anonymous love poemsLove poems from no one, to no one.
. . . marry him. by spoems, literature
Literature
. . . marry him.
1
of course,
he will gleam like photons
tangled in sheer joy.
where i harvest dead localities,
he will sheath the touchstone nerve.
his voice will soothe great quandaries
like growling cicadas solve summer nights.
his eyes will break into blessed anointments.
his lips will pierce the frighteners
and spill their silver antidotes -
a cure for every blasphemy,
a pardon for every criminal.
remember who he was,
a mystic lisping empathy
for pure, unbottled moments,
a silence worming through bicycle wind,
a gender scribbled on a brainstorm,
the flashing of satori
in the scatter-shooting cosmos,
a wonderer, w
No one must see you
living
like they do.
The Hell
in the starlit
conflagration,
the one which has polemicized
your phenocryst
intrusion
is the shape of this world,
should never lay naked
for their vain
sacreligion.
Their nonplussing fingers
will murder you.
Stay jellied
and safe
in your
slipcase,
asleep
in my glass
universe.
the morning
irresolution
has murdered you;
vicissitude,
dislimbed mementos,
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
to reassemble
the aching
chest of
screaming
nightjars,
that pinion
harp
with the
mazarine
teeth.
Can I be enigmatic, relevant
as a tiny ball of fission in the dark art of nothing?
Can I pull up all the lures and rule this aching planet
by proxy, without fumbling in ugly desperation
like an old decrepit dictator
hiding from the throng?
Can I be a woman?
Mother or whore or star nursery run-away,
I'll peel away the subscripts;
Name me in your poetry
only
and I'll put a fiery end
to the tiresome frontier
of a hundred men.
Stone me in old testament fists, it won't matter;
I'll laugh and lantern myself in pink stockings and garter,
shocking with blush wounds,
frosting my doe eyes
in feather
blo
I suppose I'm not the man that was promised (you)
demystified from between the ankles, and mothered
in a ritual plot, (still disentangling out of old supplications.)
I guess it's possible that I've no true colour, no hue essential,
and that I've turned to mirror transparencies,
waiting like a guilty prayer for the world to define my golem;
(I had hoped for a pilaster, a nuclear suit to match your aproning).
How do you draw my obsessor from your water glass? Did you file for abuse
or a pedestal? (A glimpse of my father's beard was like this personal Atlas,
the knight in search of famine, quick to martyr, proffering sta
Don't worry how I'll wash out of you
like guilty blood.
I am the taste of crying, impermanence, a bruise for a memory.
Hunger is a brutal affection.
It's all happening in the close of your eyes,
where I strangle and love you, where you
feed me in sighs and I boil your devices.
But I'm not unlike everyone, I want to leave
an impossible weight
inside of you,
undiminishing:
a promise.
Circling the display case in Victoria's Secret,
I am a fish born to space,
pinions drawn for elsewhere,
some socket full with ocean planets.
Anywhere but here.
To wit, I succumb to conventional wisdom: I am nothing
more than a hot spanner
in a globe of impossible machines.
Each fantastic demise, hung like a contingency,
slips onto you like papier-mâché,
or rather as a broken lip
spilling out like clown confetti over blistering enactments;
And now
I've leapt the balcony's breastwork and escaped!
I made off with the latest in straw women.
It's time to make your peace with intellect;
I commission you to pose
1
The hour you spoke to me (as I remember)
when some 40 Heavens
came spiring up-
wards
in a blossom fire,
my limb-
paint
bubbling from exposure;
It was the same afternoon when I made my last human sound.
Oh, I had a tongue in mind
but it left
purring into a carbon relic.
I've had to learn how to breathe
your particulates
and become star-lunged on bangles
of clear, drunken smoke.
40
Long after, I read a book of heresies and you are type-ridden there -
an indulgence of a Goddess.
She blushes when you