Tag Archives: constellations

Ouvroir De Litterature Potentielle: Two Poems

15 Jul

for Raymond Queneau


Or only one after the other?
a virgin was in fact the
mother of the Christ,
voyaging out altogether
recently while staying.

Rivers (I’ve seen some
rivers in foreign
countries) of time
because the world was
full of men at
sundown predisposed
to something of

I recognized a woman
by the softness of
her lips, into a
barborous patois-
remove- return home
for the disheveled
embraces, drinking,
everyone and the
earth like us and
whose face happened
to be on a level
with ours.

Listen to you. It
got late, I watch
the caterpillars.


I thought about numbers
a great deal- the
memories each one
before she could move.
It reduces me to tears
quicker than anything
else in time.

Referred to as his
aquarium- a bedroom-
though to cleave the
very constellations
there was nothing to
stop me from constantly
being unpleasant:
under return in three

Roar with laughter
because elicit information
from events would unfold
in the workmen’s peaceful-
purporting to have met me
at some function or
another- original of
these adventures take
place at night,
truth to what we’ve

A terrain with the act
in which a body

Note: this poem was created in response to a prompt at dVerse- Poets Pub


Poems, Questions & Prayers

12 Jul

Is there a deeper
resounding truth?
My electric flute
sense seems to
say yes.

My womb introspection
of strange fairytales and
falling curtains full of
sparks brings on a
delicate and almost
impercetible fatigue.

A bottomless confusion
is born within me brought
on by pattern intoxication.
Staring at paintings by old
Dutch masters arouse a
deep and often hidden
silence which dissolves
almost instantly in water.

I am left with a voracious
fantasy emptied of all
hunger and left with an
acute thirst.

I am stagnation brought
to life. Trembling under
the caresses in a garden
of always savage flowers.
My suffering becomes

My ecstacy one of rusty
flesh like a leaf floating
that is suddenly sunk
by a piano tongue
under stainedglass moons.

I stand here raising my
hands to the sky
for pure absolution
polishing the hibernating
jewels in my mind.

I look into a mirror
labyrinth, and cerebral
fires burn bright
forming constellations
of words and spaces
in between them.
For now I am done.

Note: this poem about poetry was written based on prompting at dVerse- the Poet’s Pub