The Love Poem. (before you write it)
You are my marks for revision.
I don't know what any of this is... but we imagine in earlier societies, there was no such seperation of the private and public self. in fact, the "self" as i see it nothing but a consequence of the agricultural revolution. So we'll try to keep no secrets.. but we can't help. Even if i wanted to tell you, by the time i reach the computer... it's gone. my notebook has many notes i wanted just to say, a few words. Speak it out in my mind and it feels dramatic and simple and wonderful... and it gets here and clumsily copulates with this white space... and produces this. So... i wrote a few poems... bad poems. all bad poems. but i might as well share them. changes are they'll just fade in my notebook. i guess i'll post a few of my ideas on reality... my reality. i don't know what to say. i'm thinking about starting journal that;s just constant posts of whatever i feel... anyway. we'll have to deal with the lack here. Lots of lack. i usually don't write what i plan or want to write... i guess it leaves me vulnerable... in a way. Vulnerability seems like a lovely thing. Not to mention my perception of reality... is constantly changing.
but love poems. strange... if i imagine her involved in another relationship... i don't feel bound anymore. what a wonderful feeling. to still care and not be bound.
First... i want to mention the power of the nipple. Walking down Bourbon street. i noticed a woman in fishnet. Naked behind a glass panel. But her nipples was covered... so it was okay. I realized that if the nipple is covered, the whole body can be bare, and it's not considered real nudity. If one wears a swimsuit, covering everything, but there's a slight opening for the nipple to show, it's nudity, obscene for a public arena. for the female body of course... odd.
(all unrevised-most unfinished; few topics dealing with romance if any)
When sex speaks
to my unbitten virginity
it is a charing
merchanary,
loading with it a bone to pick
with my bickering selves.
To burn
and brush
them, to wash
me down with
fingers
and churn me,
churn me,
to wring me dry.
~
Prostitutes, too,
are sacred babylon
reiterates its name;
concrete in the veins.
is this city grand
enough a temple
for this priestess?
There are no tricks here.
This is our fiery God
descending to our
collapsed chests.
this is the grinding tesetament,
to holy fevor
stuck in our throat.
You know what
happens
to Godless men.
~
Soft green-greys, dark fire-reds.
Bricks brush with the sunlight.
They don't bicker with my eyes.
Lamplights iron black, silent bulb,
shaped in simple beehaives.
PUlses of sunray swalow my vision dim
Impossibly-thin, dry long leaflet, pale brown
over-tuning, twirling as mechanical gians fly over.
Rubble. Shard. Wed pieces. Cement
Churned, carved, cringed.
Collapse.
Bit your lip--a bright pinch
-a sweetness
and then silence.
Asian women, mostly,
serve at Cafe du Monde, odd--you think,
pillow-shaped lungs of dough-a snowstorm of powder
sugar.--The beniet.
~
These are my identities I will not negotiate
on the counter--hard wood--Egyptian sand-texture.
-sand yellow.
It clear and crisp as the scars on a burn victim.
-Burning on burning off.
(She burns on as she burns off.)
The traffic of these red-bricks dusted pale,
surrounding me. A clutter clentches them,
this house is a fist.
Fists suffocate--and can't wrap around my curves.
Wild passions drown. Hit few nerves.
If my hands are to the sky,
I am not surrendering
to your black gun,
spitting bullets with enough
anger to punch holes in skulls.
If these hands rise,
it's only because
I'm summoning a meteor
shower
--sizzle--crash!
to crush your body dead.
Fury!--go back in the house,
i told you not to come outside!
You get us dirty.
I don't care about your low, low prices,
the shadowy fingers of Advanced Capitalism
will stop here,
we'll break them like drops of water
upon a stone floor.
--Damnit fury! Back in the house...
~
pulling in post-midnight streets
in like anchors,
as we strike passerby down
with our speed,
with my hand undulating
out the side of our dark jeep.
Enter my breath,
datafiles,
DATASTREAMS.
You told me with your thin lips
--the flesh that tunneled in
the ghost from your cigarette--
that these frames of steel
cradling red geurilla light
(on... gone...)
were your sentinels.
Watching over you.
Yes, we are not alone.
As miles Davis stops skipping
on the CD player and
electronica seeps into from our
past-wirling with immediacy.
~
Your body is
covered with burns,
biting a thick fire
blankets of snipping
and crackle. Such beauty.
you cannot shake it off.
~~Crying like a squeaking door,
inflicted with dramatic pause,
Stalin's baby swirled its hands through
the air as he locked it in my arms.
Bloody, sqirming, loud.
I saw Stalin lift it (only two fingers)
by the heel out of a gaping, toothless mouth.
I lost count of them after 5,
but this one took the
last of Stalin's incisors and molars
in its arrival from darkness
into a dark corner.
I am told Stalin will grow more teeth
tomorrow, that he could produce
bunkers of the white instruments.
The three of us approached the window,
opened to show not the orange sunset
we expected, but an endless nuclear winter.
~
I prefer our supra-industrial comlex,
with rods of tar and steel penises
summoned to scar holes in the sky
i want to see if God is there,
with his Magnifying glass.
WHen this infection blackens
our terrestrial districts
amputations will be swift,
like a pay-cut, like all
cues to commercial.
Your new vehicular time
distored. Ve-hi-cu-lar.
Efficient in such an advanced
society. Capitalist-circuit
systems phenomeninal.
Swift. Not long
and tiring, like
a Marxist coup.
Not like a raising
children among children.
I take joy in
going on in
bang!
Superhero.
all your hungry
mouths ravaging the streets.
But congratulations!
At least your being
authentic!
~
We beat and broke
our bodies,
mingled and minced
our fleshes, configured on a ceramic
palte before you. A fork-silver in your
pale hands discolored yellow by the single dim light
above you. For you.
You who are real.
Please, don't look at such a sacrifice
with revulsion.
~
What diarchy is this?
not all clear liquids
are for our injestion.
Not all diatribes...
falling, we felt our
shoulderblades unroll,
but not undone
from the bondage of our
skin. Flying,
we passed villages
tossing buckets of
image and sound.
~
Our bodies unfound,
bound under a snowstorm of dif-
ferentia.
Wake our open eyes.
If you can unbend this sky,
trespassed by cloudy fists,
and let it flap aaay into space,
like a bird loose, ever
wrinkling and undulating,
blue into a dotted blackness,
if you can unbend me,
then all precious air
among my cage-full nail
golem, is yours.
Make sure it gets home.
Your arms
are moments dancing,
the claws of your hands
have brought me
temple.
Grey mischeif,...
uncry.
These records skip,
you skipped, a white skirt.
If i bundled these roads
into a [unrecognizable word]and thre them out to sea...
and there veins nother here,
nothing here.
Could you hold to the sun sphere
the more defined the raindrop,
the stranger its body-breaks
into formless flying frames of
a fluid escaping
a single shout.
I don't know what any of this is... but we imagine in earlier societies, there was no such seperation of the private and public self. in fact, the "self" as i see it nothing but a consequence of the agricultural revolution. So we'll try to keep no secrets.. but we can't help. Even if i wanted to tell you, by the time i reach the computer... it's gone. my notebook has many notes i wanted just to say, a few words. Speak it out in my mind and it feels dramatic and simple and wonderful... and it gets here and clumsily copulates with this white space... and produces this. So... i wrote a few poems... bad poems. all bad poems. but i might as well share them. changes are they'll just fade in my notebook. i guess i'll post a few of my ideas on reality... my reality. i don't know what to say. i'm thinking about starting journal that;s just constant posts of whatever i feel... anyway. we'll have to deal with the lack here. Lots of lack. i usually don't write what i plan or want to write... i guess it leaves me vulnerable... in a way. Vulnerability seems like a lovely thing. Not to mention my perception of reality... is constantly changing.
but love poems. strange... if i imagine her involved in another relationship... i don't feel bound anymore. what a wonderful feeling. to still care and not be bound.
First... i want to mention the power of the nipple. Walking down Bourbon street. i noticed a woman in fishnet. Naked behind a glass panel. But her nipples was covered... so it was okay. I realized that if the nipple is covered, the whole body can be bare, and it's not considered real nudity. If one wears a swimsuit, covering everything, but there's a slight opening for the nipple to show, it's nudity, obscene for a public arena. for the female body of course... odd.
(all unrevised-most unfinished; few topics dealing with romance if any)
When sex speaks
to my unbitten virginity
it is a charing
merchanary,
loading with it a bone to pick
with my bickering selves.
To burn
and brush
them, to wash
me down with
fingers
and churn me,
churn me,
to wring me dry.
~
Prostitutes, too,
are sacred babylon
reiterates its name;
concrete in the veins.
is this city grand
enough a temple
for this priestess?
There are no tricks here.
This is our fiery God
descending to our
collapsed chests.
this is the grinding tesetament,
to holy fevor
stuck in our throat.
You know what
happens
to Godless men.
~
Soft green-greys, dark fire-reds.
Bricks brush with the sunlight.
They don't bicker with my eyes.
Lamplights iron black, silent bulb,
shaped in simple beehaives.
PUlses of sunray swalow my vision dim
Impossibly-thin, dry long leaflet, pale brown
over-tuning, twirling as mechanical gians fly over.
Rubble. Shard. Wed pieces. Cement
Churned, carved, cringed.
Collapse.
Bit your lip--a bright pinch
-a sweetness
and then silence.
Asian women, mostly,
serve at Cafe du Monde, odd--you think,
pillow-shaped lungs of dough-a snowstorm of powder
sugar.--The beniet.
~
These are my identities I will not negotiate
on the counter--hard wood--Egyptian sand-texture.
-sand yellow.
It clear and crisp as the scars on a burn victim.
-Burning on burning off.
(She burns on as she burns off.)
The traffic of these red-bricks dusted pale,
surrounding me. A clutter clentches them,
this house is a fist.
Fists suffocate--and can't wrap around my curves.
Wild passions drown. Hit few nerves.
If my hands are to the sky,
I am not surrendering
to your black gun,
spitting bullets with enough
anger to punch holes in skulls.
If these hands rise,
it's only because
I'm summoning a meteor
shower
--sizzle--crash!
to crush your body dead.
Fury!--go back in the house,
i told you not to come outside!
You get us dirty.
I don't care about your low, low prices,
the shadowy fingers of Advanced Capitalism
will stop here,
we'll break them like drops of water
upon a stone floor.
--Damnit fury! Back in the house...
~
pulling in post-midnight streets
in like anchors,
as we strike passerby down
with our speed,
with my hand undulating
out the side of our dark jeep.
Enter my breath,
datafiles,
DATASTREAMS.
You told me with your thin lips
--the flesh that tunneled in
the ghost from your cigarette--
that these frames of steel
cradling red geurilla light
(on... gone...)
were your sentinels.
Watching over you.
Yes, we are not alone.
As miles Davis stops skipping
on the CD player and
electronica seeps into from our
past-wirling with immediacy.
~
Your body is
covered with burns,
biting a thick fire
blankets of snipping
and crackle. Such beauty.
you cannot shake it off.
~~Crying like a squeaking door,
inflicted with dramatic pause,
Stalin's baby swirled its hands through
the air as he locked it in my arms.
Bloody, sqirming, loud.
I saw Stalin lift it (only two fingers)
by the heel out of a gaping, toothless mouth.
I lost count of them after 5,
but this one took the
last of Stalin's incisors and molars
in its arrival from darkness
into a dark corner.
I am told Stalin will grow more teeth
tomorrow, that he could produce
bunkers of the white instruments.
The three of us approached the window,
opened to show not the orange sunset
we expected, but an endless nuclear winter.
~
I prefer our supra-industrial comlex,
with rods of tar and steel penises
summoned to scar holes in the sky
i want to see if God is there,
with his Magnifying glass.
WHen this infection blackens
our terrestrial districts
amputations will be swift,
like a pay-cut, like all
cues to commercial.
Your new vehicular time
distored. Ve-hi-cu-lar.
Efficient in such an advanced
society. Capitalist-circuit
systems phenomeninal.
Swift. Not long
and tiring, like
a Marxist coup.
Not like a raising
children among children.
I take joy in
going on in
bang!
Superhero.
all your hungry
mouths ravaging the streets.
But congratulations!
At least your being
authentic!
~
We beat and broke
our bodies,
mingled and minced
our fleshes, configured on a ceramic
palte before you. A fork-silver in your
pale hands discolored yellow by the single dim light
above you. For you.
You who are real.
Please, don't look at such a sacrifice
with revulsion.
~
What diarchy is this?
not all clear liquids
are for our injestion.
Not all diatribes...
falling, we felt our
shoulderblades unroll,
but not undone
from the bondage of our
skin. Flying,
we passed villages
tossing buckets of
image and sound.
~
Our bodies unfound,
bound under a snowstorm of dif-
ferentia.
Wake our open eyes.
If you can unbend this sky,
trespassed by cloudy fists,
and let it flap aaay into space,
like a bird loose, ever
wrinkling and undulating,
blue into a dotted blackness,
if you can unbend me,
then all precious air
among my cage-full nail
golem, is yours.
Make sure it gets home.
Your arms
are moments dancing,
the claws of your hands
have brought me
temple.
Grey mischeif,...
uncry.
These records skip,
you skipped, a white skirt.
If i bundled these roads
into a [unrecognizable word]and thre them out to sea...
and there veins nother here,
nothing here.
Could you hold to the sun sphere
the more defined the raindrop,
the stranger its body-breaks
into formless flying frames of
a fluid escaping
a single shout.