Poetic Stalkings

By Dick B. Roman

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

Your perspirate body would

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,

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.

 

I have not touched you in months.

Your form pale, taut with blue lines
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.