A poet you need to read...

Apr 3, 20136 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Apr 3, 2013

763 Views

I love her imagery, and she doesn't submit to a lot of groups:

Hearing Testwhirring helicopters are the hammers twirling in my temples,
and in the trenches of my brain
soldiers march in heavy boots.
they squeeze the spongy soil; blood seeps out like groundwater.
if i were the earth, i'd wail with the songbirds,
and caves would howl as tornadoes whistle into them.
ammunition would rust in puddles, and gunpowder would be sprinkled in tea.
in a japanese cherry-blossom garden, kimonos would be hung out to dry,
and a b-29 would chime with the silver spoons dropped on the china
helmets litter the streets, and medals cling onto trees in december,
children croaked carols; crouched underneath rubble, knocking on horizontal doors.
migraines stirred clouds and lightning so that planes would decorate the oceans
with steel-green and red paint, and if i were the earth,
i would string them up in a pretty necklace, polished with stockings covered in grit.

if luxury was rain and poured onto ushe sang with a chorus of a child's cries
as if they connected stars into dotted pictures
that broke the fall of andromeda,
when perseus' winged-sandals wouldn't fit.
he shared hera's milk with hercules, and painted the milky way.
with bristled-fingers, he stroked the vacuum and threw molecules together
as if they were a sari strewn on the floor at the foot of a charpoy,
and he and hera were thrown in between the sheets,
halos on her breasts, and Saint stripped from her,
if saintliness was pale and made love in a humble room in the googolplex of luxury.
(luxury is a saint) he would whisper,
and among the grunts and gasps, it crept into the room
and settled on their lower backs and between their thighs.
their breath fell cold, and the ceiling dripped with monsoon rain,
and snakes slithered sleepily by winged-sandals, green with mold.
(they fell from the sky, from the feet of saints
who all followed in a chorus of wails and outstretched wrists.
if children's cries could weave nets of star

MicrocosmI was a shard of something not quite present,
fitting its form over a blanket of various halogens
hungry and horny for valence electrons,
and I was that electron; not quite rotating,
waiting for recurrence time, he an unmemorable loop:
clever, unobserved, named Recurrence at an age
when bones bury themselves into rocks,
and dogs hunt for meat instead.
I was not the time, for he has taken that title;
a king bound by mucus, thicker than blood.
Mother has sewn for him poppies with heroin needles,
I was the stem and the thread,
I tightened nooses around viruses
and seeped of cytoplasm.
Aye,
For him I was oxygen not yet breathed
by his noble nose, and he was the neon, not quite pink,
for Mother has color-blinded with soap his virgin eyes,
as if colors were letters mutually masturbating in her presence.
Hymen yet not stretched with the gradient shaft of bouncing color,
he was time, and I was not quite present after all:
a prism.

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