Cotton Books

by Poetry

he came to her bed
on some forgotten day

to read he swore & came
brandishing old books
in the sunlight dust

               smiling she welcomed
him to her bed

body-bed-body torturous
               he read for hours
until the night feeling & bedsheets
               more than a form
& the long-dead

in her tears he swore devotions
               he is devoted to her
               the books still open their
               legs in the night eyelashes
               flutter through smoky memory
               & no dust bedroom
               & he finds it impossible
to spell the shape of her body
               sounding out
                              curves & flesh

now ink moves
               an endless butchery
as dreams torment
               unlovely flesh
& cold to the touch

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modern poetry


Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist, the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule, the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire, the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow, pregnant and mute, the mist that weeps...

On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting...

For Hannah;

And the fog comes rolling in,
rolling in shrouded words
in thick black strings coiling,
in thick black strings falling
down the whiteness down the blinding purity
down the Heavenly earth turned Hellish in the mind

Sul Serio

I had a friend
who used to inject
ink straight
into his arteries
black tracks
running up his arms;