Four Poems, Nine Seasons, Three-Headed Cerebrus.
Sometimes, struck slicked back against patterned walls,
In bedsheets ridden in sickness or in health i crawl from morning to morning,
Eyes open, eyes closed, singing to myself through brazen conchoids,
Shitting pipe-dreams, my mind in the streets, Rimbaud swollen with pride.
Tangled, dew-like, soft, cold, and torn in the mouth, caught with hooks in the belly
of an absent Dog; how long the road he walks.
II
How pallid i looked:
Bricked up old Amontillado,
Frightful horns bellowed keys to doors unlocked,
Like the day i slid birthed broken by the roots of a tree,
Or the veins of a leaf.
THAT'S what i breathe.
The last gasp of a thin seive,
Filter THESE impurities.
Tie my hands in knots, so i know what i've got.
Silk Romanian neckties, staunch-ink houndstooth patterned.
III
At a glance,
The arms wrap in circles,
Sandy beaches writhing through apertures smaller than pearly mousetraps.
Shut up shit in cluttered shutters.
Attics torn down to shine light on chipped old tennis-courts.
Last thing i remember i was lying by the river.
Next thing, it's december, light has left her, and and there's little i remember.
Trick clock, tick tock, asunder like a fresh plot.
Thickened dirt and smog clots arteries like buckshot.
Fuck god, live life like lobotomy patients with rough handed-fear,
Or just turn back thr clock if you're tired of waiting.
I smiled for two-days then wiped off my mirror.
And cut down all branches above me illustrated with shading.
IV
Let in the sun,
Caged bones of St. Peter,
Wrap it in glass,
Bind it with linen,
Eat up your fears and dreams,
Riding 'cross oceans; Tol Eressea beckons,
Frozen fountain, hailstones in miniature,
Wreathed around my unknowing grin.
Yet now i suspect, though i try near my best,
I shall never stand there again.