Apologia

There was asphalt
 and a stream of metal cages
   my mind was on
a thousand shiny songs
  a million darkened outcomes
 and in my shirt pocket was
     a poem you wrote
     about bluebirds,
something quiet and  simple
      elegant, but without
 giving a damn about feng shui
       and it is somewhere
by the door or sleeping next to
         a candy wrapper.
I hope it doesn't take this the
      wrong way.
I'll get to it tomorrow
   i promise

The Pleasures of Love

your doll face , your doll hands
your heart beats inside a cage
and you love him
       the others leave you
in between boredom and
         annoyance
his falcon eyes and
  smooth body
      so strong and filled
  with secrets

     but i must tell you
that we men are made cruel by
       this world and
brought to it honestly
      it is the throne
 of all the things
          that we are
and we will hurt you
    in ways you cannot
understand
       or be ready for

he will want more and more of you
 until it burns your world
     and you are vanished
       You will be a rabbit in
         a wildfire

will turn from you when you
       give him everything

 will only be with you
  when he is with you
 until he is with another
       in a few days
 you will be a punchline
      to a throw away joke.

         you may hear it
           a dozen times
            but believe
          it only once.
don't say I didn't warn you.

In this Land

Beneath my feet
is the only land I own
and that feels as true
as the handle of a good hammer
  or my favorite pen.

Why is it, then, that
  my tongue is bitter
dust and something  does
 not thread smoothly,
  when i hear my neighbor's grief?

  This morning, I heard children
       sing "This land is your land
         this land is my land..."
  and I began to cry
           was sputtering,choking.

     My eyes were blizzard blind
         salt flooded, my breath betrayed
    my classroom whiteboard, unwilling and blank
       old glory in the corner, hanging from the wall
          making me feel alone.

Copyright © Paul Love | Year Posted 2019

Mud-larking 153

If he lights upon the mossy stone
this grey fragment of sky as if to kiss
his beak will pry and feet will comb
our feathered dandy seeks not to hide in mist
but still, in wet amongst the muck he strives
hopping about reflecting the gold rings of his eyes

 clay pipes, broken patent bottles
blue inkwells and brass buttons
the dull conspiracy of rubbish turned
 to secret doors to the naked life
 of those gone by
       and were we to tell
the secrets that we could sell
  I push history up hill
      and the birds will not even notice
 unless a little splash or swirl
            brings the present out
            of the past

   We watched for
       the sun and he did not
           forge a mighty wheel
 To the Medford and Thames
       over all and to the Tiber with him
       like a forgetful emperor
                sleeping on
             a park bench
                                     -- Reynard Crigg

via albioni

I went to see a monument
went to see aunt Margaret

whose house was next to a cornfield
  with a white porch full of pinwheels

She knew just what to do, her heart was true
We went to the bright white, city
    by a lake, which was actually the sea

  Margaret is part of the secret world
  one of parties behind hidden doors
          puddles on the bricks
 and ivy falling down the brows of houses

        I saw her with a man so handsome
            you could swear he was a statue
         so lovely you could swoon
                     with an aquiline nose so
             straight and true you
                   could carve a statue
                 with it

            I saw it all on that floor covered
                with the candid glacial glare of
                        sheets thrown on cushions
                 what a pagan show, mysterious,
                     suffused with incense and
                          the leafy smell of spoons
                                 and candles

              I had to climb up the fire escape to
                 get to our room
standing on the balcony,
          the city was making love to me
                 I have a pocket full
                        of miracles
           kiss me kiss me kiss me

Travelogue

a beautiful Russian woman
with kind eyes and strong hands
 grabs me before i slip on
  dirty ice
and asks me if i am lost
  i want to say
that this feels like home and
      she is my first friend


            later, i am drinking in a narrow
bar, the linoleum and zinc
         are making love to the TV
with a football match
       nobody really cares about
          Dinamo still sucks even
on a brand new screen they look
             like last year
We're just here
        and i drink what everybody else does
          they still know i don't belong


  I have one pan and some tumblers,
           someone left a pot in the
     cupboard, which i plan to annex and
           add to my growing empire
There are 3 plates, and now i laugh at
         my ambition but secretly
 hope that i will need even more
         
     There are yellow lights
that make the snow look like sewage
          trees are fighting back from
inside their black metal cages

  I know the language
can read the signs and
      feel aware, but
not included while i know
       that these belonging to others
              is the only warmth
                   that matters here.

shithouse

Looking at you


i can't see myself
looking down at myself
going into you and out
of you
see the ceiling fan light
 eclipsed by you and
 your warmth against
my chin and nose
pushing down as if to break
me, your hands holding back the
wall,
there is a sound a woman makes
like she's throwing away
a heavy object
  but over and over
with wild air

cannot work you into
 a setting where you
  back your sweating
        ass up to me
 and toss your hair for
   me to grab
like poetry or moonlight

or even the delicate frottage of morning
          wood against your
      panties and all

no, not you
I want to hold you in
       like breath
and let you out in
 a great silver bubble
     on its way to the surface
           warmer and stronger
while I choke on the bottom
         my love for you
makes me want to open up my skull
             with pretty sparks and
                 wet smoke.