Tag Archives: rivers

Connie’s Song- a prayer in 1400 miles of bluesky redclouds, fossils

30 Jul

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Ouvroir De Litterature Potentielle: Two Poems

15 Jul

for Raymond Queneau

One:

Or only one after the other?
Us,
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
character.

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.

Two:

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
days.

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
heard?

A terrain with the act
in which a body
exceeds.

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

Severed Head Exhilaration Blues

11 Jul

Trying to put myself
together
like calendars
and sex-
listening to the
songs of fallen
leaves-
the beginning of
the symphony of
ice
white flower
blossom snow.
Skycandles explode
in my head.

In her hand
she holds a bag
of smokedance.
I want to say
no, teeth
pressed
together
fighting with
the words.

She sits there
and stares
her body
beckoning to me
silently
like deadriver
lights, that
smile
full of hiding
breathless
whispers.

No one really
knows but try
to understand
she is the
goddess of
sunny sleaze,
and it is her
sweet wet
blossom
season.

I am ripped
up by
her
magic
wild red
laughter
which
begins the
dirge.

All the towns
have their
hands pointing
towards
doomdrowning
in liquid
cemeteries.

I fall into
purple
fairy slumber
dreaming of
buried flowers
a firebomb
somnambulist.