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Literature Text
dead apples line an interstate heart
ten rotting cores coarsely coursing
tracks worn deeply by imaginations bounding
into mouths and slickly carved mountains
black with blood ferment the ferryman awaits
take take
take me on pinchriver salts stones rolling lull
one more mile to empty bed and empty head so full
of empty shapes draped dully over patchwork vines
and other grand reductions
fish-oil-skin crackled over flame
flesh rendered to the worm
such specious little things we fall with ears open
now de facto phantasms floating in smoke parlour pretense
establishment of incorporeal form filled out in color
ink spilled love splattered on a platter served
and thus
ten rotting cores coarsely coursing
tracks worn deeply by imaginations bounding
into mouths and slickly carved mountains
black with blood ferment the ferryman awaits
take take
take me on pinchriver salts stones rolling lull
one more mile to empty bed and empty head so full
of empty shapes draped dully over patchwork vines
and other grand reductions
fish-oil-skin crackled over flame
flesh rendered to the worm
such specious little things we fall with ears open
now de facto phantasms floating in smoke parlour pretense
establishment of incorporeal form filled out in color
ink spilled love splattered on a platter served
and thus
Literature
consecrate
authenticity an arsenic
in morning coffee, in the smiles
pressed like ironed laundry,
because I feel like one wrong breath,
one wrong kiss between glossed lips and soft jaws
and I will be nailed to a cross
deception a shame rising like steam,
where teeth grind against each other
like clockwork gears, tick tick ticking
while the tongue kisses the roof of its cathedral
like a prayer to gods yet to be named
because her face is a mosaic window
shining the sin out of love
Literature
Reykjavik For Lezayre
so slip, i stumble. fumble with the
doorknob and your key falls with me
im falling into - there you are
i see you in
these ports and the sea foam shades
of the fog that parts at dawn the day
before i find myself - here you are
i want to be left alone but -
it was the taste, salty and too sweet
it was too much and my tongue
is not appeasing or the tricks
that tease -
come close. still this one last time
there’s something underneath your
skin steady i want
inside
you - to see, how i memorize you
in every gasp that splits the air around
us and when you cum - crashing
Literature
Split
Run nails down my
arm; I won't let you under
my skin anymore
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© 2016 - 2024 nawkaman
Comments6
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How I wish poems such as this - a poet like you - would appear on another newly re-invented site I'm lately frequenting to electrify and magnetize our doddering, often self-important psyches!
This is a powerhouse of metaphoric soul-cry about our human condition. At least, that's how I read it. We the dead apples consumed and consuming, living by rout. Driving/going where? Such are the modern illusions with which we console/tell ourselves our existence has meaning. Yes, the ferryman awaits. And I'm supposing the bird/god you/we pray to with all y/our 'refined literary skill' symbolizes a longed for freedom from this excess of delusion, from this excruciating and heightened awareness of our being 'such specious little things'. And thus.
In admiration, bel.
This is a powerhouse of metaphoric soul-cry about our human condition. At least, that's how I read it. We the dead apples consumed and consuming, living by rout. Driving/going where? Such are the modern illusions with which we console/tell ourselves our existence has meaning. Yes, the ferryman awaits. And I'm supposing the bird/god you/we pray to with all y/our 'refined literary skill' symbolizes a longed for freedom from this excess of delusion, from this excruciating and heightened awareness of our being 'such specious little things'. And thus.
In admiration, bel.