Sul Serio

by Poetry

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

                              dead now,
               of course – no one lives like that;
                              barely call it living

black ink
               I remember – always
black ink

                              i asked him about it
               once when he was high & I was drunk
               he studied the barmaid for a while
watched her jeans & shoulders
                              & said

                                                            I just want
                                                            to be taken

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instead of simply grazing
the surface of your breasts in desperation
& could overcome their wild passions
for the logic & mathematics of poetry
or the campaign of ecstasy I execute
as Thanatos delivering your body


after years I understood that I
am not the great hero of my
own poems; all failures &
cruelties are mine & belong
to me – all weaknesses of the world
are the weaknesses I own

On the Bird’s Wings

I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson, There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on...