|
Goddamn, it was such a great day when i met you. you called my poems powerful and excellent. i’ve never been anything close to those god-like words and yet you gave them to me, so easily for free! i knocked, you let me in. called me over with my verbs in hand - so darn simple. Harder day happened when i wrote - you didn’t answer right away like i hoped. junking out the rust and the old carburetors leaking clotted oil in your brain. stuff so bad the recycling center calls hazmat when they see it dumped in the corner behind the dumpster that is your heart. A heart so big it pops regularly and the deflating helium makes a whine like tea ready between your ears and the light from the explosion of the aortic chamber is like one Yin of the strobe light - it has no brother of Yang to weigh it out so lopsided, it is - too bright, too white i hear you in the back room sweeping dust that isn’t there - i’ve done it making cobwebs for work to do - the easy work, of time, time spun of 7-legged spiders weary of the toil you set them to - enough already! they spit - full of the flies that dropped dusty to the cerebellum last night no more they fill the bite of spiders spinning on the floor - one last zzzzz. silence. tinnitus. rallying cries - on the tips of your lips echoing - your family in your mouth i like the tears of sorbet you paint on my face like tie-die now, urgently dripping imagine - how to stain me how to drink my blood tannins impossible flesh; your newest kin your batik still weirder on my skin but none the less founded - it’s no t-shirt i swim in but archaic in form. this need, this grace fungus sprinkled with Devil Dust about your place ------------------------- 65% potash 30% stomach acid 3% eyeball of newt 1% you 1% me ------------------------- harder still to not know what room you're in now the kitchen/ frying eggs in tears serve me up/ your greatest fears Don't Feed Them What They Want! is to keep you they’ll grow and cook in kilns for you and become children of cerulean blue, and have names like Lucy and Hugh, and the trenches, well - they’re in them too the blinds are so tight again with the strain of my meanderings Don’t be scared…. it’s just me, peeking in - and i guessed you on a treadmill in slatted light singing Hey Jude - wishing through the bombs all over again for ‘68 Don’t Make it Bad the day i was born i bet you knew my words i bet you knew me then Take a Sad Song, the day you die i’ll never lose i’ll never lose you again i won’t give up on this friend i’ve not met - he’s like a staple - a hinge in my heart, where And Make it Better. dusty songs like an unread manuscript: have i give my non-existent life for this: i try Remember to Let Her into Your Heart i’m in his inbox, he is my call. i’m at his gate, he is the wall: I’m trained to be small. on second thought: not trained at all. Then You Can Start to Make it Better. but to swim in this gravy for the longest haul, with my conflicted lenses of rose and opal. Better, Better, Better. About Elisabeth HoranElisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, student, lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She hopes the earth can withstand us and that humans may learn to be more kind to each other and to Mother Nature.
She has recently been featured at Quail Bell Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review and The Murmur House. Elisabeth is a 2018 MFA Candidate at Lindenwood University and teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire. Follow her @ehoranpoet.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Categories |
RSS Feed
