Blockage
this feels like a lot more
than ninety-eight point
six but there’s always
something to be said
for moderation or is
there never something
to be said for moderation
i can’t remember but
here i am and i can’t
find a cool side to any
of these pillows feels
like this whole bed
is made of buffalo
chicken and pickle juice
The Lie Is Always in the Tone
sleep
does
not come
anymore
the pills stopped being
effective years ago. lie there.
Pornography
“He’d have you believe otherwise; the pornographer’s orgasm is ordinary, ordinary.”–Robert Nagler
Ia
Depth of illusion draws us
into its fold, the thought that one
breast can be universal, perfect,
and it will be revealed to us
Ib
and do all the men in the booths
auspicious viewers
of that perfect breast
just wish to escape their jobs?
Ic
the Word does not only suggest
petty sexuality. The Word suggests
all one finds offensive. Holy books
reflect, in some respects, the Word.
Id
One poor misguided fool, maybe,
will find satiety in the release
he chooses through the Word,
and will find his own true happiness.
IIa
The door shuts, the bomb drops
a second self becomes a second self.
She oils herself and you find glory.
Look deep into her eyes as she comes
to you, to you.
Robert Beveridge
Pornography, 2, break
IIb
Fingers grind against flesh, oil slicks
a smooth stomach, her eyes close
you are immersed in her oil, in her closed
eyes. She throws her arms out
to you, to you.
IIc
the Word, again and again
but you block it out.
You find endless depth in the oil
of her stomach that glistens
for you, for you.
IId
The bittersweet tinge comes, you know
you will never see her again, not
this beautiful, not oiled
but you have found solace
for you, for you.
Siren
You no longer hear the noises
outside your window, the police
cars, motorcycles, streetcorner
preachers. The tones
of their various sounds
evade your song. Your every word
soprano honey, the drip
that dangles from the jar’s rim,
teases in a “yes”
or pours, heated,
in a mouthed “I love you”
20th Century Zeus, Looking Down
I watch a pretty girl
in a shapeless grey dress
wander through
a shapeless grey desert
out of time
monotonous rhythms
of heatwaves
fog her brain
into a thrum
a single beat
again and again
the whine
of a stockcar motor
at 150mph
a whumph
as the car crashes
into an infinite wall
the girl vanishes
into the sand
shapeless grey enveloped
into the landscape