Puissant Pissant Poet

 


Slither in cryptic strips
& squirm from the shell,
lithe from the light
of death in-between
these bickering steps
of degraded glories,

my workaday straight,
now,
through fields of pride.

It is this
(the husk of the morning,
 filled with earth
 on a dearth of dreams)
that is the flesh
of the Sun,

for a glimmering night
befalls my laboring wrath,
snickering steep
& gambling asunder
a life from the light
that is chanced in twain...

yet, swarthy swaggers
my high ring hammer,
I trace to a place
of ash & love
as I nitpick my prick
to your wet bag gush.

Saws for hands
& heat with a voice.

But no more burn,
& no more shake,
'twas lightning in a bottle
that swallowed my soul,
burned a throat of night
down my cloak of toil
to a blown & bursted
heart in havoc.

I eased my edge
into chancing a grace
& begged Fortuna
for change or place.

(This faded old poem
 was found in a crease,
 so down my hall of bones
 your fire of task.)

I cannot escape
my thinking rock,
the nymphs are steeled
in carving wet
grooves through the mind
to a philosopher's stones
with a lipless kiss
on struggling words,

idiomatic voices
dawn & forget,
pride is a quiet
smile of delusion.

These ancient satisfactions
smirk vessels of thought
to a silence that speaks
like pounding flesh
& hammering high
your ponderous sigh,

my passions placed
to the teeth & entrails
that fill my dreams,

We must make love
on the stars
& bleed
on the ground.

I slithered
from hell
to alight on life.