Wednesday, April 18, 2012

no, it's not

in these wild days I go out in a basque 
what do you mean it's too late? 
imagine that—a gun against your/my head 
I'd say shoot first and ask as the cone forms 
what do you mean tonight? 
oh but between your legs some semblance of 

oh nothing, responsibility, owls that hark there 
some drunken conclave of owls flat-headed 
low-driven, the veins in your arms and breasts 
green as waterfalls 
deep as Derbyshire they struggle 

ungoitred, iodined, not far now from oceans 
but still a rejection, many-breasted 
oh the grand vibration one day I walked into 
Anne Summers, asked for a butt plug 
but imagine it was like riding 
a wild bull the faces of the masks of 
the same day the masks of the faces 

cool rain 
still smoking off the gunmetal roads 

the Rapture people still say 
they are waiting so hard 
but what they want after the Tribulation 
is so materiel 
what difference do they suppose? 
cool are the draughts
slow are the sunlit rides

look instead at this wind-worn grit 
fashion your hands to it 

out on the moor in the wet lows 
the geese shout nothing nothing nothing 

we suck up the frogweed and turn south


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