Blast

cumulonimbus squall

of a headache

tore me out of delirium

to blister pack paracetamol

choked almost

that raw pharmaceutical taste

mug of tea

apple spiced

wishing the phone

would cease

exhausted now

as silence fell

I took to being asleep

with tainted tongue

and abstract thoughts

Fields Ploughed

I look at my penis

skin collar

lychee tip

then piss

a long straw stream

you are not a memory

you are a gift

finger folds

and soften furze

we know we belong

but until when

the scythe decides

Chris Lawrence

Whistle Me Away

when apes discover genocide

I wonder how long I will linger

on the verdant green and blue

insulated by my own sickness

that brackish bile

of human contempt

apes will sing not our mythology

but one of burnt forests

and dried out lakes

human carcasses so vile

carrion crows refuse

to dine without the thought

of consequence

and I will lie down

human leaf litter

becoming fertiliser of the new

season a generation

or era where the truth of nature

will win

Chris Lawrence

Mystery Apex

Concussed by mornings

sharpened light

grasping cotton silence

each breath was tentative

alone

without the other

that shadow fragment

of a once upon a night

recalling synaptic responses

she knew

he had departed

but to who

or where

tears where of no consequence

why shed them

fuck memories

and fuck those

who fucked them

Mercury Drops

paper cuts once

more painful

than the striating

marks on the heart

each ventricle incised

life a blood force

poured as if from

an unblessed chalice

closing eyes

cannot make you hide

slow each breath

coax intuition

to help

it is going

yield and go

fear of life

the greater threat

even with her

whisper kisses

Carlos Drummond de Andrade – The Girl Reveals a Thigh

The Girl Reveals a Thigh

The girl reveals a thigh,
the girl reveals an ass cheek,
only she doesn’t show me that thing
— conch shell, beryl, emerald —
which blossoms, with four petals,
and contains the most sumptuous
pleasure, that hyperboreal zone,
a mixture of honey and asphalt,
a door sealed at the hinges
with a giddiness held captive,
a sacrificial altar without
the blood of the rite, the girl
doesn’t show me that thing.
And she is torturing me, this virgin
with her modesty making me dizzy
from the sudden blow struck
by a vision of her luminous breasts,
her pink and black beauty
that winds itself into a ball,
wrinkled, intact, inaccessible,
that opens, then closes, then takes flight
and this female animal, by laughing,
dismisses what I might have asked her about,
about what should be given and even beyond
given, what should be eaten.
Oh, how the girl kills me,
turns my life into one in which
all hope is consumed
by shadow and sparkle.
Rubbing up against her leg. The fingers
discover the slow, curving,
animal-like secrets, yet
they are the greatest mystery,
always crude, nocturnal,
the three-pronged key to the urn,
this concealed craziness, it doesn’t
give me anything to go on at all.
Before it never would have provoked me.
Living didn’t have a purpose,
the feelings walked around lost,
time wasn’t set loose
nor did death come to subject me
to the light of the morningstar,
which at this hour is already the first star,
violent, rising up like nausea
in the wild beasts at the zoo.
How I might know her skin,
where it is concave and convex,
her pores, the golden skin
of her belly! But her sex
has been kept a secret of the state.
How I might know the cold, dewy
meadow of her flesh,
where a snake rouses from sleep
and traces its path
back and forth, among all the tremors!
But what perfume would there be
in an unseen cave? what enchantment
what tightness, what sweetness,
what pure, pristine line
calls me and leads me away?
It might offer me all its beauty
and I would kiss or bite
and draw blood: I would.
But her pubis refuses me.
In the burning night, in the day
her thighs come together.
Like a deserted inn
closed on the inside by a latch,
her thighs seal themselves,
seclude themselves, save themselves,
and who said that
I could make her my slave?
I could debate this possibility
without a glimmer of hope for victory,
already her body erases itself,
already its glory tarnishes,
already I am made different by that thing
which wounds me on the inside,
and now I don’t know for certain
if my thirst was more ferocious because of
that thing of hers that I might have possessed.
There are other fountains, other hungers,
other thighs of other animals: the world is
vast and the forgetting profound.
Maybe today the girl in the daylight . . .
Maybe. For certain it never will be.
And if it hides itself away
with such fugues and arabesques
and such stubborn secrecy,
on what day will it open?
What would need to change for it to offer
itself to me on an already cold night,
its pink and black blossom in the snow,
never visited by me,
that boat carrying incense that I can’t board?
Or is there no boat carrying incense at all . . .

* * *

when foxes come

swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue

ticking

ticking

only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come

sunday whirl

apartment to let

vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

@dVersePoets and the joy of Googlism in three parts

bourbon

bourbon is made
bourbon is great for sipping
bourbon is not
bourbon is a family
bourbon is aged for 8 years
in new charred oak barrels
which is
lying to me
giving me eyes that see different
bourbon is a cross between an
autumn damask and a china rose
like you
eaten up by my madness
bottle madness
bourbon is velvet
cloaking the truth
despite all efforts
those eight years had gone

 

baton

baton is the tool
baton is probably the best one you get
baton is conducive for cabaret shows
baton is carried around
baton is rolled back and forth on arms
baton is great to defend yourself
baton is great for use in all
bondage and discipline situations
and comes as
baton is available in 16″
baton is best for crowd control situations
caligula would be proud
orgy proportions of a spanking latex riot
baton is combat
loss of control the eroticism
lost to a carnival mind
baton is in the hand it can twirl
baton is a sport that never really ends for me
camus you gave us him
caligula in his glory
no it is a counterpoison
antidote feeling beyond the math
baton is a non

 

pepper spray

pepper spray is often carried in the backcountry by biologists
pepper spray is on the agenda for today
pepper spray is safe
pepper spray is not a bear
pepper spray is made in the USA and factory fresh
pepper spray is a 1/2 ounce canister that is cased by stylish
plastic spongebob graphics
krusty krab innocence
of spatula mayhem
the enemy plankton
pepper spray is used on psychiatric patients
pepper spray is not for sale in Hawaii
so it cannot belong in
a pineapple under the sea
pepper spray is hot
at the burning griddle
plankton’s kind collected
searing their flesh
shaping and forming it to be
something edible
pepper spray is not a bear
as they cannot be found in our blue oceans
where our nation innocence
is a star in an armchair