Sunday, December 26, 2010

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

the colour wheel

A Red Nebula

I thought of one girl's dress
with her red legs migrating beneath it
(Alouette, gentille Alouette)
friendless but hoping for chances
her tanned shoulders, bony like a fish
making solitude of her body's architecture
a white firmament that holds stars in the form of
freckles that smear her cheeks and arms
the pink smile of her tan lines are vacuous
(Alouette, je te plumerai)
her feathers are bland and unhappy
dead too young, or before her time
everything has come to sleep in her eyes
the dress is continuous
there is no nudity beneath
her breasts
her thigh
they are the curve of mortality
receding forever in the universe

there is no want in my mouth
or hunger in my finger tips
I'm not in pain - I don't ache
my hands don't itch or shake
but my throat is dry
and I feel like turning you on

s. Sparling

prisoner of mars

Sunday, December 19, 2010

the old world


master of hands of stars and nudists
the lady is taming a snake
she is charming a magic snake
arms - milk white - sumptuous
body like a blue electric arc
dancing with the eel
she is immune to the bone tooth
impervious to god venom
and a black lace layer of lingerie 
space black and revealing
cloys to her rolls of flesh
making a whispering curtain
between the white cloud of breast
and the yellow serpent coil
master of hands with tulips and roses
king of kaleidoscope puddles
why would you ever allow it?
have you been struck blind by arrows?
or do you see and choose not to move
or can you not move?
master of hands and nicks and scratches
the snake has struck her heart
she never bleeds but her eyes
turn blank as an april's sun
and the snake reveals its belly and dies
and the lady reveals her smile and dies
master of hands you've witnessed all
but your joints are sluggish and sleeping
what will it take to shake you
another lady?
another snake?

S. Sparling

Sunday, December 5, 2010

sweet marie

cloud on the tracks


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
 Among twenty snowy mountains,
 The only moving thing
 Was the eye of the blackbird.

 I was of three minds,
 Like a tree
 In which there are three blackbirds.

 The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
 It was a small part of the pantomime.

 A man and a woman
 Are one.
 A man and a woman and a blackbird
 Are one.

 I do not know which to prefer,
 The beauty of inflections
 Or the beauty of innuendoes,
 The blackbird whistling
 Or just after.

 Icicles filled the long window
 With barbaric glass.
 The shadow of the blackbird
 Crossed it, to and fro.
 The mood
 Traced in the shadow
 An indecipherable cause.

 O thin men of Haddam,
 Why do you imagine golden birds?
 Do you not see how the blackbird
 Walks around the feet
 Of the women about you?

 I know noble accents
 And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
 But I know, too,
 That the blackbird is involved
 In what I know.

 When the blackbird flew out of sight,
 It marked the edge
 Of one of many circles.

 At the sight of blackbirds
 Flying in a green light,
 Even the bawds of euphony
 Would cry out sharply.

 He rode over Connecticut
 In a glass coach.
 Once, a fear pierced him,
 In that he mistook
 The shadow of his equipage
 For blackbirds.

 The river is moving.
 The blackbird must be flying.

 It was evening all afternoon.
 It was snowing
 And it was going to snow.
 The blackbird sat
 In the cedar-limbs.

W. Stevens

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Monday, November 29, 2010

sex lives

I've been told that there are savage young sons
who perch themselves upon the steeps
they've never felt any love, they've never felt any peace
and any who see them find themselves in chains
find themselves tied naked to an oak tree
where all the saintliness of the crucifix is wasted in the form
of one more drop of blood on the tip of my finger
so I dream a sentence that captures you and says
squeeze me like a stone bible - resilient
read the brail that bubbles up on my skin in white welts
hot and pulsing as the late evening light shawn down
in a quiet room forgotten by the eyelids of anyone
on a casket where I raise your nipples from the dead
this is like heat, this is like sparks, this is like fire
preaching like a rainbow in studded repose
with hymns of your gemstone teeth on my neck
a sunrise conducting fellatio on the horizon
greased and the stars split into pairs and hush
rub together like flint on steel - vibrating onward
those savage young sons don't understand
what makes the beast track a thousand miles
or kill in the orgasmic dance of violence
those savage young sons don't comprehend
that your thighs are the passage to the gate
and the gate will change your life

I grabbed her arms and pushed her on the bed
I was rough and I was unkind to her
her skirt slid over her knees
her tights split along the seam where I tore
she gasped and squeezed her breast
she ran her fingers through my hair
I bit the plump flesh of her labia
I flicked her clit with my tongue
and then there was nothing left
but sounds and scents and touch
nothing but eight limbs tangled
and a cry disposed to a soft reprise

s. sparling

Your mama's forgetful face

The King of Siam

its about me

its all about me
the earth moves on the axis
of my neck rotating
with joints that function
along side muscles that tighten
and eat up all this energy
gathered by the hands of stars
molded inside the echo chamber
of my mother's jaded womb
the sun smothers me
it comes to earth to thank me
for being born in june
when its might is in full swing
and the days are longer than any other
and the days remember my name
winter comes to love me
it knows it harms but it can not stay away
it wants to hold me close against it
be tender with my body
kiss my neck in passion that it does no posses
rain falls to wash me
for it cares about my condition
plants grow for my sake
flowers blossom to celebrate
children are born to commemorate
the wind calls through the plain
it only says my name
wolves kill to fill my belly
things die in sacrifice
to uphold my destiny
which is to simply be
its about me
its all about me
and it always will be

s. sparling

Afrikaans Fotografia

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

sex and sexuality

I can grip the pillow beneath your head
paw at your rubbery flesh - its
malleable on my finger tips -
smother your skin in more skin
lick the sweat off your cheeks
and make my baby come
make my baby come into the room
with a call or a whisper
a secret symbol in the air
that I'll be crying out
and when she hears it
all hell will break loose
the walls are gonna melt from the heat
women in other nests over 
are gonna sweat; cross their legs
lick their aching lips
searching to acquire something
reaching out into hot coals
to smell the burn of flesh
and learn its sweetness
while it mingles
with the smell of dead leafs
in the middle of a cold October

you've got tender places everywhere
some touch or tickle and you moan
and your moan erupts on your lips
making your body wave like an enemy flag
making my tongue the devil's partition
while I've outlined your body
with the lines of a butcher
I'll start with your thighs
so pale and complacent 
soft to the touch and carrying your scent
then down to your knee caps
and up to your hips
the last thing I'll taste
is the salt on your lips
and I'm surveying your body
I'm judging your soil
I must set up my mines
because I'm searching for gold
I'm searching for diamonds
for copper and lead
and I'll melt you down
lay your jewels on my bed
and you know we'll be wealthy
and you know you can't stop me
your arms have entrapped me
I wont let you leave
but why would you

I wonder where was the night
before the sky shed its skin
and the rawness of the new dark
smelt of warmth and wet life
when the night grew swollen
and all our breath grew heavy and moist
the air so thick between us
I could feel it lining my throat
filling up my lungs until
I was so drunk and drowning
slipping from continence
submerged in a consciousness 
that swallowed everything into it
including you and your drowsy
demeanor like the wilt of a rose
from too much wine and pot
fumbling with the fringe of your dress
flicking your tongue like
a coral snake
these blood cells feel good right now
feel pleasure like a faucets' running
sublime and indefinite
full of red caresses and a figurative murder
imbibition and white patches
tan lines with twisted bra straps
no language but an anatomical lingo
shouts and sighs and the thrash
of a hand  that breaks a lamp
smashes the light away
that rose coloured light that made us
see ourselves discreetly
gone forever
without waste or freedom of thought
destruction plants a fat kiss
on the soggy nipples
of drunk sister foreplay
somewhere glass bells are chiming
on the wall where the sun is shining
and a freckle of light spills through
the heavy lid of the blind

this is a kindness mother nature provided
all of us rearing up at the sounds of thunder
exclaiming different voices for terror
all of us supine in the sunshine
eating up the heat with a cocaine head
I was no fool when I spoke to you
and told you the origin of tuesday
how I went to war to bring
the hearts and minds of animals to rest
to save worry from a gentle brow
free this side of the world
from a paternal frown
that we deserve for getting uninhibited
and you knew then the taste
of vodka on your buds
and the swirl that clandestine clouds
of smoke construct in your eyes
even more you knew my voice
and my fingers through your hair
more you knew, you felt, you saw
until prayers could not bring you back
and you were buried in the sand
and you were put to sleep
only to wake up on a blue island
surrounded by everything
alone with me
just the sunset, the sand
and sea

S. Sparling

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

On The Art of Canadian Literature part II

I will never take the floor representing my nation as their pristine poet or their affirmed author. I will be their man, but I refuse to be their voice.

I am my own voice.

I love her though I would sooner move to some place more disturbed and more creative than the cold hallowed halls of the Canadian iceberg. To me it shall always be a place to rest my head and NOT feel the sting of the universe. But these days I crave more, and I wont get it in Canada for that is not what she is about.

Potatoes used to be so bored, they never had a damn thing to think about, nobody paid them much attention. Then they moved to Ireland, and they had a whole famine on their hands. A catastrophe of political and spiritual debates that were splish splashed with blood and holy water. The Potatoes never looked back.

Write yourself a folklore, about the first human man or woman who stepped out of their hut into the glory of the sunlight - saw the corrupt city skyline and said "I accept you."

Write a legend about a family that hitched their station wagon to the stars and left earth and never came back.

Scroll me out a parable where everyone forgot their national identity and had to sculpt a new one that had no borders or boundaries. That had no us and no them, simply a we.

Write me a script where all the actors stand up, fall down, and disappear, every last one of them. And as they rise up, they smile, hold hands, and repeat the one line "I have no home but right here and right now."

Write about what you are, not where you came from.

I suppose I agree that Canada doesn't have the history of violence and disruption that America has, or the antiqued worth of Europe that has become a living relic.... Its not that kind of country.

But I'm happy for I am a citizen of the world.

S. Sparling

On the art of Canadian literature part I

Once upon a time Canadians wrote about the distance between them and everyone else. They wrote about isolation, both physical and mental. They wrote about the poor noble savage - now the burden of the aboriginal problem. They remembered when they once won a war, or were a small but fierce faction of a battalion of fighting men in Europe.

What a waste of god damn time.

Canada is a nation of peoples, not people. Of ideas, not one idea. There could never be a pultzer prize for Canadian literature, because how do you properly represent the time and place that is Canada? Canadians don't all bend over and sniff each other's asses, we slap hands and smile and go our separate ways.
What folklore could there be when Canada's identity went from "that other british colony, you know, the one that didn't rebel" to, "that big ass country that's really nice and is the only bastion of forward thought and liberal social order between two entire continents!"

As they say, we are a mosaic. We are a mosaic and we spit upon the melting pot, though it might splash up and burn us every so often. In truth the glass pieces of the mosaic can cut us, but its better than being burned away until you are nothing but what is everybody else.

Canada is a space station, a harborage, a peaceful place in a maelstrom of disaster and hatred.

God damn it man, you don't write about Canada, YOU WRITE FOR HER! You write on her behalf.

You write about the world, and humanity, about people, and problems, and things. Spread out like a picnic blanket with a billion ants blitzkrieging across the checkered floor.

And most of all you write on your behalf.

Don't be a Canadian writer. Be a writer who is Canadian.

S. Sparling

Monday, September 13, 2010

Babes In Toyland

make more babies!

Monster Mash

Oh beautiful Australian maiden, your brain is a twisted mess of circuits and wires.

You fucking crazy bitch. 
I love you.

Lucy McRae your maddening images of the grotesque and beautiful suggest a new breed of archetypal human.

She is a body architect and a builder of human form. Is she playing god? 
I sure hope so.

here's a little montage for your lazy posterious.

ROJO®NOVA work in progress (02) from ROJO® on Vimeo.