Three Poems (April 24, 2009. New Moon. Issue 4)

Spenser and Slayer

All speaker-busted metal in my ear,
and my blood's expanse like that of mercury,
heated, I can't but animate with the vitriol,
the swiftness,
while the life beyond me sips and steadies.

All sudden, I can't read it slow—
give me a sputtering bridge,
or vehement build into the soundbank,
the hunger,
while the life beyond me sups and stills.

Doll Mansion

You are ball-joint doll, with accessories.
Your heart was manufactured in Hong Kong.

I have accessories to fit 1/3 doll, or 1/4 doll.

I will buy you shoes, clothing, furniture,
gorgeous bird cage, pocket watch,
British tea set, tiny guitar,
metronome and wondrous hat.

And so on.

I welcome you wholesale or retail.
Any questions?

The doll mansion's primary objective is to
provide you a domicile of ingenuity.
Your ball-joint soul is shaped for accessories,
and I love 1/3 of you, or 1/4 of you—

We will sit in little chairs and predestine
our little souls in the doll mansion.

Say Something Hot

She likes to hear about sex,
knows people fill small rooms with it,
battering nature against the walls,
business, or a ransom for breath,
the gathering of writhes or wrung loves.

I tell her what I suspect.
I mention the well-regarded manners of the act,
using preferable derogatories and valued gestures.

She likes mentions, preferables, gestures.
I keep back certain phantasms in my memory,
to allow I still become enthused, as is right.

I once knew a man who died choking with sex,
organ retching in his palm as he
strangled down on a neck-tie,
tongue maddened from his lips and soon cold.
He didn't let go of his king even then.

Now it's as if he never existed.

She likes to hear about sex.
I do not tell her what I know.