*
Now my soul is hammering out existence in my mouth
crashing hephaestus-hard onto steel, bashing each hot second into meaning
almost molten and riven against the strangled backdrop
my breath steams fast into the sex of the hard night
this instant
kaleidescopic, the sky, before it heated
Press your fnger into my soft temple, curl the hair around
your index, and underneath your thumb will touch idle sideburn
the moon runs flaming along the cloudline
and thunder comes; then a second
spikey jab of rusting engines smack back through
each other petrol starved and orange crusted, pipes and tubing
full and loaded. Drive it,
drive yourself like a final time
at me
we lack eve
a scrap heap for images metal-moulding in every sainted
drumbeat of every sacred, sacred, sacred
ventricals and atrii and vesicles and capillaries
and life, oh, life, oh, harder, rushing as the sodium
in the streetlights pop and fiz in quiet, perfect rhythm
everything swarms together
even as time conspires like the sexless, loveless thing it is
to rip us up
everything swarms; tongues and palms and the faces on chests
hair, little hairs that never seem much or see much sun, and
baby strips of teflon and threeply cotton and
the ginger strings from seams of jeans discarded, and even smaller: feeling dustmites
and beads of hunky sweat from gasping pores and armpits and crevices only
just disturbed by seizing fingertips
god, if i could rub my forhead and peel off skin and open that eye, long shut
there's a moth on the fence
though its confused to be such a thing and holds its tea-stained
wings up against gravity; a transvestite butterfly. it knits its future beneath it in
a hundred bitty eggs that bobble like the whorls of fleecing on your woollen jumper,
which you stretch up, over your head
kiss tight nipples with smokey respiration
the last of any shame and any clothing is far flung
we are two lions rutting
catch each other, tails press and flick and growls burst through shining teeth. Crush grass
under bare feet: only a moment before sheathed damp with sock
only a second before, only, oh, hardest, oh, death to each tiny
tiny second, don't pass, oh, each holy thing
each jeweled eyelash, each taut muscle in each wide iris, each backlit cornea
heaves in throws of something i push beyond myself
something pushed beyond any god or any ghost and, oh,
and lips, pregnant-heavy already with spit and salt
part close to hearing and say in rhythm
"i love you i love you i love you"
*
Author notes
Or Sbuns for short.
Brasilian men are all fit as.
UGh. My god.
Please tell me what you think about breathing backwards
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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very nice write you have here...thanks so much for your entry and best of luck to you in this contest and in the future
andi
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If you accept a (im)personal point of view
I might sound stupid but it's all so very true it made me sad
what else can I compare myself with than time
sexless, loveless, meaningless
a witness that rips everything up trying to reach the end of the story for a conclusion
immaturely thoughts are black or white
mixed they won't get colored
only arrhythmia
shades of grey shades of grey shades of grey
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I don't know why I've never read this before. It's really great. Beautiful.
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Maybe it's about love between men met with enlightenment or maybe that's just what I want to see. It smells like the letters between Burroughs and Ginsberg. Beautiful with something shameful toed around. The orgasm of man building beneath as the current, the musk of man creating the banks. Transformation through removal, all too Silence of the Lambs steeped. Greek Drama? Great piece.
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Beautiful
So beautifully Written
I'm Jealous!
lol
Keep Writing And Good Luck
♥--T.R;
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This is awful; no punctuation, no capitalization, run on sentences, dangling participles, no meter, no substance, reeks of hyperbole, weak image. Written like a prose, structured like a prose.
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Mate, it's not even poetry. It's actually a piece of theatre. It's greek drama. It's fucking opera. No wait... you are, actually, right. It's a prose! A prose!
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I am reminded of a symposium recently held on the subject of Abstract Poetry. It is disheartning to say, but necessary, that while knowledge of the subject was not lacking, a certain perception was.
In essence what the participitants failed to grasp was that the move was seeking a certain potentiality underlying reality, not the river, but the current in the river, not the wave, but the power within.
As with all human endeaver, we begin with the idea, which in this case, somewhat hearkens back to Plato's idea of the cave, and we find ourselves seeking, not the idea, but that which lies beyond the idea. Not the "thing" but the form.
It was suggested that the "I" be suppressed, and to some extent this was true, as the consciousness is suppressed but not in the rudimentary form presented. The I is set aside to allow the id freedom, that is, it is the id which expresses the underlying reality. It is, of course, upon this crux that the movement foundered. The rationalists holding that there can be no suppresion of the consciousness, that any resulting communication would be gibberish at best, and the mystics holding that a third party must inevitably intervene to mediate between the clash of personalities.
As we all know, there bave been attempts at streams of consciousness, automatic writing etc, even collaborations with the same object in mind. Williams proposed cutting up newspaper or other articles and putting them in a hat, then drawing the words out one by one to form a poem. Other methods included the use of hallucingens and alcohol. The present author has tried these several methods but has found them unsatifactory as a means for communication between the id and normal reality. They were however extremely interesting, and the author recommends them for anyone espousing a desire to become a poet.
So, in one sense, the quest for a truly abstract poetry failed. The attempt however produced a new clarity in Art, and succesive movements followed, most notably Surrealim, and abstract expressionism, the latter flourishes today, tho with much less lofty ambition than it began with.
In the poem which we have before us, it is evident that the author is endeavoring to unlocked this barred door. The underlying scheme of love notwithstanding, the author is trying to release the power of the wave itself into the poem. The attempt is audacious, but ultimately doomed to failure. The syntax is brilliant but flawed by its own contrivance. One must applaud the attempt, in this day and age when we see the cause of Literature, comatose, nearly dead lying at our door step, someone at least is attempting to revive it.
I am of course disheartened at the failure. But how could anyone who is a faithful visitor to these environs not be celebratory that the Art is not dead, but only very very ill.
This concludes our broadcast for the day.
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You're worth a million silver pennies, Lute.
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the trick is deciding how much to give away: you do a fine job of toeing the line - exposing something other than the reader expects, and stopping just short of exposing the rest. it's all such a tease, the tension of sex, love, and comedy. and the texture of all these words makes them more than letters, more than phonemes - they are given (and give) a third dimension, and you're left hungry when you're done reading - your mouth still chewing sounds.
yes, brazil, mm hmm; i agree with you and centerville. beach volleyball is made about as much fun to watch as to play.
the first line is very run of the mill, and the ending is questionable, though executed well. also, the word vertebra (or its conjugal forms) is conspicuously abent. -
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Vertebreathe all over the shop, seu macaco.
Obrigado pelas palavras brancas que foi feito em terra roxa, tenho muito saudades do um tempo antigo (e agora desconhecido) quando eu nao sai de casa e gosta cada homem que eu vi.
This country...
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I always feel so rejuvenated about the possibilities of language when I read you. xo Brasilian women too. What is it about that country?
Lisa
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Woop woop... I don't know but I'm meant to be leaving in a week or so and well, I might go on the run...
Viva a libertade! Viva a gente linda! And so on.
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