suppose the journey to the Pearly Gates
looks just like the TV coverage of the marathon?
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So this was it. I’d passed through years ago
max allowance, over three hot weeks of Franceuntil I was sick of tough-skinned monster tomatoesand baguettes without butter; as we made our sweaty wayto Monaco’s, surprisingly, Communist youth hostelbeyond the gas works and the soccer ground,around the path at the foot of the cliffs…no romance there.But here I was, as a journalist, two nights in…
In but a few years’ time
has the internet on their videophonewe can relieve ourselvesof our mutual antipathyas demonstrated on poemhuntershit-quickand face to faceby taking to the smallest roomand standing on our dignitythough seatedcall up without fearof logorrhoeaand take the pissout of each otherand having relieved ourselvesquick as a slashariseundeterred andflushed with victorythusleaving more timefor rhymeor for better or worsefree verse
The Indians say
We caught each other’s eyeacross a crowded room…she with her mates,but blushed in my direction…and when I looked at her,she glowedand I glowed.She too was ripe for passion.We couldn’t be kept apart;later in the privacy of my roommy lips sought her unsullied bloom,the irresistible downiness of her young skinand soon that soft skinwas moist with…
This is a SHOUTING poem.
not a whispering-of-love poemA SHOUTING POEM.This is a POSTER poem.Not a subtly persuading poem.not a think-about-it poemA POSTER POEMThis is a HARD OF HEARING poem.A what?I said a HARD OF HEARING POEMThis is a LOST SPECTACLES poemto test your sight.No no not LAST TESTICLESno try the next line – –A LOST SPECTACLES POEMnow where did…
Such a fine morning sight –
for extinction as they later werebut this time for preservation – a long linepatiently stretching into the distanceas far as mind could seesometimes shifting quietlyfrom one leg to the otheror from four legs to threeor stretching a winghungry to fly – but where?and one man blessedradiant in his duty, awedas that great ship expandeda boundless…
Hassless
she watched him watching her.He wrote his music; thought of her,sixtyish, Japanese; flat-breasted like a boy;she brushed her paintings; thought of him,young, eyes like an untamed pony;he grew to love the discipline in her painting;she loved straightway his wild indiscipline.That warm night when, on her tidy, well-swept doorstep,music yet unwritten met rice-paper yet to be…