Friday, April 30, 2010

hands like a rabbit

Chipul tau si dragostea tin dei (your face and the love from the linden trees)

always the/a momentum of love the flywheel as though credit
were bestowed by belief alone the subjunctive barnacle penis
coiled in the head now unflipped in the tracks of back brain flick
a small dog by the back door of a vacated house waits
I saunter deep past in the pool room like everything is easy
still every nuance laden with water running in everywhere
by Friday we are up to our throats to sustain the conversation
we eat flies we discuss the solitary sex habits of Karl Marx
and Margaret Thatcher we know Death is near but Love
really dreamed up by Japanese students as a sensible alternative
to ripping out the aliment in shame(baba)no one now remembers
no don't stop keep running the tape I can't stop believing
not yet



Amanda said...

hurrah for barnacles!

Steve said...

What does 'acles' mean then? Like 'pinnacles' or 'spiracles' or 'manacles'? Huzzah for all acles!

Anyway, this title is way too good for this poem. It might be getting moved elsewhere.


Amanda said...

'acles' are country cousins to the more urban 'icles'. Follicles, articles, cubicles and, of course, testicles.

Aw, you shouldn't kill a poem just for its title :-(

Steve said...

I used to be an urbanicle, but now I am a mooricle, and sometimes a nauticle.