and ask what harmbeset my age? Floods, earthquakes, famine, war.Pain transcends the centuries is allthat I can say in speech…
You take the book from the shelf,
crack it open, leafthrough pages, stop at a line:a waste of paper, of trees,of lumberjacks’ painful work—each blurb on the back, a kisson the butt of modern verse.
(Ekaterinburg, Russia,17 July 1918)
the Tsar lies at the end of his long reign.(Blue lips almost struggle to explain,caught in the halfway realm of last expressions.)The Empress sprawls, hands crossing her stained bodice.Behind her rest the bayoneted heirs,blood in pools around their jewelled stares.Yurovsky stands above the heap of bodies.A Chekist practiced in the art of killing,he commends his…