After Hearing the Voice of Peter Orlovsky


I place a cup inside a bangle
The bottom half fits but the thicker top finds it difficult
They are both the same colour; the objects
(Green, light)
His voice was much lower than I had presumed,
Low, oaky textures pulsed through my ears -
The headphones transformed the bass into an unrecognisable vibraation,
And made me feel as though I had been naughty -
His quality of voice was not unlike that of a
Heavy, New York deli chef,
Definitely not that of an ex-cop,
And definitely not the shrill Cossack twang
I had expected to wind from his lips,
Sun's making a crushed blanket across
The dark bedroom floor,
I debate (with myself) the existence of an
Ever-growing, scholarly presence - Newly entered
in the room.
Frist thing this morning I was soaked with sweat,
Now, at 12:23pm; I am once again, dripping.




A Nefarious Debacle


Poetry is striving for one perfectly subtle or unashamedly open verse,
A constant or inconsistent stream of well thought-out literate sequences
arranged to form a bleak, prosaic rug or a myriad of slow-shutter eyelids,
Poetry is a salvation-starved method of crafting the aesthetics of one's
soul, Its stylistic composition in a physical sense can hold just as much
meaning and unadulterated significance as its emotional and mystical
context, Physical appearance can evoke large, swaying rifts of emotion,

Let us not limit beauty by defining it as something that is predominantly
hidden.

Would you not listen harder to a story told by an aged man with a huge beard?







Logical for the sake of it


Shrouded, 'for the sake of it.' Brought up inside a box which grows in
conjunction with his 'little spurts,'
And so, as little boy grows, little box grows...
Big boy grows, big box grows.

Reasoning was sound, the descision was a beam of light sent from a far off
star, or a corkscrew found in a pond,
Boy inhabited the box his entire life, like an anaemic crab.
While his 'sister project' was released from her cubed Naraka after five
years,
And released upon the aerodrome public with a secret wish for massacre.
(Massacre did not occur, massacre never HAPPENED)!
'Sister project' died a disappointment,
Boy lived for sixty-five years within that box,
Curling like a sliced worm...
A big toe.
Writhed, did he,
Within humility and sodden deformity implemented by premature skin-softening.
He becomes a hecatomb to those surveying his troglodytic span,
An immolation with lumps of flesh sliding from his slick bones,
A piacular vexation in the basement of sanctity...

...The Earth thirsts.






Dinner at Animal Plaza


The door swung to;
Bandaged and bleeding through sentences,
I spoke in plain mammal-come-sophisto table humour,
She laughed, like the Great White Shark retching up algae-covered
deathmasks of tiny, silver fish.
I hid my sloth claws underneath the table
[I had concluded that it had been done and would therefore be done again]
Backpedalling, she listened;
He spoke hurriedly, disguising his amicable set of horns
She laughed once again; hurling huge fish-bone carcasses from the
deepest recesses of her roach-filled belly...
Riding on the back of a fabricated disease I had just conquered
I questioned her intimately; reducing the venom in her retaliation under
the pretense of my farced illness.
She recoiled in horror at the sight of the soufflé.
Her eyes shut and watered
...
Resounding applause seemed best-fitting.




Dirty Nature


I enjoy, frugally and without care the assumption that a pestilent, drug
addled place is a place deemed fit
in which to loiter and enjoy the world. I feel incredibly comfortable
tucked into an aching corner of an old
building which hacks old needles and belts out of its windows... I feel as
though i can talk to the earth
through the medium of foul smelling breezes and choked plants. i curl my
knees up to my chin and wrap them
in my arms. i am a safe little present left here beneath the beating heart
of the williow - eclipsed only by the
weight of the apartment block - a present wherein lurks the foul
tenderness of acceptance and the bitter swallow
of the sun god. I am delighted at the sight of streaky tracks of light
bruising the leaves as they lick at
each other slowly. Beautiful are the rocks scattrered across the ground.
Underneath the draped rag, which
leans against the curb. Left side is warm, i Leave for a wasted promise i
once made with the earths floor.
I breathe