Eggs….

I broke an egg

soft boiled

watched the yolk

spread

in the whorehouse

of my soul

i thought

of my yolk

spread

over your breast

as I kneel

and urge

over

your sleeping

shape

my mess

your anger

limp disaster hung

itself

on my brittle facade

you left

exit by the door

i now look at

knowing

this egg will

not taste any better

 

The air has shrunk

Coughing out the lightness in

smoke and spiral motes of dust

mutable bed and our body acquisitions

cuttlefish ass damp from before

if I was not so ignorant

i would feel again

the tapestry of tattoos on her flank

precise inks more trustworthy

than my cock of threat

in denial and veiled seduction

pressed against her

the hum of bee air conditioning

positioning for me with rump pressure

she felt I could make her sparkle and shine

instead that tremored gasp

returning to her back

looking with a certain knowing

that I was a flake

who would leave and  betray

adding to that pile of detritus

and awful decay that was her life

22

they told me about the garden of love

which I knew never existed

just like the dew settles

a feeling came over me

reaching touching feathery leaves

someone lurked in the darkness

a glimpse a furtive shadow

i needed to draw out of the gloom

no fee to be paid

as wallet forgotten

my fingers picked a rose

holding it aloft to the sun

shadow emerged reaching also

for the rose

sunlit face exquisite beauty

naked radiance for me to see

entranced entwined enthralled

in a boiling swell of passion

i was consumed

infused with the flowers and trees

the garden in this garden

i would remain

many stories can be untold

but this one cannot

i belong to that once furtive figure

no more in the density of foliage

but with me

together as one

img_0370

Together always

22 years of marriage to be celebrated

Hollie McNish -Embarrased

In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

Birago Diop – Diptych

The Sun hung by a thread
In the depths of the Calabash dyed indigo
Boils the great Pot of Day.
Fearful of the approach of the Daughters of fire
The Shadow squats at the feet of the faithful.
The savannah is bright and harsh
All is sharp, forms and colours.
But in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds, neither hollow nor shrill,
Rises a ponderous Mystery,
A Mystery muffled and formless
Which surrounds and terrifies us.
The dark Loincloth pierced with nails of fire
Spread out on the Earth covers the bed of Night.
Fearful at the approach of the Daughters of Shadow
The dog howls, the horse neighs,
The Man crouches deep in his house.
The savannah is dark,
All is black, forms and colours
And in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds infinite or hollow or sharp
The tangled Paths of the Mystery
Slowly reveal themselves
For those who set out
And for those who return.

appropriate senses

one day the paint becomes too heavy for the wall
and as it falls
i snarl at the wooden frame window,
going beyond
the being drunk for days on end,
curled flakes green paint
like that of a psychiatric unit
even smelled of it,
my body grey
not creased by laughter,
ceiling fan
juddering illusion blades
imagined tugging away flesh
from my bioluminescent bones,
bareback
once ridden by the sun
penetrated by raw illumination,
walls began to shift
i am to be released
as a lost savage
in a wet city

suction into vacuum

stairs cluttered with toys
piled to be removed,
except one
that discreetly coiled
it’s own way down,
suction brush
to that clattering canister,
a sound
disturbing to child and cat,
drowning calls
of the need to suckle
partake in natures feast,
goddess did not yield
flowing locks
size fourteen
barefoot
not pregnant anymore,
prepared her strength
as he in den,
stressed oblique
took their life up his nose
snorting and breathing,
saying he had control,
yet so far from shore
he was unable to wave,
her way
inhaling only air
with bare soul
loaded the car with kids
and left,
leaving vacuum writhing
a headless cobra
on the hall floor

Action Figures by Edith Vonnegut