the mystery f motion

piled high
the ballot
of faces
like melting marbles
left forlorn
by the oval cut soul

into the wound
it gets in
the grease
of sepsis
and it spreads
its spiderweb
through
 mildewed marrow

the cunning of a lie
is strong
our weak flesh
folds like a petal
before the unearthly chutzpah
of the sun king

but his early gains
seized in fever
are very slowly unwound
like drawing
a corkscrew thorn
from a wound

slowly learning
the truth
builds immunity
in a democracy

i suppose this is my poetry day poem

the long winter of a night
fell fast

splintered
 between days

she was a puzzle of black hair
caught tween almond thighs

writing furiously
i try and solve
all her knots

but the tangled thicket
only gets worse
as i explicate inward

each new locket
of secret information
is restlessly torn apart

yet the intimacy
seems less and less
every year

until standing naked
in the mirror
it is suddenly clear

our love letters
are of a single soul
obsessed in itself

the old lady selling eggs
remembers that before
the shattered dystopia
there was life, and fun

the old road out of the city
and its lining of shacks
pulses of mud and dust
caress the tired immacu-lite

the big pig show
rolling down the hill
licking, killing swine
ha ha havea

they don't even clod
into the mud they don't
even knowit
wigs and all.

oon

a new full moon
washes the earth
with a thin mauve slip

riding out the hours
in her permeable gaze
riding out the days

the chug-a-lug
of an air condition
moistens the moist brow

imperceptibly
loosening ice-packs
swollen with fever

her mute call
above the metropolis
urging all to bedlam

coolly shafting
the forsaken us
in ecstasy of exit

the last quarter

the last quarter
feels soft
it fades
on one side of the face

there is a gradually increasing
voidness
the light is stretching
and slimming down

any meeting now
could be the last

how will she articulate her death
to posterity?

like the clapping waves
subsuming each other
we dissolve into our children

the work is to reduce
all meaning to an instant
of gasping foam

the memory of the ancestors
is a film of brine

riding the swell
of endless generations
in the tide

the card trick

I wonder
  how is it?
  when tricks unfold

in the green room
   of your Manichee
please please implicate me

I imagine a faraway land
 a dead hand
      tending the pleasure garden

the Achaeans advance -
 quick leave a Linear B tablet
hidden there for me

Golden child
    of the teasing curls
    sing quickfast your song
         of growing old

the well worn blue shoe
      is a measure
        of  something -
      your tempest is famous

the poet's hand
       unfolds on the card table
      with elegant typography

and in some later eon
     they discovered a message
  ensconced in its dna

the perfumed remark
     of bad gods and good gods

your gated sanctuary
is better with no mention of me

so lets go over this once again
 from the top

the attic poetess

the poem entered sharply
knifing around the
testicles

then slowly
groaning like a ship
moved up through all the organs
of the body

the letting off of flairs
and degassing of magma
continued all night

until morning bright
a calculus
arrived in the skull
as a cold ball of phlegm

O muse -
this withered body
cannot make love with you
like it used to