Red-tipped knuckles blush from biting,
Cold from inside out. Pink,
They toil at cursing crank
Against a background white,
White. Cracking fingers
Paint the song upon the air
To see, but no one sees,
Not a soul against the white.
A youth in black stalks the ground
Where horses once had trod.
Song, a song upon his lips:
Tired, pale, and cast in white,
The moon makes folly of our plight.
“Leier,” cries the older man.
“Liar?” he who sang.
“Old man, play you one song for me?
Singest you and I of single
Tongue before we die? Ah, faded
Complete my sigh;
Alas, my journey’s end is nigh.”
Curled beneath his songster’s thigh,
Cradled against the thick,
He watches life take ghostly form
From bleeding lips in time.
Watches passive as strummer strums
And birds cries Death and empty,
Empty, bleeding numb,
Fingers crack to strum and strum.
Strum and strum.
Willst the spring, she never come?
And I am one end of a web,
Hung at times like a spit string,
And others taut,
And me, bestial,
This crooked back, bloated with pus and red infection
Yearns to touch it.
And I lack the courage
To face the silence and usher in the music of the stars,
The calling home,
Because They beg me:
Song of Ottavio
I want to smell of smoke.
I want my pistons mucked
with a putrid oil
and an elegant rush
to communicate four arduous years
in the factory,
four years and I’m your benefactory
I envy the machines that calculate.
I envy hidden motherboards.
I envy being far away so as not to feel you shake.
My woman looks at other men
because I cannot please her.
Anima mia, mia Anna,
bloodless, they say to me,
and do not give me the time
to prick myself
to see the color spread against my lace.
I am dismissed and written off
as something distracting and,
I may even venture to say,
even to you,
especially to you.
Won’t you look at me?
Anima mia, see me.
I ache sometimes
to silence the tick ticking of life’s clock,
the brass clock
that wires my toes to the back of my neck,
and with every shake
she sends me raking through
to the day,
to the cold,
and I hold her
and I feel her
and she cannot know I am miles away,
hidden away, and out of sight.
I connect myself to addictions
in a tangled set of wires,
in the grinding of my insides
and a mess of tendons.
I speak only that others may hear.
There is no one to hear.
And the hums and the drums of a greater place,
an echoing place,
a tie to something both grand and miniscule in nature,
a beckoning sort of song and line,
a line to taste a bigger piece
than what is offered here.
Am I more,
can I be more,
than the powdered collection of filth and prejudice
I have acclimated to be?
Can I place my neck upon the wood and say
that I can done and said
all that has quaked within my heart,
in the secret depths
of many hidden hallways,
rancid now with termites
and smoke stains? Am I
shaken by a virus, or by
some entity, a song,
that has yet to alight
itself upon the brisk and biting air?
Have I spilled all that I
could dream before the axe
exposes me to glisten red?
Very soon am I to be a husk
hung and dried on a clothesline.
Senza voi, do not leave,
for I can feel the end.
The pressure builds but I, I
choke it down; I push it through
my neck, caress the silver’s edge.
I can bleed.
see my red.
For a moment
I glisten like a burst pomegranate
and my notes,
they shine like rubies before the light.
I am alone
in this view,
and my sight is going black.
I am beautiful.
I told him what I tasted,
For I no longer see past sunsets;
I’ve forgotten all but one,
Which I tell to him
Because he asks.
In him I taste the Himalayan peaks
And wild pigs in the shifting reeds,
Speckled in the ichorous gleam
Of waters shattered by th’ascending star.
I tell him this, and breath,
Like ribbons, pulls its song between my teeth.
Blinking slowly, from behind a thickened landscape
Of pillows and the mountain covers,
He peers at me, murmurs, “Oh,”
And returns to set his place upon my lips.
“Touch me, and I feel the snow,
The winds of China, how they blow!”
Yet what he sees I do not know;
Dark alleys, his, I cannot go.
New Faro: Poetry 1
Begin with a world unnerving, fry
C’in with text align
with brittle petals touch and taste the sweetest air,
my sweetest air
because it is because it is the tubing
of a bigger machine,
because you are
the joint locked in time between the knuckles
of a hotter breath from pores unclean
and spitting puke.
Retch and be done,
O gracious One in skies ka-BLUE-ey,
that’s a biggun, would you
care if I sip a smaller brandy from your eye?
Could you care if I
had insect skin
so reach within a smaller,
Compare, compare, compare again,
we are the growl that follows the word.