Saturday, August 13, 2011

hard poems (V)

god is the desert
the desert is the country of madness

at pussy mountain (the end of the summer)
psilocybin bursts from the mouth of RA
that is it, a denomination of power
many fingered beings that pluck all the strings
a chord a kiss a cigarette charged with glycerin
we have a white snake moving now
burning up the fields and forests
carving LIKE A KNIFE, the earth grown green
it's a shave too closely with the branch of death
of the death tree, of the glade of death
a sprig of wasted cactus venom

that's the thing
that's the thing you see
that goes from east to west and makes your lips go black
that's the thing that leaves you wandering
with sand between your toes turned to blood mound
and that salt and that grit gits in the wound
blood is a fountain underfoot
wastes you away
to quench the desert

at the bridge of the rock dove
from the tip of your dendro-psychology
(like a plantation type of ecstasy)
we see the sky turn to a jelly and flavour the dawn
make a slick funeral in the cusp of a heavy rain
that comes with hale
that comes with stones of ice
and in the eye of the choke cherry
cuddle with the throat
yea that is infancy in the finest
to which we say

all these moths covering my mouth
are filled with the trills of dogs doing the moondance
jabbering jabbering
"I've had enough of that"
"I've had enough of that"
(I live to see the smear of things to come)
there are people on bamboo stilts
they walk above the poison swamps
in search of weird types of fungal growth
the kind that give the juice to a testicle crown
can feed the stomachs of sexuality
so a stork lifts it's leg in the sea
a scorpion takes flight
and peoples of various legends
disrobe and make a big fuck
such a big fat fuck
they rut and rut and grow ripe
and ripen and ripen
so that a flower dies
leaving a smell in the air
and they fuck and get juicy
then they stink
and they die

and that is the nature of pale skin and blue eyes
of brown skin and brown eyes
of green skin and purple eyes
of broken skin and black eyes
of dead skin and dead eyes
of cloth instead of skin
of buttons instead of eyes
and in these stages of darkness I have built an arc
I have left the canoe for a safer form of passage
this river is a rich highway full of traffic
full of things that would dash me
if I fell, if I got lost and fell
into the waters that are black
and smell like oil

where is the hand that is the embryo
that is god making himself known by the way he takes the air
and raises up above becoming greater all the time
what need has god of a spanish fly
what need has god of an arab strap
I feel I am the pink extension
of all of god's little passions

and in this place of sand and wind
in this place where flowers are rubbed on virgin girls
bringing me to a rupture of salt water tears
I don't need to eat blue cactus
or suck on the red earth
I'm quite clearly fucked
and I think
I see god in everything
and I think
I see god
as myself

when the insects of the desert whistle
it means there is water for the taking
sometimes I get thirsty so I must search
and if I search then I must listen
because if I listen then I am born to find

s. sparling

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