March 23, 2016

when paddle slapping

photo by Ben Ernst ©





your pink Moon over whore eyes in 
i said, can you tell me about what 
i am digger-y digger-y digging 
in this clutch fabric of yours 
as night is swaddled with it 
and seems in concentrated velvet(s) 
tremor to daylight emerging 
an urge emigration wild-ing 
with you, deep below me 

we're near the coffee table 
tricking poems with notations 
best left in scratches 

for instance, i am palming 
your breastbone 
squeezing myself in there 

the coffee table
is a fulcrum eye 
as i am past
sitting on that sofa 
with pretense and tea 
aware that getting 
to the floor where 
there are more 
tenses wearing 
your verbs 
more reveal(s) 
feel(s) more scented 
thoroughfare(s) too 

no i don't ever ever mind 
even catching the most 
infinitesimal scent 
of Persephone 

this is why 
i tide my blood 
to the rind 

mountains tied 
to rain 
oceans and ghosts 
in the clouds
they taste all our
fast little crawls between
humanity and animal when 

she said here we are court 
and flint tinder carriage 
through wind over wet sand 
i brought a blanket and
when then high tide 
we'll smile and reprise
ourselves taking a (s)tand 


EJR ©

10 comments:

  1. "an urge emigration wild-ing
    with you, deep below me"

    Today, with that picture, I'm reminded of grunions for some reason. She doesn't seem like a sexual "lick me, I'm delicious" pin-up girl right now, but rather, something beautiful and timeless, washed up out of the ocean---something that is absolutely supposed to be there amidst the sand ripples and mystical forgottens. I even wonder if she's lying there when the beach is dappled in people and daylight, but they just don't see her for what she is. Tragic and dying. Why won't they help her?

    Today, "whore" is a melding of "who and Eeyore." Who-ore? She's so melancholy and alone and has no idea who she is. Today, I read the digging as if you are unearthing her; she's been there so long that people have just built their castles on top of her, not taking any notice of what they're burying in their own quests for pleasure.

    Today, a coffee table is a table made of coffee. It's warbling, hot, dangerous energy. And what if it's only luring her in with tricks so that it can then offer not-it-shuns? No one really wants her; they only think they do or pretend they do so they can then scald her with her own unfathomable liquid energies.

    Like this:
    "for instance, i am palming
    your breastbone
    squeezing myself in there" It's one of your tricks ... making it seem like you want to put yourself inside her heart, but really you just want to slip your dick between her breasts.

    "fulcrum eye" Fool crumb I.

    "pre-tense" Before the fear, tension. Maybe it's also prey-tens, or pray tines. Because why not? We pray to everything else; why not forks? Why not everything we're just dying to eat?

    "aware that getting
    to the floor where" ... where = with air ... This makes me think of trying to escape a house fire. Trying to find the safest place to breathe when you're trapped inside and everything collapsing on you.

    "there are more
    tenses wearing
    your verbs" ... I don't even have any verbs anymore. I lay them at the altar of who gives a fuck and walk away. There is no verb left in me; which part of speech can I play that involves not ... anything? An article. Names something singular. That's what I am. It's the loneliest kind of word; I won't even tell you which one, because why bother.

    "mountains tied
    to rain" This is your cock 'n' boobs scenario again.

    This is still a favorite:
    "oceans and ghosts
    in the clouds
    they taste all our
    fast little crawls" ... But now I see sear-all(s) and seer-all(s) inside of "crawls." Little. Why does it always seem like becoming as small as possible is ultimately the answer to every question?

    I like the idea of an "animal when." Maybe it's a question, or maybe "animal" is an adjective describing the noun "when," which I like. Because those are the types of phrases I can hide inside and not be found by anyone because they don't seem to make sense.

    "she said here we are court" But are they courting, or are they in court? Being accused, getting a divorce ... or are they playing basketball? Or are they just fucking cored? Like an apple. Center stripped right out. Hollow-kissed and gutted of all mist but that which lingers behind the eyes.

    "and flint tinder carriage" A baby, a horse and buggy, countenance, car-rage. Regardless, it's all burning up up and away.

    Re-prize. Of course. I should have known.

    At the end there, that's you, knocking out her teeth.

    http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=TAND

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. And another thing...read as much Virginia Woolf as you can...the plurality of meaning(s) she explores in her writing is so up your alley...

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  2. That urban dictionary reference i never knew...oh sweet birds of paradise you are too funny aeon flux...if you must know...i separated the "s" as an homage to someone i am willing to take a stand with...thank you for the commentary...a brilliant pierce arrow of light into my underbelly dark as per usual...

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    Replies
    1. Thank you. Someone who sees as much as I do is always afraid of seeing things that aren't really there. That's why real psychics and such hide away from society. They're in constant danger of burning.

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    2. "palming the breastbone" (again I am exposing process, publicly now)
      this line/image, to me, is akin to the little dutch boy and the dyke...still rife with sexual tonality but I had meant it as a way to feel her bleeding into me...and truthfully the tits and dick routine never turned me on...eyes, intellect and the small of a woman's back...if you must know...thanks again...also check out Ernst Cassierer's 'The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms' and 'Language and Myth'...

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    3. You're going to have me reading until the end of time; no greater gift could I ask of a man.

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    4. there shall be no parameters placed upon you by me, timelessness I'm guessing can be a ring of flowers woven into the clover and only meant to be glimpsed at on occasion...

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    5. Fine. I'll wear your flowers, and lift my restrictions ... because what am I living for, but to break my own art?

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    6. keep on being you
      entropy
      poem thirst
      hunger too




      (from a work in progress)

      "...and now that Spring is here
      I'm serving drinks to Demeter
      wearing north winds with
      empty mason jars for mirth
      waiting just to greet her
      daughter, as sometimes she rides alone
      an entire song, commercials too
      while wading life in bones
      from feasts and loam pantry
      to the weight of petals falling
      as souls do, here on Earth..."

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