You are a name I have taken at random from the phone directory. Soon we are exchanging recipes for bread. You confess none of your boy friends chat as well as I do. Your life history is fascinating. I continue to torment you. You tell me this doesn’t matter. Since we’ve started talking you’ve gotten…
Strindberg shouldered a cross and climbed two giant snow-covered breasts. In the crucible of his palms he said “Lead: turn into gold!” In a rooming house bed he felt the walls closing in, the roses plotting against him. And something else Strindberg did — when he drank pernod or anise, he watched a small child…
He was a piece of trash from the first, not to be taken seriously. He arrived in the colony together with his wife, a heavy woman, and two daughters who were, one later learned, twins but not the identical kind. They seemed good enough girls, quiet and formless, pre-adolescent. But the parents were, each in…
I You lie in the arms of the snow falling outside the window. You looked out a long time, then lay down. I ask if you are cold. You are. Your body gives off the only light, the bones reflecting the bare bulb in the room of your life whose door is locked. * * *…
Looking at his woman of the moment, He congratulates himself on his good taste. Her breasts, lips, legs are a moving sight, Worthy of this investment — Dinner out. Providing similar sustenance, he offers his own substantial smile, A little work of art, Always a breath-taker. To himself he drinks a toast. Were he to…
When the locks froze I stuffed my hands with rags. My wife’s breasts or small animals work but I don’t use rocks; their edges make me dream fists. Wounds close – look at a chopped tree marry dirt, look at bird’s claws knarl on twigs. I like fingers supple as flames, something to lay on…
The light settles on your face, white crumbs circling your mouth. You sweep it off the lapels and shoulder-straps of the dead you’re dreaming of. You sweep it from the dress you will marry in. You could gather it like dust, add water and make a loaf you’d die from, and having digested your own…
From where they return is not known: mouths of rivers seethe with their fever. Pilate’s finger bowl is waiting to welcome; fruit can be found in anything, even death. Hands are speaking softer than our voices. Your body lies like braille in the dark. There are components that make up a sentence. Call everything a…
What’s hard, sandy, and won’t crush like sweet olives against my lips? I lie on barbed wire but dream of caves plushed with skin. My mind’s lined with vaseline, my body cups like a breast against the sheet. Think of angels. Their marble knees streaked with veins, their thighs locked against the touch that spreads…
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