snow & smoke

blowing smoke on snowflakes.
destroy
the only gift of morning.

i am hobbled
world disdained
grape ruined
on god's day
in god's way
(it's sunday)

sipping my goblins,
my nightmares,
bloody.
red.
remembered.

they are adequate
in their riches
of poverty's regret

i fold
and take some pride
in folding
wishing i was a journalist;
there are stories
here.

but i am inarticulate...
pavoraticly wailing
nile weeping
gaea freezing.

when i awoke today,
brutalized and bruised,
i wondered why i went to sleep
at all?

if i only had a cross to wear
i'd bear it like a soul
a spotless bride
to sleep beside
forever

but i, of course...
i sleep crossless.
and all i own for pillows?
these snow-blown footprints,
the earth they've scarred
and the shadow
of your ghost
at midnight.


the hiss of snow

the hiss of snow
and geese gone south
echo through a vacuum
cold, stark space...

this misery
turns playful with worry,
stops people in cars
in their tracks
in their wonder

while rain patters gently,
singing songs of joyous cycles,
the snow simply hisses
its secret hatred; sometimes melting
in a spiteful suicide
(before your
ruthless eyes)
on protective glass
and warmth.


the paisley blonde

in love with her awkward beauty i don't remember her name because names make a person real and there are no real people just don't cover her with flowers since she's not dead anymore she said i was somebody and i was reincarnated and i don't like to remember the child's name it was winter and the steps outside felt as if they could break under the weight of our sorrowful so longs big grey day like night-time in dreams when you can see everything but don't care to that is when i saw her hide her blue eyes from the world she said i must not care we are all alone and it's better that way we never touched nor spoke nor loved again


for those pushing 50

autumn comes
(as autumn will)
half cycled
and broken
with the endurable
virtue
of ease

eyes broken
(from all the beauty?)

skin withered
(from too much touch?)

pains hailed
(without endeavor)

and rest….
rest?


rest is the carrot
and rest is the stick.

and autumn leaves
(as autumn will)
when we will eat
the snow.


fridge poems

1:
dream
worship sleep

as if in my mad woman
a delicate boy sky
falls
like life

and day whispers
please
winter could shine


2:
we go on
the beat stops

true
he said


but men want the void
their chant in forest breast
and time's gorgeous shadow

we
you me
are above one and two and all

you sit
you ache
a lake
a flood
the essential moment
beneath
love's garden


3:
eating the sea
fingers on petal skin
smooth beauty felt
a rip in my vision
a rain gift screams through

am me
am she
go together
drunk
like an elaborate symphony
only easy


4:
madly
like a smooth forest

a shadow, true
like me

of lazy whisper
sad dream summer
under her beauty and girl appearance

though she storms
raw black tv
behind honey skin

rain love on garden crush
through sweet woman sky
my gorgeous friend


ginger no.2

the sun
reborn
twice this past spring

as the days
grew longer
some knowing
and appreciation

and contemplations on
her beauty
(yes, the skin parts as well)
but the joys
born of her smile
most of all

aphrodite from the foam
the seven sisters
the nine muses
the thousand lakes
an algebra i never understood
yet never feared
for my lack of understanding

each muscle forming
in a curved upward greeting
her lips

for just a moment
to feel complete
for just a second
to remember
for just an instant
to forget

this is all about to die
with the autumn sun's
soon suicide

she is taking
her universe
and moving my sun
like archimedes
like time

it will grow colder
the year will end
and spring will begin again
but i will barely be
a memory

from this side of the bar
a fear clenched fist
good bye


depression's wings

the clouds blacken.

blackened beasts across the sky
from darkened quarters
and shadows of my forest
which blot out the sun.

toothsome fears
live here
writhing in cold gesticulations
and black humours
and rancid smells
(black smells)
and black noises.
a spiteful taste
on a spiteful tongue
from my perch...

from my heart...


from all places where death
resides.

i live the carrion
and i know the winter,
and the cold barren places
where the snow is black,
wearing the earth's shame.

i can see the colors,
but in my stark vigil
i slay them,
until all is black about me.

the night is my comfort
and the daytime
is my thrice cursed enemy.

while i am dying
go birth your great poisons,
i smell the rumors.
i know who i am.


i am the raven.
would you like some raw meat?

i am raven, and
i am certain:
the end is near.


cold rain

cold rain
the little needles
made of diamond
gouged from her mountains
taken into gods dead flesh

and sweat
onto the exposed tenderness
of my hesitation
to have this smoke


cleave the soul

cleave my soul
and get this black stain
out
it rests with seashells
and promises
dead in the dry sand
of my mind

it rests with poetry
and the salt tastes of her e.e. (cum)mings
dead in the arid surface
of my tongue

the snow on nakedness
the sun burning reds for whites and
browns for loving
dying in the memory
of my skin

here with the arcade joys
and the fearful pleasures
it rests with the weakening muscle
of my heart

cleave the soul
and free it from
the mad undulations
of sex games and no games
free it from the dying tension
of my loins

from the soul
which greedily maintains
some hope without
while all else
dies within.


anne '05

I

we all have the exes,
the costumes,
the shivering tao,
and skin that breaks
under loves heavy burden.
(light in abundance
but here...the bottom of the sea)

SKIN THE KNIFE
DROWN THE SEA

II

she hated snow.
it melts away
and leaves its dead
black and
sodden,
everywhere.
(i hated you when you melted.
everything is blackened
still)
and like the snow
i'm under snow

III

alone
and apartments twinkle
chains of stars

IV

spitting gravel
at the word
and bathing in sincerity fountain
everything is stripped away
(bite my english
you repetitive dunces)

SPIT THE WORD
BATHE THE FOUNTAIN

V

your desert teeth
(and wordly)
draped like tethered feathers;
something
in a world
filled with thirst


seen

i've seen
the devils
in the shadows

i've seen the cats leap out of snowdrifts
and the whoosh of air
turn into gnats

i've seen
the forest
when it dances

the egg
that was
her forehead

the widow
in the nightgown
with her butcher's knife
(moonlit)

i've seen
the slug
that was a girlfriend
leave a sticky phosphorescence
while feeding me tomatoes
as it wept across
my flesh

i've seen the stars
in mad gyrations
and the truth
(which was mistaken )
i've seen the mouse in every corner
and the ants
the ants
the ants
the ants

while these are fine surprises
there's buried
somewhere deeper
behind my eyes
within my heart
these simple
needful things:
the promises from eyelids
the lips that seek no beauty
the mouth that hears the silence
and some kindness from my sins


alone

a splinter
in the soul
and a sadness
like a high school funeral.

one meeting with death
and her heavy gaze,
(like the pull of glass
or steel)
was a warm embrace
then the cold reward,
but
i'd rather be alone
right now
because
bad things
happen


angels drift

angels flit
(no 2 alike)
to join our quiet
with trumpets, silent
echoing the emptiness of air

so pure
their wings
(impurity centered,
aping our own black-fisted
ambitions)

feathers
dusting up the wind
‘til pinned to earth
(albino moths,
museum stashed)

beautiful still-life
living on the wind
whispering
“my god, it’s cold
in heaven”


severe faces

severe faces
wind pinched
and cold embittered
squint past
the day is high


cold hard rain

pellets
of moisture
running down
the face of time

and future weeps
for present's
folly

staring through
the restaurant window
with the heroin jaw
and mumbling through it

it is theatre

it is bliss

it is the utter sadness
of humanity's lot


snow’s stomp

the snow's stomp
gravel and grass

like a bull
in a china world

the city
(from above)
a microchip
wired to everything
swamped by white
turning grey


stand

i stand
with a pistol
at the edge of the fight
and the times
are afire
with the love
from my tongue
it is all about significance
the signifier
the indexed one
or the spider living in god's tears
weaving a tapestry
a bed-spread of tension
to keep out the cold
the holes in the spaces
the sides that fight
and the sides that face
me here


snow

more snow
like angels
falling from grace
to blacken with us


this rancid day

this rancid day
mirrors

gray feelings
and cold lack of...

the rain
applauds derisively

at the miles
of broken sleep


tremble

it's difficult
this filthy love
turn the black snow
back

sordid stuff
locked in dark embrace
the blood of memory

crippled from inside
each the same
but shatter the lie

tremble
tremble
tremble
and die

i'm almost done
the world awash
with ghosts


this ruinous life

this ruinous life
has whittled people
from once mighty
oak

a weeping lot
such sensitive creatures
fish without gills
swimming in their own
tears

and life has pulled
the rust out of gold

now we call gold
precious

it has stolen the cold
from the wind
and the truth
from sunlight

when i think
of fossil
i think of rock
i think of tombstone
i think of death

when i think of life
it is water
trickling through
our fingers
dripping on the stones
softer than the
flavor of spring

but THIS life?
a dry knife
made of flint

perhaps the next one
will be wetter


so dark

so dark. the sun is black
and cold
a futile ray (so weak
so old) barely reaching
the surface
of my skin
8 minutes in a vacuum
can do that

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.12.2009

Alle Rechte vorbehalten