majenta issue: 8 Sedition.com   Zero Salon   Devil's Dictionary X™
Section Poetry from majenta
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Things
things
    in the iris of my each eye
    there is a huckleberry pie and in each piece
    a dragon catching fly whose every breath
    in is winter pepper sky and every exhalation
    boils the things that are i.

things
   verse two
    in the focus of an infectious stye
    i loved a lass who looked unlike i­
    so unlike because, so just like why,
    against the rainy eyes of an underage buy
    i fall felling ice in pieces of sky.
things
   verse three
    in the grain of a robin’s eye
    shot at high stop with a woodpecker sigh
    the grasping caracara spent a nickel for a high
    that only feathers can carry
    and is forever closed to the flesh that is i.
things
   verse four
    in the prison of a phone whore’s sigh
    the leader pointed me out and i asked, “i?”
    the last straw man, the last goodguy,
    broking her eggs on her head, putting it all on to fry.
things
   verse five
    in the skull of a bone time lie
    i wish for peace
          and war by’n’by
    i dream of autumn fires
    about the green star time
    i dream of a winter that
    judges all by the how
    as much as the why.
things
   verse six
    under the purposefulness of an intentional lie
    i went out like a candle, snuffed by a sigh.
    my love to abolish,
    my desire to die,
    my anima to expire on a ground
       of vermillion and lake
    in a mire of tangled shy.
things
   verse seven
    in the deference of your filthy pie,
    overblown cherry
    with an ice cream side,
    you neither refuse nor desire
    and in the lack of decide
    you’re effed and blue, and bound and tied.
things
   verse eight
    in the sleeplessness of a kelp high tide
    i choked back red mussels like i couldn’t die,
    i broke the yoke of sleep and the yolks of my pride
    were this mucous brine thick
       and just this side of snide
    but what she’d been sucking
    was the same as i’d.
things
   verse nine
    in the afternoon of a dragonfly sky we buzzed off
    answers and scratched so friggin high
    that claws of the nefarious treaded
    dirigibles gone by.
    i languished impoverished
    maleducato like “come stai?”
    my pulled thread raveling dread now to
    trade all the coffee beans in columbia
       for a cup of buttered chai.
things
   verse ten
    the lie of of joy stealing is a compound lie
    and in the facets of these lies’ eyes
    live the spontaneous generations ex and why
    and their chromosomal partners dosi-do-ing by.
things
   verse eleven; the american verse
    beneath the mania of a four letter sky,
    crowning majestic, from the wound in your thigh,
    with boiling water and blankets
    i towel the gift dry;
    this boon of mass production,
    this child untied,
    this produce of my
    happy marriage to whiskey,
       my temper to fi.
things
   verse twelve
    in the eschatology of a dry bone ride
    fandom declares eros,
    tautology demands i
    go to zipper school
    to learn a grid four by
    itself the only answer
    to the puzzle rhymed with pi.
things
   verse thirteen
    in the strength of no care for who sees me cry
    i roll over in clover,
    watch fat smokey bees blow by.
    i suck the honey from their mouths,
    dust my eyes with pollen from their sides.
    in the lean of forgo and forget
    i bind your hands again with my ties;
    your immortality named spawn,
    our doom’s reincarnation nigh.
things
   verse fourteen
    in the blur of my blood sodden eyes
    motes swim and worms crawl
    and all good is awry
    and awash in imbalance
    in a tunnel i fear to try­
    there’s no light at the end of you
    and in you good men die.
things
   verse fifteen
    in the stinging salt of a pejorative reply
    i let one tear leak but i didn’t cry
    for the child she’d sold that i couldn’t buy.
    i knock back two scotches,
       eight bourbons, and some rye
    for i conceived the lesson willingly,
       i put my name to the lie.
things
   verse sixteen, the summer vacation with the cousin
    in a canadian indian summer,
       in a field of glowing rye,
    we tore through a tapestry of gold
          that was just thigh high;
    and who knew better,
       was it you, was it i?
    the damage the memory of pleasure will cause
    as the years fly by?
    the singularity of a moment;
       the instant erasure of the fact;
    the burying of all that­
          like our trails disappearing in the rye.
things
   verse seventeen
    and in a crown of a new york thought
    i wanted what i hadn’t,
    i didn’t what i got.
    two of a kind
       in jeans without underwear.
    i’d just like to prove it;
       that’s why i stare.
things
   verse eighteen
    in a child’s cry of why and woe is me
    my tears filled a teaspoon
       but i’d swear it was a sea.
    one thousand great beginnings
             gone to mediocrity;
    one thousand perfect moments
             lost as memory;
    one thousand misspoken compliments
             piling my humility;
    one thousand lonely beds from where
             i feel superiority.
things
   verse nineteen; the mongolian girl
    in the disaster of a virgin’s thighs
    it was too late to return
       what i’d no business to try;
    i’ve gone full circle and fulfilled the lie
    that made me do what she’d done
          and now i know why.
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