To the
reader. We at Panic Down the
Well are happy to have a flagship poetlike Dr. Roman. Only
a highly labile mind and libido
could adapt poetry in such a modern
response to what is appropriate in
pan-gender interactions.
All must lay
prone in the decay of
thought,
and the entropy of warm buttocks.
Stepping like a horse
over a three-bar gate,
the disease
held deep within,
in check with a
latex aura.
Never shedding
chitinous armor
no jingling clink
about avian ankles,
to reveal a
soft ruddy undercore.
Always feeling vile and
enveined.
Neither
spreading the legs to expose
nor falling within
a hidden chamber,
some outer
vestibule.
Fearing the neural
splatter that would
stain the white bed-sheet of the mind.
World on fire, smoking,
sporidial,
seed-sack broken, sown in
the wind.
There are few flowers as
fair, amongst
Purpled, poisoned ivies
Your locks would level any waters
I would your
form to eclipse the sun
through my bedroom
window
in your naked
gait,
fresh off the savanna.
All birds
are startled 'cepting the one
gorged and lazy who wishes
to be devoured
by such a
creature that lays lowly
with no baseness
shimmer like cool waters,
like a
dozing pond that shivers
in hot breezes.
For a time you are transfixing
as a rosette window
of
stained glass,
stained glass,
a turning wheel of Nature that rolls
over more than my toes,
giving such things
as faith
a recourse, causing
me for a still time
(while you sit there in study)
to sketch you in words, though
even the air about
you is electric
and
adamant.
Hammering my head, now a dull chisel,
the only
thing I strike are chords
of
disdain and
remorse
as you raise your apheliotropic
flanks
off your seat
and bend out on to the street.
You can make
on choke on nothing
as I would say, but enterprise as most are
concerned, but
these things die as you
shadow the
light
through the door
for a second
in real time,
but an etenity in
mine.
To E.D.
[Ernest Dowson, d. 1900; transcribed (and spell-checked) from a cocktail napkin— ed.]
In
consumption
Your words
are better than tounges
Crosst lips
bought at any cost.
May I never
see your docks at dusk;
Or you to
view Maeve’s eyes at close
As they all
are out here at the perimeter.
For your
many hands won at Killarney
Are
squandered at the price of a few
Scratch
tickets, cheap voddy, and imported smokes.
Your
mantel is heavy as a lung collapsing in
Jubilee.
Your form pale, taut with blue lines
And rigid-back; ever-spriraling.
And rigid-back; ever-spriraling.
Looking over you, into you,
Opaque, not yet creased,
Dry humors
sucking stain
From my
stylus.
This moment
is freeze-frame,
Tableaux. All
else is tuned out
But you.
Lack of silver and sugar
Mean naught,
but to fill you slow
And frantic,
each stroke more
Profane than
the first look, so wry,
Upon your smooth
bareness.
This line
the last I have emptied
My
cartridge, but still
Turn to another.
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