Posts tagged ‘poetry from voices’
dawn
dawn
having woken from some dream
of holding you, still
tasting your mouth’s imprint, clasp
recorded by warmed skin’s cooling, i
sit and shiver, waiting for dawn.
____________________________________________________
Yes, actually, that’s real. Some partings are occasioned by necessity, and any bitterness (apart from deities and the like) directed not at self, not at her–not at life–no, the bitterness was the experience itself. “No blame.”
For John Varley
For John Varley
Immersed once in silvery
reflections (how smooth
this metallic mask, this muse!)
in that cavern
(resting on quicksilver
on Mercury),
entranced, i was moved
(but we were trapped, and oxygen
was short) to touch your breast,
recreate that fearsome beast.
(I thought my desire
‘incestuous.’)
Did you sense my momentary
desire
behind my suit’s silvery mask?–you offered,
and i rejected.
How odd to find later that both desire
and rejection
were directed at myself!
______________________________________________________
This is based on one of his short stories, and genetic doppelgangers, spare bodies meant to be kept mindless, and…I won’t give you any more of it. He was fascinated by the whole thing for quite a while.
anagrams
various anagrams
1.a rusted plow
half-buried in sand;
hexagrams.
2.i saw you
paused in your flight
before your fall,
Daedalus.
3.i have not yet forgotten
her touch, subtle
as desire.
4.clasp slipped, hand cold:
the touch of truth.
5.flight encircled, ended,
at return–
silence.
That word
cannot be said.
meanings(II)
meanings (II)
meanings. this land
is drenched with meanings.
but the dead
are merely dead.
for missy
for missy
at the shore once
i watched your hair fly
in the surf’s windy spray
i had not touched you
all that day: was it
anger or a game? (honestly, i can’t
remember…)
we had been becalmed
by strange coilings of mist
that seemed to echo
inner, unspoken fancies
(a rat ran through the surf:
you didn’t shriek, but merely
looked, and wouldn’t let me
kill it)
…it was our last day, alone
in the fog’s-sphere of sight…
the next day you disappeared.
if you were ever there, that is:
perhaps, conceivably, you
were only a fantasy, born
of the wind, the fog, the spray.
.
for S. Delany
for S. Delany
tormented and wounded
in her words’ tearing lurch, he
be-sandalled and be-spectacled
had wandered the tired
the metalled street
and tasted the stale fog/perhaps-smog
of three o’clock of a weekday
three o’clock in a greyed City morning
considering various
heroes, villains, and other fools,
having
run from the worded woman
who skewers him at times
with her merest glance
but has birthed these various
worlds, these unlikely
(and moving) protagonists; when
i stiffen in my last breath,
surely,
i shall see Kid Death
