thick pumpkin paste scum
chip it off with a blue
pumpkin seed tomato muffin
soho cerulean in the
no bathroom, no loo
loo like in the movies
lit for sadness
and a wet-faced
look in the mirror,
hands locked on
either edge of the sink
last row lesbian show,
not now, I’m only
here for the movie
I can’t be bothered
that wonderful English idiom
leave me the fuck alone
I’m too the fuck lazy
It was apparently the wrong
place to tear a page
the wrong place
for talking about
black current lozenge
and goddamn family history
from the belly of an ancient roman amphitheater
from the top of a double decker bus
through an arrow slit in the walls of Caerphilly Castle
wearing fishbowl goggles, teetering down Wind street
in the hollow intestines of an abandoned coal mine
clutching your wallet in a gypsy trailer park
seated riverside, bookmarked with tiny daisies and sad purple lilacs
with eyes lifted by love through foggy, rainy streets
in a pet store wondering if rabbits understand Welsh
ordering pasties from young beautiful cashiers
stopped at a tollbooth at the end of the 3-mile bridge
watching fingers disappear through dense, dirty wool
eating a chocolate chip muffin in Cardiff Bay, suitcase in hand
for Greta Garbo
What dank interiors to your fortress;
I encounter you swirling olives in
the overstuffed green pleather corner booth,
soft inferno of hair haloing your neck,
script open on the table
well-mannered jazz laid to rest in the carpets;
you’re thinking of John, wearing that familiar
timeless oversized blouse, the “I dare you” visage
permanently affixed to your face.
I seek permission to sit, transfixed
and petrified to hear your most famous line
But then there’s your voice
deeper than humanly possible,
like a caricature of a woman with something to hide.
I sit. you’re doused in muscular, spicy perfume
your lips surely haven’t seen 26 years
I want to tell you it’s okay to love women
and “I’m sorry about your sister”
but instead we kick back four highballs from
the helium tank waitress and talk about
how you can never really go home.
the midwife emerges,
softened gaze on the hard-pressed house
isolate flecks of gold swimming in
the barbed wire surrounding her pupils.
in the stifling heat of September, that
voluptuous water syruped to her arms,
no emotions save numbed terror,
human life the excrement of some sky.
assembly line slatterns bathed in filth,
where to bury the baby?
William Carlos William's To Elsie
There once was a town long ago that was known for its figs. Day in and day out
the townspeople ate nothing but variations on figs: milk and honey glazed figs, figs with goat cheese and peppery arugula, figs wrapped in prosciutto, fig Barbari bread, flakey
namoura with fig preserves, juicy lamb with fig reduction, fig panna cotta, almond fig cakes, fig tarts, warm and soft maamouls…but mainlly they ate raw figs from the trees, early in the morning when the fruit retained the most water.
They lived happily that way until their town came overrun with metallic green fig beetles. They could no longer eat figs raw for fear of crunching down on a cold, splintery beetle. The beetle’s sharp wings shredded the townspeople’s soft challis curtains and at night they awoke to prickling beetle legs crawling up their legs and spines. After much frustration, the townspeople knew who to appoint to rid them of the beetles.
first it was your eyes:
my same hue but bolder,
shaped like up-turned
raindrops (gravity eludes you).
second was your hair:
waving like a leaf on top
of a quiet bobbing lake.
I happen to know there’s a
model in this room. I happen
to know pictures exist of her
that make her the size of the
sky and just as inescapable.
you are a daisy.
my dad kills daisies,
says they’re a weed,
but you are my daisy.
third was your mouth:
(only when I allow myself to look at it).