Litkicks Message Board Archive

next to a virgin

Posted to Action Poetry







Next to a virgin who feeds me
her sweetness until exhausted,
tropical, wax fruits;
love almost made in the image
of what it should be,
but really just a talking doll,
and a dangerous game
of not turning into real fruits.
Punishment: impotence, sexual blunders,
sadness, wanting to die.

- Enrique Lihn,
"Six Poems of Loneliness"



Stupid surrenders
and sins
out of tins,
cushions and pushes
and intrusions
and lips . . .
holy confetti
and holy confi,
polly and holly
and markus mcfee -
stirrups
and girups
and strenuous e’s
and wisdomless
pathos and psychos
and cheeze -
sexy young dippers
and whimpers
and wine -
and chimneys
and dolfins
and costumes
and chimes -
holy my moly
and dolly my moo -
sip out my holey
and eat all my poo -
begin with the kitchen
and finish the soup
there in the ally
above the white dude -
moroccan hashishi
is golden like fries
you buy in mcdonalds
for just 99
cents
and golden long cups
of free German beer
and bumbly your drunk
year after year -
my slowly
my madly
my glistening tongue -
my eyes
are all madly
in love with your lung -
your green eyes
your pale skin
your gentle gold hair -
where are you baby,
where are you days
of longing on campsites
and watching the skies
and nothing and nothing
just clouds clouds clouds -
beautiful girls
I remember you well
in a restaurant
you served me cocaine -
and sometimes you’d enter
my melodies
when composing the notes
to a guitar in my dreams -
composition of math
and physics and
words -
poetry in the morning,
poetry in the noon -
poetry in the blues,
and the yellows,
and blooms -
in the gray-vinyl-bluish-
extended light-gray -
in the dim-pink-white-yellow-
in the foggy-light-blue
and in all the pure white
and the halls out of clay,
and the sky out of pans,
and streets out of glue.
A deep pastoral
meaning
watercoloral shades
are in parks
of my shapes
and my sharks
in my shakes -
you can take
all you make
and then bake it up good-
give it to me
I will eat it
it’s food -
food is good
if the food
is made out of wine
or any strong drink
for that matter of time -
or just anything high
or just anything low -
anything that resembles
the blow of the sky.
And a face -
a delicious dark face,
in the corner of darkness
behind the locked fence -
it’s a beautiful place
beyond carnal dreams,
where the fences are traced
along the borders of streams,
and the rivers are flowing
like the sheared blissful fears,
clipped out all of the flowers
in the winds of lost tears.
Lost forgotten this world
is lest left to such men
who cannot understand
what created
what stood -
stupid wastes on long highs
in the mechanized time
of our eyes
of our lips -
of our noses
and lies;
of our wishes
and secrets
and sexual dreams -
of our damned burning demons
in the halls of our shame -
don’t complain
if you are
the most beautiful kind,
then you’re blessed
with the gift
of entering minds -
your aesthetic conception
of body and mind
mind and soul
is beautifully kind -
try and define
all the things that pass by -
flocks of birds,
trucks of grass,
words, and colors, and jazz -
motion, time, light, and speed -
realize they exist -
and they are in existence
non-existent as peace.

. . . and so smile at me now,
I wish to embrace you,
hold your hand, smell your hair,
and then call you my friend

and remember you always
and this chill
and this weather
and this terrible pain
and your wonderful truth

truth must be in existence
in all art and creation,
therefore you - a creation
by some angel whose young
feathers have touched on your features so patient,
so purely harmonious
is created just once . . .

now we’re friends
lets farewell
and meet somewhere soon -
in a million years perhaps
on two sides of the moon.



(c)2002 Robert Young
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