July 17, 2016

these are the fourth walls ................................................................... you must break down ......................................................................... to feed your beast for wings ..............................................................



photo by Jo Spence ©



anything remotely real 
and residual-ly caught 
in a moment 
drunk with possible 
with you 
meaning to aim 
down the road 

drift wood and moss 
eaten by calendar rain 

beyond shadow form 
the rook motif was 
a symptomatic automatica 
board game warfare 

it had all the spoils 
of the robot culture 
and originally had 
come from wind driven 
wooden articulations 
the harnesses 
of kiting the skies 
with sailcloth 


thoughts when dying 

"...eventually every painting 
every photograph 
every sudden trip 
to the corner store 
you take to get away 
from it all for a moment 
is remembered 
on the hurried ways 
we leave each life 
eventually every poem 
and every expression 
becomes harder to imagine 
without you having 
to do something in it 
to keep yourself from dying 
in your own eyes 
it takes lifetimes 
of love to believe 
enough in one's self 
to bleed through 
to just one of them 
enough to be stained 
for all of eternity..."

early steam engines 
were the first leaps 
beyond weather 
and the journals 
captains 
and servers 
kept when sailing 
from Europe 
to the New World 
began to tell us so ...

here in the 21st century 
record keeping is as much histrionics 
as it is historical factuality 
we're better off dreaming 
while standing in line 
for bread or wine 
than to wait until 
exhaustion takes hold 
and drives us 
gravely off course ...

fantasy rivulet 
I get it on 
in my mind 
behind you 
while on cue 

we thirsted iron 
sucked on blood soaked tampons 
we went about collecting 
door to door with fantastic stories 
of DNA caravans threading 
between slip covered membranes 
fabric gentle pinches 
of pitched bunched 
pull releases 
we crease 
the needle 
into shimmy leans 
of an eternal childhood 
manifested as all 
physical desire(s) ... 

the poem says get over here :
I say nothing 
let the stream 
of consciousness 
word itself 
to a stilled 
scented arrest 

gingerly my fingers 
mete time, a spent life here 
with my outstretched hand 
spread o'er 
your head 
I give caresses 
taking to noting 
in an arch spasm melody 
how the blessings 
you keep giving 
of your wet lips 
feed my moans, combine 
for this poem's last line 

EJR © 






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* fully recommend you check out Jo Spence's work :    
      http://www.jospence.org/index.html

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