The Brooklyn Rail

Poor Soul.

It’s hard to sell loneliness
and you’re going to a party.
You go cruising with good reason
like having silence in the heart.
You want a drink or a friend
to talk with. As the words fall apart
there are times you want another person
to come and hand you warmth.
From your own bitter eyes
you are so lonely that no-one understands.
The brick walls look very empty;
there’s nobody about for hours;
you realise there are endless burdens
pulsing behind your hidden face.
You’re of no colour to speak of
only blood, fear, and brain,
always feeling poor to the point of snap.
You say “Hello” to people
and the sounds are seen clear by someone,
then the words disappear
forever and you’re lonely.
Each time you part from other people
you feel a little death inside.

Puberty of Puck.

It’s slow writing
on re-admission of the abyss
so if this body is sleepy-tired
please walk around.

Suddenly there’s nothing
in the laws of the alphabet
that breaks open revealing
what buoyancy am I.

Surely the corpse of childhood
can’t multiply any greater?
Only the sad hole of this new void
revisiting old headaches;

I realise the image of myself
coils round soft the life,
no longer am I wise or otherwise
but alone;

exhausted by the birth of aching,
thoughts reach me
with pangs of emptiness,
once my mind wouldn’t look at,

split in thrills of urgency
growing beneath my hair,
there’s somebody inside me
that wants to fight any wild space.

“All I want is courage,”

All I want is courage,
To cut off the cat’s head,
Then drown the parrot,
that would make me
feel better, than what I am now

Poor Sod.

I am getting better on my leg,
can feel my toes move with pleasure,
sense that old heart is banging away,
feel my blood roll under my skin,
in fact my body is having a storm.
I can feel the sweaty waves
drifting in this shell,
almost hear mist rising
on the inside of my skull,
a great ocean floods my head.
Yes, what lovely sounds I make
through the sea of blood;
red, white and fatty,
a little hairy on the outside,
but who cares what the surface is?
I’m greasy inside, hot and tender,
and I love it.

“that’s it really, nothing too big under wind”

that’s it really, nothing too big under wind,
just looms of crazy nothings,
the very cold feet of a bad poet
the green love,
the frost only nibbles the blood while the heart
shivers in the hill of the night,
tomorrow amuses you
I think not too good
and yesterday hurts
to be honest how can that help a fair simpleton
what’s the matter with me,
I know very little knowledge of any kind
how to work from day to day perhaps
which means soft dirty jobs
that need the minimum of intelligence,
the wired way the western man lives
is unbelievable, the whole
scented shit covered up
in the colour of the dim
sound of cash.
which equals another man’s life;
– crime is that advanced –
& used by most

Dice.

Here’s to the high explosive deathbird
That troubles the vegetation on language
And separately opens the rare dysgenics
Rough like a mattock in the head!

Mug’s Game.

Seeking the rare truth
buried in a document
as if idleness holds poverty,
looking for talent
that’s vice violent,
like a victim burn slow,
properly desperate.

So Much For Life.

Silence is duty to support freedom,
you must dress yourself anonymous,
for under the loitering quiet
a fear roams home before you think.

You fret wild crystals out of skin
to hide in a sense you know is wrong,
standing erect in a lengthening face
that can barely hold the fright muse.

Silently you close some life to revolt
and forfeit a tiny stored dominion,
as the dearest of what you remember
must never be spoken even to tree boughs.

You pluck grief from self corruption
and rest in the midst of the journey,
then ruin your lips with well spent glue
moving in pangs of modesty like a frame.

To support freedom duty is silence
and you’re not worth a word of city talk:
you forsake the winnings for waste:
in true woe the tongue must go dead cold.

True Homosexual Love.

I stimulate solitude to satisfaction
and practice different masculine emotion
around an unfinished boy adolescence.
These masturbation interests are not
fashion, only lonely parent methods coming
out of a truly beaten boy from the past.
If anybody cares to study the habit I use,
rub up all the childhood experiences
I lived for the feminized role one had
to behave in front of domestic partners.
Early life exercised makes orgasm almost
impossible to escape with genuine joy.
Even as a man I still move under the shadow
of a woman’s belt or a father’s wooded plank
which displays effectively in the madness
I close, mounting the love one excites;
between beings I try to lose aggressiveness.
I had harsh punishment to become a legend
giving birth to one’s lover’s personal myth
and hope I resemble the source of the failure;
opportunity prostitutes itself once for love
for the active achievement I have resulted with,
the lovely-man I let intercourse the body
feeds a marriage affair and successful freedom
which I consider serious legitimate love
until adult parting doom. But here’s the truth:
do I love love?

Reatity.

For Harry Fainlight

Ice-blue is love under everything dying
& ice-blue is over the bars

it’s a level & –
the only shot through one’s own life
and all one desires.
I am, as always, in front of a mirror
without any reflection for vision;
I am so dry of love
and so old in reatity
like a bird dying in the wind
kissing the tears of pain.

Sounds drift through me
like knives of coloured blood.

Ice-blue hit me; and felt my dreams;
& all things breathe air.

Early hours are warm
with self-desire in every pit
my hands & legs are so far away
I’ve no blood & everything is bright
I keep burning in my throat
I keep dying in reatity
I hear light in feelings.

It falls like a cloud of mist
ice-blue is biting
Like sweet children boiling inside oneself
rainbows in lines of light;

There’s no holding onto ice-blue
ice-blue shakes each chamber
and spins all rain-drops in mid-air

is there any sense?
drifting up and down.

Ice-blue is blood
the sounds of life again
back to dawn.

Cars are running through the light.

Even my eyes have eyes
one can do all but which truth rules out
one can do all which truth can do
one dies for it in the end
oneself rocks the very blood of flowers.

All night
the beauty is rolling in
for in me there’s much dry pain
like silver.

I am seeing
and I feel as if I’ve loved many bodies.