"I don't
break a sweat. I sit
the whole year with a bird
on my lap."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Guillotine
Many friendships have been lost here.
It is all sky, all white, ongoing.
Faith won't save us. The date-palm
in the all-consuming sun runs its little
errand in a skirt of shade. Who said
anything about salvation? The sand diviner
lisping in the burning wind, white eyes,
white skin, converts white grains
into explicit figments: the gag at the back
of the throat, begging the throat
not to scream, the head yanked up
by the hair, upheld for the world
to seeis it possible intelligence
still dwells there? That the grosser lips
still flutter out the rhetoric of health?
That the earth hangs on nothing?
That between us, there never was a thread?
_______________________________________________________________
Memory Palace
A cloud takes a lifetime
a crime, but it's also a glory,
the afternoon's image
have an art. One pulls the other
therešs a blue-purple hill.
disappear. I don't
the whole year with a bird
wobbles. Their deep
back, fast, but late
and salt on the path
_______________________________________________________________
Dark Eros
She smirks, sets herself up
_______________________________________________________________
Pecuniary
It took her in its jaws
the rocks bashing back.
What better rush
srolled up tight, a Persian rug,
What does a whippet imagine?
We love this preposterous
an exhausted bauble,
his wholesale gulp,
_______________________________________________________________
The Usual Cadaver
We fell to Earth with Lucifer.
_______________________________________________________________
to smother the sun. It's finally
the lining sizzling gold,
occulted. Truth is I don't
one down. I know
I know all the girls
break a sweat. I sit
on my lap. The firmament
purple feet. Asleep, it comes
there were poisonous leaves
like an alphabet.
on a cinder cone. How does
it feel, she asks the old mountain,
to have no choice but to feel?
Succuss of Anotonšs glottis.
Rumbles, plutonic debris.
Feel this, she hisses into his
sphincter, then does something
evil with fruit, oh, the power
to cry! Oh, to be able to cry!
His mouth is under the sea now.
The past is a quasi-fetish.
I was only a child, but my
obsession with you was divine.
and ran, her dangling head
bashing the rocks,
At the top, abrupt silence
like a dropped baton.
than an urge served fresh,
the girl's brief story
the blood at rest,
a pervert's inertial toy?
What could a trophy
mean to an Arabian?
quest. When it nudges her
into the pit, her body clinks,
rolls down the walls
of the buyer's yawn,
her edible cunt,
an optimum bargain.
We crossed the sun
the whole way down.
You would have thought
that we were cranes,
or crows of unholy dimensions,
or a form of UFO
flashing like a carousel,
warning you against us.
What is left to say?
She is adding something gloomy
to his jewelry water,
a tinge to the blossom rains.
To the oneness of allness,
an especial time, especial place
a juvenile smile
to carve in you and claim.